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2S 2. >
THE
BORDERLAND BETWEEN LIVING
AND NON-LIVING THINGS.
DELIVERED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
ON
WAWIK AFTERNOON, NOVEMBER 5th, 1882.
BY
EDWARD B. AVELING, D.Sc.Lond.,
Fellow cf University College, London.
bonbon:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1883.
PRICE THREEPENCE.
�THE BORDERLAND BETWEEN LIVING
AND NON-LIVING THINGS.
STRANGE fascination has always hung around the
-EL border-lands of human knowledge. By border
lands I mean those regions where one order of phe
nomena glides into another. The fascination was once
due to the fact that men believed it possible to draw hard
and fast lines between diverse orders of phenomena, and
anything on either side of these imaginary lines was of
deep interest. But now-a-days the fascination of studies
such as these, lies mainly in the fact that the old lines
of demarcation are fading into indistinctness in the light
of advancing knowledge. They were shadows due to the
night of ignorance. They were as imaginary as the
equator, or the earth’s axis. The interest in the study
of border-lands to-day lies in the truth that is growing
towards universal recognition that Nature is one vast
continuous whole, whose parts are all connected, and in
whose infinite history no break, no interposition from
without occurs. The charm, therefore, of the investiga
tion of these regions now lies in the indistinctness of
their outlines, in the exquisite gradation of one order of
phenomena into another.
Much attention has been given to the connexion be
tween man and the lower animals, and to the gliding of
the kingdoms of the plants and of the animals one into
�ERRATA.
Syllabus, line 2. For 44 Archebiosis (the beginning of
^'6ad 4 4 Abiogenesis (living from non-living.
Page 4, line 6. For “ Archebiosis ” read “ Abiogenesis.”
labor, and it is to this subject that we now turn once
again. This subject, once discussed under the name,
Spontaneous Generation, is now dealt with under that of
Archebiosis.
A brief historical survey of the great question as to
the origin of living matter, certain definitions of life, the
way in which the question has undergone simplification
with the advance of time, certain facts bearing on the
subject under discussion, and the relation of that subject
to the great truths of Evolution, will constitute the plan
of this lecture.
A.—Historical.
Human thought on almost all points 'takes first one
extreme view, then its opposite, then settles down be
tween these two extremes. The thoughts of man in
regard to the origin of living matter have followed this
general law. At first men imagined that living things
habitually or at least frequently were developed from the
non-living. Spontaneous generation, as this process was
called, was assumed to occur very generally. Later the
opposite extreme of thought was reached. Men imagined
that living things never were developed, and never had
been developed from non-living. To-day we are balancing
in our thought between these two extremes, each of which
is probably equally erroneous. We are striking a mean
between the two antagonistic ideas, and many have come
to the conclusion that whilst the ancient spontaneous
generation is far less general than it was once believed to
be, yet the evidence is in favor of Abiogenesis, or the
evolution of living matter from non-living, in the past,
and of its possible evolution to-day.
�4
The Borderland between
the other. The relation between the living and the
non-living has also had the devotion of no inconsiderable
labor, and it is to this subject that we now turn once
again. This subject, once discussed under the name,
Spontaneous Generation, is now dealt with under that of
Archebiosis.
A brief historical survey of the great question as to
the origin of living matter, certain definitions of life, the
way in which the question has undergone simplification
with the advance of time, certain facts bearing on the
subject under discussion, and the relation of that subject
to the great truths of Evolution, will constitute the plan
of this lecture.
A.—Historical.
Human thought on almost all points 'takes first one
extreme view, then its opposite, then settles down be
tween these two extremes. The thoughts of man in
regard to the origin of living matter have followed this
general law. At first men imagined that living things
habitually or at least frequently were developed from the
non-living. Spontaneous generation, as this process was
called, was assumed to occur very generally. Later the
opposite extreme of thought was reached. Men imagined
that living things never were developed, and never had
been developed from non-living. To-day we are balancing
in our thought between these two extremes, each of which
is probably equally erroneous. We are striking a mean
between the two antagonistic ideas, and many have come
to the conclusion that whilst the ancient spontaneous
generation is far less general than it was once believed to
be, yet the evidence is in favor of Abiogenesis, or the
evolution of living matter from non-living, in the past,
and of its possible evolution to-day.
�Living and Non-Living Things.
The ancient thinkers considered spontaneous genera
tion of very frequent occurrence. Aristotle held that
eels were generated from the mud of rivers, insects from
the dew-drops on the plants, parasites on animals from
the decaying matter of their integuments. Lucretius and
Ovid, 200 years later, had like fancies. When the flood
ended, and the stones thrown by Deucalion and Pyrrha
became men and women, lower animals and the plants
were produced from the inanimate earth and the dead
waters.
Possibly with Harvey, the discoverer of the circulation
of the blood, and certainly with Redi, a physician of
Florence, the inevitable reaction against the old order of
thought set in. Harvey’s position is a little doubtful,
and, as Professor Bastian puts it, “ grave doubts may be
entertained as to the propriety of expressing Harvey’s
doctrine by the phrase, ‘ Omne vivum ex ovo ’ (every living
thing from an egg).” In 1638 Bedi exploded once and
for ever one of the ancient fallacies. He showed that
the maggots in putrefying meat were due to eggs that had
been laid by flies. More than a century later the extreme
of opposed thought, which is as inevitable as the reaction
that precedes it, found its utterance in the writings of
Spallanzani. It is to this Italian thinker that we owe the
idea of Panspermism. Panspermism—from “7ras,” all,
and “ ovrep/xa,” seed—is the name for an idea largely held
for the last hundred years, that every living thing takes
origin from an egg or ovum that is produced by a pre
existing living thing. Panspermists hold that no organic
being can originate by any other method than the fertili
sation of an egg. Omne vivum ex ovo is their motto; and
by a slight and natural extension of their central idea
omne vivum ex vivo follows. This order of thought is, as
I have said, the extreme antagonist of spontaneous gener
�6
The Borderland between
ation, the conception of the very early thinkers. It is
possibly, as I have said, as inaccurate as the thought to
which it is opposed. If Panspermism means that not
only to-day are living things produced from pre-existing
things but that this has always been the case, it is impos
sible to avoid the conclusion that Panspermism “ doth
protest too much ”; for the obvious inquiry arises as to
the origin of the first living thing. And the only answer
to this, on the theory of Panspermism, is in the ominous
words “ special creation.”
Whilst it is hardly possible to say that the scientific
thought of to-day has yet struck out the happy medium
between the two extreme ideas of spontaneous generation
and Panspermism, signs are not wanting that the opinions
of men are settling down to something between these two.
It is true that some of our most illustrious observers deny,
not altogether without a suspicion of virulence, that
abiogenesis, or origin of living things from non-living,
ever occurs. All the world knows that much controversy
has, within the last few years, taken place in respect to
this question. The distinguished Frenchman, Pasteur,
cosmopolitan in his thought and in his benefactions to
mankind, does not believe that the organic can arise from
the inorganic. Our great Englishmen, Huxley and
Tyndall, as the result of a large number of experiments,
all of which, as some of us think, have little or no
bearing upon the ultimate question at issue, have declared
that abiogenesis does not take place to-day. I have
written above, the “ ultimate question.” For whilst these
experiments of Pasteur, Huxley, and Tyndall may prove
that under certain conditions to-day the inorganic is not
transformed into the organic, they are by no means con
vincing to many minds in respect to the great question
of the first production of organic matters on the earth :
�Living and Non-Living Things.
7
and it may be said that whilst the two illustrious
Englishmen are firm in their belief that abiogenesis did
not occur in such experiments as they conducted, in all
probability neither of them would be prepared to say that
abiogenesis has never happened.
As that of an antagonist, even upon experimental
grounds, to the three men just mentioned, the name of
Dr. Bastian must be given. Whether we accept the
result of Dr. Bastian’s experiments or not, whether we
hold or join issue with him in his conclusion that even
at the present time inorganic matter is transformed into
organic, we must at least be grateful to him for the his
torical information he has collated on the question, and
for the great help he has given all men towards its solu
tion.
B.—Definitions
of
Life.
As we are dealing with living matter, it will be well to
remind ourselves of some of the definitions that have been
given of life. The definitions of life are almost as numer
ous as Jiving people. But some four or five are, by
the common consent of educated people, regarded as
ranking in accuracy and completeness higher than their
fellows; I quote those of Schelling, Bicherand, de Blainville, Lewes, and Spencer.
Schelling.—The tendency to individuation.
Perhaps the greatest objection to this is the word ten
dency. Something seems wanting in the definition of so
distinct a series of phenomena as those which we call
life, when it is spoken of only as “ a tendency.”
Richerand.—The collection of phenomena which suc
ceed one another in an organised body during a limited
time.
This definition would appear to be an instance of
�8
The Borderland between
petitio principii; for an organised body is none other
than a living one.
De Blainville.—The twofold internal movement of com
position and decomposition, general and continuous.
As Mr. Herbert Spencer has pointed out, this definition
applies equally well to a galvanic battery. And, at pre
sent, no one is prepared to call a galvanic battery a liv
ing thing.
Lewes.—Definite successive changes in structure and
composition without loss of identity.
An important new idea, and one that seems necessary,
is introduced in the last four words. But life seems to
imply changes not only of matter, but of motion, and the
latter changes are apparently ignored in this definition.
Spencer.—The continuous adjustment of internal to
external relations.
This is the definition given by Mr. Spencei- after his
review of those already quoted.
C.—Advancing Simplification
of the
Question.
As time has elapsed, the question as to the origin of
living matter has, like many other questions, undergone
successive simplifications. Originally, the question was
as to the origin of large and complex animals. As long
as people, with Aristotle, thought insects, maggots, and
eels were produced from inorganic matter, so long the
question was one of overwhelming difficulty. But while
the difficulty is still apparent, no doubt can exist that it
has been considerably lessened. When Redi showed that
maggots were due to eggs deposited by flies, he led human
thought a considerable distance in the direction of simpli
fication. Many years later, when the researches of
Schwann and Schleiden convinced the scientific world
that all plants and animals were made up of cells more
�Living and Non-Living Things.
9
or less modified, a gigantic stride was made. These
acute observers, after much patient investigation, arrived
at the majestic generalisation which has nevei' yet been
gainsaid, that all the tissues of organic bodies are made
up of cells. Further, it has been shown that every organic
body begins as a single cell, and also that the lowest
organic bodies are, throughout their existence, nothing
more than single, simple cells. As therefore the lowest
plants and animals consisted only of one cell, as every plant
and animal began its existence as one cell, and as every
tissue of every plant and animal was in the ultimate analy
sis reduceable to cells, the question as to the origin of
living matter centred in the cell. Now a cell is a semi
fluid mass invested by a membrane, and containing within
it a more solid portion or nucleus. A cell, in short,
from without inwards consists of cell-membrane, cell
contents (usually protoplasm), and cell-nucleus.
Further investigation has shown that the cell is not
the simplest form of living matter. The discoveries of
Ernst Haeckel in 1864 and succeeding years, confirmed
and extended by Cienkowsky and Von Kleinenberg,
revealed the important fact, that organisms exist in sea
water and fresh-water, whose structure is even simpler
than that of the cell. These Monera consist of cells
destitute of nuclei. To such a structure the name cytod
is given. Thus the question as to the origin of living
matter has, by these investigations, been narrowed down
to the question as to the origin of cytods. But simpler
structures even than the cytods have been discovered by
the aid of our improved microscopes, and by our improved
methods of observation. Imagine a cell, not only desti
tute of nucleus, but of the external investing membrane ;
imagine, in short, a microscopic piece of protoplasm, and
you have the conception of the simplest form of living
�10
The Borderland between
matter known at the present time. Such a piece of pro
toplasm we know to be made of carbon, hydrogen,
oxygen, nitrogen, and perhaps of traces of sulphur and
phosphorus. We know it to be semi-fluid ; we know it
to be contractile, and we call it living. The vast question
as to whence living matter originated is no longer, there
fore, a question as to the origin of complex animals, nor
as to the origin of a cell with its membrane, contents,
and nucleus, nor as to the origin of a cytod with its
membrane and contents. It is as to the origin of exceed
ingly minute portions of protoplasm. And, with the
advancing simplification of this question, the possibility
of its solution increases hour by hour.
D.—Facts Bearing on the Subject
under
Discussion.
Direct evidence as to archebiosis is, confessedly,
difficult to obtain. According to some, its attainment is
impossible. Whether at the present time inorganic
matter does, on occasion, pass into the organic condition
is at least doubtful. But there is no doubt, that when
the first passage of inorganic into the organic occurred,
no man was living to observe that passage. Hence, con
fining our attention to the primary origin of living matter,
it is clear that no direct evidence is obtainable. Our
only resource, therefore, is the study of indirect evidence.
In this question, as in the almost equally important
question as to the origin of man, it is as foolish as it is
hopeless to ask for or to expect direct evidence. All that
the reasonable thinker has expectation of finding is, in
direct or circumstantial evidence that may aid him in his
decision. It may be well, however, to remind a certain
order of thinkers, that whilst there is no direct evidence
of man’s origin from the lower animals, or of the origin of
organic matter from inorganic, there is equally no direct
�Living and Non-Living Things.
11
evidence of the special creation of man, or the special
creation of living matter. As far as direct evidence is
concerned, the two antagonistic theories are on a level.
Just as no man has ever seen living matter evolve, so no
man has ever seen living matter created. There is abso
lutely no single direct fact in support of the view, either
of the evolutionist or of the special creationist on these
two points. But while the two antagonistic views are
thus on a level in regard to direct evidence, they are very
widely asunder in regard to indirect evidence. Bor there
is not one single fact that is indirectly in support of the
idea of special creation, whilst the facts in support of the
idea of evolution of the living from the non-living are
many. It is not denied that there are difficulties in the
way of this last conception. Of these difficulties, the
special creationists, in their amiable fashion, do not cease
to remind us. But they may be in their turn reminded,
that to point out the difficulties of a particular theory is
no proof of its converse. They may be reminded that
there is something of ungraciousness in the ceaseless
repetition of the difficulties not yet surmounted, when
that repetition is made by those who have done absolutely
nothing in the good work already accomplished, and
when it is made to those who by patient endeavor have
cleared our path to some extent at least.
Of the many facts that indirectly support the view that
living matter has evolved from non-living, one or two of
the most prominent will now be quoted :—
1. The first of these is the manufacture of organic sub
stances. Not many years ago we were told that man
would never be able to manufacture organic substances.
Such things as starch, sugar, and alcohol, manufactured
by the plant and the animal, were never to be made in the
laboratory of the chemist. It was impossible for man
�12
The Borderland between
ever to obtain these organic compounds in any other way
than from plants and animals. But these very organic
compounds are now in several cases manufactured by
man, and manufactured by him out of inorganic sub
stances. Wöhler has converted the inorganic salt ammonium cyanate, H4NCNO, into the organic substance
urea, CO<dH2N-. Again alcohol, C2H6O, clearly an
organic body, is now manufactured in the laboratory out
of carbon, hydrogen, and sulphuric acid, H2SO4. Tartaric
acid, C4H6O6, a well-known product of the vegetable
kingdom, is also by somewhat complex processes manu
factured by man, and alizarine, C14H8O4, the principle
of the color matter of the dye madder, has comparatively
recently been prepared artificially. These four, urea,
which is a product of animal bodies, alcohol, tartaric
acid, and alizarine, the product of vegetable bodies,
are at the present time manufactured out of inorganic
substances. If then man, with his limited knowledge,
limited powers, and limited time has been able to prepare
the organic from the inorganic, it is at least conceivable
that in the enormous time during which this earth has
been in existence, certain collocations of mineral matters
may have occurred, ultimating in the production of what
is called organic matter. If man so soon has been able to
work this momentous result, it is exceedingly probable
that in Nature the same result has been produced times
and again.
2. The great Food Cycle.—We may see the trans
formation of the inorganic into the organic going on
around us, and even in us at the present time. Let us
consider the food of plants and of animals. The food of
plants is in the main mineral matter. Its three chief
constituents are carbonic acid, water, ammonia. Puttingon one side the cases of insectivorous plants, these three
�Living and Non-Living Things.
13
binary compounds, together with certain salts that are
met with in the soil, constitute the chief food stuffs of
plants. The plant kingdom, in short, feeds upon the
mineral. Here then in the life of every plant we have
the constant building up of the organic plant-substances
from the inorganic. The carbonic acid, water, ammonia,
and salts are built up into starch, sugar, gluten, quinine,
and a thousand more complex compounds. For these
plant substances are ternary and quaternary, that is, con
sist of three or four chemical elements. And the number
of atoms of these elements is large as compared with the
number in the simpler compounds taken in as food. Thus
carbonic acid has symbol CO2, water, H2O, ammonia,
H;!N. But starch has symbol C6H10O5 ; sugar, C12
H22OX1 ; quinine, C20H24N2O2. So that we see, I re
peat, in the plant life the inorganic simple compounds
constantly built up into the organic more complex com
pounds.
The food of animals is derived mainly from the vege
table kingdom. Even the carnivorous animal devours
herbivorous ones that are in their turn feeders upon the
plants. By the animal, the complex organic substances
of the plant are built up into yet more complex
bodies. The sugar, starch, gluten, become albumen and
its fellows, quaternary compounds, or compounds that
may contain even five or six different chemical ele
ments in their individual molecules, whilst the number of
atoms of each element is very large. So complex are
these organic bodies of animal nature, that for the most
part they are at present not representable by definite
chemical symbols. Their percentage composition alone
can, as yet, be given.
Thus then the mineral or inorganic is even at this hour
built up undei’ our eyes, into the vegetable, and this last
�14
The Borderland between
into the animal, organic bodies. But animal and plant
alike, as they decay, break up into mineral compounds.
Every organic being ultimately is resolved into carbonic
acid, water, ammonia, salts, into, in a word, the inorganic
compounds with which our vast, unending food-cycle
began. Erom mineral to vegetable, from vegetable to
animal, from vegetable and animal to mineral once
again. The organic ever returns to the inorganic, whence
it came.
At no place in this food-cycle is there any room for the
intervention of the supernatural. The series of natural
changes is without a hiatus. And if, in view of these
facts, we bear in mind the momentous generalisation
that the life of every individual is a brief, condensed
epitome of the life of the race, a new light breaks in upon
us. Every living being in its own life-history passes
with exceeding swiftness through all the stages of develop
ment that its ancestors have slowly traversed in the long
past. Every stage in their lengthy evolution is repre
sented by some transient condition in the life of each of
their descendants. If we apply this majestic generalisa
tion to organic beings in regard to their food-history, we
are forced to believe that as to-day the complex organic
substances of living bodies are fashioned out of mineral
matters, so in the past, living matter was first formed
out of non-living. That which we see take place rapidly in
the life of each individual, the upbuilding of the mineral
into the organic, probably took place very much more
slowly in the infinitely remote past. The transformation
of non-living substances into living so swiftly effected to
day tells us that in a very distant yesterday such a trans
formation occurred for the first time.
3. Experiments.—It has been said already that the
elaborate and carefully conducted experiments made by
�Living and Non-Living Things.
15
so many excellent observers have little or no bearing
upon the real question as to the origin of life in the
past. For all the results of these experiments admit of
two explanations, one of which is, at least, as reasonable
as the other. On the one hand, we are told that the
heating of solutions, the filtering air through cotton wool,
the subjecting that air to high temperatures and to the
action of acids, destroy “ invisible germs ” that, untam
pered with, would and do develop into living pieces
of protoplasm. But another explanation, at least as
reasonable, is that this filtering, this heating, this passing
through acids, this rough treatment thermally and che
mically, have altered the nature of the inorganic materials
concerned, and prevented the possibility of their con
junction and mutual reaction. The one school says
invisible germs are destroyed. The other school replies
that the physical and chemical properties of the mineral
matters are altered. The former tells us that no living
matter appears because its parent germs are killed. The
latter tells us that with the great change in the properties
of the inorganic substances wrought by the treatment to
which they are subjected, all their potentiality for combi
nation into the new order of matter called living is
destroyed. To some of us the later voices seem to speak
the greater truth.
E.-—Evolution.
The name of the great principle of modern thought
suggests another kind of indirect evidence in favour of
abiogenesis. There is neither need, to-day, to explain
the principle nor to give facts in order to its establish
ment. All that is needed is to continue the accumulation
of facts with a view to the strengthening of our beautiful
faith. Its foundations are laid firmly enough. It re
mains for us to build upon them.
�16 Borderland between Living $ Non-Living Things.
The. whole of the evidence for Evolution is so much in
direct evidence in favor of the origin of living matter from
non-living. Eor, let it be remembered, the only other
alternative before us is that of special creation, of super
natural intervention. Of this last absolutely no evidence
is in existence throughout the long series of advancing
evolution in plants and animals. Clearly, then, to invoke
it in respect to the appearance of organic bodies on the
earth is unphilosophical. If the great principle holds, it
holds throughout. Who will be the Canute to cry to
this great sea—Thus far shalt thou go and no farther ?”
Supernaturalism has failed us all along the line. Super
naturalism tried to explain man’s mind as essentially
different from other functions and from other forces. It
failed. Supernaturalism tried to explain man’s origin
as different from that of other animals. It failed. Super
naturalism tried to separate the animal world from the
vegetable, and to make us believe that the two orders
of organic things were distinct creations. It failed.
Supernaturalism is trying to-day to separate the king
doms of the living and the dead by a hard and fast line.
It will fail.
But where Supernaturalism has thus been found want
ing, the purely natural explanation of Evolution has been
our guide and comfort. Evolution has shown us that
man’s mind is developed from lower minds, that man’s
body is the outcome of the advancement from lower
forms, that the animal and plant kingdom glide one into
the other. And it tells us, also, as we think, that the
living and the dead are akin, that the inorganic in the
past became organic, that the mineral is the ancestor of
the plant and of the animal, that here, as everywhere,
no gap occurs, but in the long ages by slow degrees living
matter has been evolved from the non-living.
�
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Victorian Blogging
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The borderland between living and non-living things: a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society on Sunday afternoon, November 5th, 1882
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Aveling, Edward B. [1849-1898]
Sunday Lecture Society
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 16 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Errata slip inserted at p.4-5.
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Sunday Lecture Society
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1883
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G3426
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Science
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Morris Tracts
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NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
kJ 05^
THE
JOINT EDUCATION
OF
YOUNG MEN AND WOMEN
IN THE
AMERICAN SCHOOLS AND COLLEGES.
BEING A LECTURE DELIVERED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
On 27th
of
April, 1873,
BY
MARY E. BEEDY, M.A.,
Graduate of Antioch College, U.S.
LONDON:PUBLISHED
by the
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1873.
Price Threepence.
�SUifoerttsentent.
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and
to encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science,
—physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature,
and Art; especially in their bearing upon the improve
ment and social well-being of mankind.
THE SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o’clock precisely
(Annually—from November to May).
Twenty-four Lectures (in three series), ending 3rd May,
1874, will be given.
Members’ LI subscription entitles them to an annual ticket
(transferable and admitting to the reserved seats), and to eight
single reserved-seat tickets available for any lecture.
Tickets for each series (one for each lecture), or for any
eight consecutive lectures, as below :
To the Shilling Reserved Seats—5s. 6d.
To the Sixpenny Seats—2s. being at the rate of Three
pence each lecture.
For tickets apply (by letter) to the Hon. Treasurer,
Wm. Henry Domville, Esq., 15 Gloucester Crescent, Hyde
Park, W.
Payment at the door
One Penny
Sixpence ■—and
(Reserved Seats) One Shilling.
�JOINT EDUCATION
OF
YOUNG MEM AND WOMEN.
HE American colonists carried with them their
practical English tendencies.
They were
impressed with a deep sense of the advantages of
education, but it had to be got at the least expense.
In the towns and cities they could have schools
for boys and schools for girls, but in the sparselypopulated rural districts separate schools were
impossible. It was almost more than the farmp.rs
could do to pay the cost of one. All the boys and
girls within a radius of two or three miles met
together in the same school. They were companions
and rivals in their pastimes, and it probably did not
occur to any one to consider whether there could
be any danger in continuing this rivalry in their
lessons. In the rapid growth of the population
some of these rural centres gradually became vil
lages and towns, but the joint education of the
girls and boys went on.
Iwo leading principles in school economy are, to
secure the smallest number of classes, and the
greatest equality of attainment between the pupils
in each class; and these principles favour large
schools rather than numerous schools. Schools
affording a higher grade of instruction, and known
T
�4
"Joint Education of
as academies, sprang up here and there. These
were private enterprises, and the commercial aim
was to furnish the best educational advantages
for the largest number of pupils at the least ex
pense. The teacher wanted to make as much money
as he could, and the parents had in general but little
to spend for the education of their sons and daughters.
The same economical views made these joint schools :
fewer teachers were required. These academies,
with the district schools I have before mentioned,
met almost the entire educational demands of the
rural and village population. A few of the more
ambitious boys went from these academies to the
universities, and a few of the girls went to young
ladies’ boarding-schools; but these were exceptional
cases.
You probably know that we have no men of
wealth and leisure living in the country. The soil
is owned by the men who work it, and the rich
men live in the cities. And I suppose you also know
that in any generation of American men the large
majority of those who lead in commerce, in politics,
and in the professions are the sons of farmers^
who in their boyhood worked on the farms and'
went to these rural schools in the leisure season;
the wives of these men having had for the most
part the same rural training. You can readily
see from this that the peculiarities of our rural
life, the circumstances that gave these men and
women the energy to bring themselves to the front
Tank of society, were likely to mefit with approval.
However, joint education was simply looked upon
as one of the necessities of our youthful life till
about twenty years ago. Men who rose to positions
of wealth and honour upon the basis of the educa
�Young Men and Women.
5
tion received in these schools did not praise joint
education any more than they praised the other
natural and frugal habits that attended their rural
life. No one had philosophised upon this system,
and there was no occasion to think of it. It had
simply been the most natural means of meeting a
great need. In both the district schools and in the
academies the boys and girls did about the same
work. They liked. to keep together. Now and
then a boy went a little farther in mathematics
than the girls did, in the prospect of a business
career and a life in the city; or he learned more Latin
and Greek in preparation for the university. There
was no question about difference of capacity or
difference of tastes between boys and girls; there
was nothing to suggest it. They liked to do the
same things, and the one did as well as the other.
Forty years ago, in one of the academies near Bos
ton, a number of girls went with a set of their school
boy-friends through the entire preparation for Har
vard University. The girls knew mathematics and
Greek as well as the boys did, and formed a plan for
going to the university with them. I cannot say
whether the plan grew out of a keen zest forknow
ledge, or out of an unwillingness to break off the
very pleasant companionship. Probably from both.
The girls did not think there could be much objection
to admitting them at the university. They thought
the reason there were no girls at the universities
was that none had wanted to go, or had been pre
pared to go. They proposed to live at home; so there
would be no difficulty on the score of college resi
dence. However, as their request was new, it
occurred to them that a little diplomacy might be
required in presenting it; so they deputed the most
�6
J
’ oint Education of
prudent of the party to do the talking, and imposed
strict silenee upon the youngest and most impulsive
one, from whom I have the story. The girls called
upon old President Quincy ; they told him what they
had done in their studies,—that they had passed
the examinations with the boys, and wished to be
admitted to the university. He listened'to their
story, and evinced so much admiration for their
work and aims that they at first felt sure of success.
But President Quincy seemed slow in coming to the
point. He talked of the newness and difficulties of
the scheme, and proposed other opportunities of
study for them, till at length this youngest one,
forgetting in her impatience her promise to keep
silent, said, “Well, President Quincy, you feel sure
the trustees will let us come, don’t you ? ”
0, by
no means,” was the reply :“ this is a place only for
men.”' The girl of sixteen burst into tears, and
exclaimed with vehemence, “ I wish I could anni
hilate the women, and let the men have every
thing to themselves! ”
This, so far as I know, was the first effort made
by women to get into an American university, but
the incident was too trifling to make any impression,
and I narrate it only as marking the beginning of
the demand for university advantages for women.
About the same time Oberlin College was founded
in Northern Ohio. It grew out of a great practical
everyday-life demand. There was a wide-spread
desire on the part of well-to-do people for larger
educational advantages than the ordinary rural
schools provided. They could not afford the expense
of the city schools : besides, they wanted their sons
and daughters to go on together in their school work ;
they were unwilling to subject either to the dangers
�Young Men and Women.
7
of boarding-school life without the companionship
and guardianship of the other. Oberlin College was
founded on the strictest principles of economy. It
was located in a rural village in the West, where the
habits were simple and the living inexpensive. In
the third year of its existence it had 500 students,
and since the first ten years it has averaged nearly
1,200, the proportion of young women varying from
one-third to one-half. There was a university
course of study for the young men, and a shorter
ladies’ course for the young women, which omitted
all the Greek, most of the Latin, and the higher
mathematics. It was not anticipated that the
young women would desire the extended university
course, but so far as the two courses accorded the
instruction was given to the young men and the
young women in common. But the young women
were allowed to attend any of the classes they chose,
and at the end of six years a few of them had pre
pared themselves for the B.A. examination, and
were allowed upon passing it to receive the degree.
The college authorities did not seem to consider
that B.A. and M.A. were especially masculine
designations. They regarded them only as marks of
scholastic attainments, which belonged equally to
men and women when they had reached a certain
standard of scholarship. Not many Women could
stay, or cared to stay, long enough to get these
degrees. The “ ladies’ course ” required nearly two
years’ less-time, and contained a larger proportion of
the subjects that women are expected to know. The
number of women who have received the university
degrees from Oberlin is still less than a hundred,
making an average of only two or three for each
year. Oberlin sent out staunch men and women.
�"8
"Joint Education of
Wherever these men and women went it was ob
served that they worked with a will and with effect.
The eminent success of Oberlin led many parents
in different parts of the country to desire its advan
tages for their sons and daughters. But Oberlin was
a long way off from New England and from many
other parts of the country; besides some thought
it an uncomfortably religious place; negroes were
admitted, and it was altogether very democratic,
much more so than many people liked. So parents
began to say, 11 Why can’t we have other colleges
that shall provide all the advantages of Oberlin and
omit the peculiarities we dislike.” Now began the
discussion upon the real merits of this economical
system of joint education. It had sprung up like
an indigenous plant. It had met a necessity remark
ably . well, and it was only when, its advantages
becoming recognised, it began to press itself into
the cities and among people where it was not a ne
cessity, that it evoked any discussion. This was a
little more than twenty years ago. People who had
observed the working of the joint schools were alto
gether in favour of them. The wealthier people in
the towns and cities, who were accustomed to having
boys and girls educated apart, preferred separate
schools, and thought joint education would be a dan
gerous innovation ; that in the institution adopting
it the girls would lose their modesty and refinement,
and the boys would waste their time. Leading edu
cators were divided upon this question: „ those who
were familiar with the joint schools were the most
uncompromising advocates of that system; those
who had known only the schools where girls and
boys were educated apart for the most part preferred
separate education, where it could be afforded. Not
�Young Men and Women.
9
all, however, for many had developed the theory of
joint education out of an opposite experience. In
girls’ schools they had felt the want of adequate
stimulants for thorough work. They had seen the
strong tendency in girls to fit themselves for society
rather than for the severer duties of life ; they be
lieved that if girls were associated with boys and
young men in their studies, they would not only be
better scholars, but that they would remain longer
in school, that they would have less eagerness to
get out of school into society. And many who
were familiar with boys’ schools felt the dangers
attendant upon the absence of domestic influence,
and saw that it might be very largely supplied by
the presence of sisters and schoolfellows’ sisters.
They saw too that the tendencies to a coarse
physical development, which are found in an ex
clusive- society of men, might be counteracted by
the presence of women. In short, all who were
acquainted with joint education gave it their most
unqualified approval; while those who knew only
the system of separate education were for the most
part disposed to favour that, though many of these
saw the need of something in girls’ schools which the
presence of boys would introduce, and something in
boys’ schools which the presence of girls would sup
ply. The advocacy of joint education was valiantly
led by Horace Mann, the greatest American educator,
the man who stands with us where Dr Arnold
stands in the hearts of English people.
About this time Antioch College was founded in
Southern Ohio, and Mr Mann was invited to take
charge of it. Its object was to provide educational
facilities as nearly equal to those found at the best
New England universities as possible, and it
was
�io
Joint Education of
founded avowedly upon the principle that joint
education per se was a good thing; that it was
natural; that it was a great advantage to have
brothers and sisters in the same school; that girls
were both more scholarly and more womanly when
associated with boys, and boys were more gentle
manly and more moral when associated with girls ;
and that both girls and boys come out of joint
schools with juster views of life, and a larger sense
of moral obligation.
Other new colleges followed the example of
Antioch, and some of the old ones began to open their
doors to women. To-day the national free schools
and public schools in most of the cities of the North
educate boys and girls together. In some of the older
cities, particularly Boston, New York, and Phila
delphia, the schools are for the most part conducted
on the original plan of separate schools. The school
buildings are not arranged for the accommodation of
boys and girls together, and there is still a strong
sentiment against the plan, though it is gradually,
and I may say rapidly, giving way. In tire Western
cities, Cincinnati, Chicago, and St Louis, the boys
and girls study together throughout the entire
course, that is, till they are ready to go to the
universities ; though in St Louis, and perhaps in
the other two cities, there are a few of the grammar
schools where they are still apart, the buildings not
being arranged for the accommodation of both.
The system prevails in the rural schools almost
without exception, and almost as generally in the
public schools' of the towns and cities, with the
exceptions that I have mentioned ; there are now
over thirty colleges and universities that offer univer
sity degrees to women on the same conditions as
�Young Men and Women.
11
to men. On the other hand, there is still a large
number of private schools in the towns and cities
which are generally either boys’ schools or girls’
schools. They are for the most part schools esta
blished for teaching the children of some pai-ticular
religious denomination, for fitting boys for a com
mercial career, or for giving especial drill for the
universities; or, in the case of girls’ schools, for
giving especial training for society: but the public
schools are rapidly drawing into them the children
of the best educated families, for the simple reason
that they are the best schools of the country.
The oldest universities and colleges still keep
their doors shut against women. Harvard, within
the last year, has appointed a committee to consider
the demand made by women, but their report was
adverse. The committee recognised the success of
the system elsewhere, but thought it not wise to
attempt the change in Harvard.
Michigan University, a free state university,
which stands second to none in educational advan
tages, except Harvard and Yale, and has double the
number of students of either of these, admitted
women three years ago. And Cornell University,
which has as good prospects as any in the country,
has just received its first class of women.
I heard it announced with great gravity in the
British Association a year-and-a-half ago in Edin
burgh, that girls had no difficulty in learning arith
metic, and no one smiled. So completely is this
question settled with us, that I think such .an
announcement would have been received by a
public assembly in America with a derisive laugh.
Joint schools and colleges have settled the question
whether girls can learn not only arithmetic, but
�12
'Joint Education of
also the higher mathematics, logic, and metaphysics;
and have established beyond a doubt in the minds
of American educators, that in acute perception,
in the ability to grasp abstruse principles, the
feminine mind is in no wise inferior to the mascu
line. But the question is still open, whether
women have the physical strength to endure the
continuous mental work requisite for the greatest
breadth and completeness of comprehension. This
can be determined only by experiments which shall
extend through a longer series of years devoted to
study. The records at Oberlin indicate that the
young women are no more likely to break down in
health than the young men are. The records of
the city schools do not seem to be quite the same
upon this point, but the same difference would
doubtless appear if the girls were not in school; and
this failure in health cannot be attributed to the
school work, but rather to the more indoor life of the
girls. The Oberlin statistics also indicate that the
women who have taken the university degrees have
not diminished their chance of longevity by this
severe work in their youth. Women have less phy
sical strength than men have, but there seems to be
in them a tendency to a more economical expendi
ture of strength. Their energy is less driving, and
there is, in consequence, less waste from friction.
In regard to the social morality at these schools
the results are equally satisfactory. At the rural
schools boys and girls. have almost unrestricted
companionship; they have just the same freedom
in their home intercourse, but improper or even
objectionable conduct is a'thing unknown at the
schools, and almost equally unknown in the associa
tion outside the schools. Brothers and brothers’
�Young Men and Women.
13
friends guard the sister, and sisters and their friends
o-uard the brother. In cases where it is necessary
for the pupils to reside at the school there is more
love-making, but it is mostly repressed by want of
time; besides, there are few occasions for meeting,
except in the presence of the class, and where there
is an acquaintance with so many on about equal
terms an especial regard for one is less likely to be
formed. The admiration of the boys is suie to
centre upon the girls who are nearest the head
of the class; but these girls have not time to return
it and keep their position, and to lose their position
would be to lose the admiration; and the same is
true with the boys.
I am sure it would be surprising to any one who
is not familiar with these schools to observe to what
very practical and common-sense principles all these
otherwise romantic and illusory relations are sub
jected. In this mutual intellectual rivalship the
conjectural differences between the sexes, and the
fancied charms of the one over the other, are sub
mitted to very practical tests. A disagreeable boy
is not likely to be considered a hero in virtue of his
assumed bearing and physical strength; nor is a
silly girl, by* dint of her coquettish airs likely to
be thought a fairy with magical gifts. Girls know
boys as boys know each other; and boys know girls
as girls know each other. Hence the subtle charms
that evade human logic find little opportunity to
blind and mislead in the constant presence of unmistakeable facts.
In all the time I was at Antioch College no word
of disreputable scandal ever came to my ears, and
in recent years I have repeatedly heard from young
men who were there when I was, that in their whole
�14
Joint Education of
five or six years they never heard the faintest shadow
of imputation against any young woman in the
institution. And so stern was the morality, that
smoking, beer-drinking, and card-playing were
all considered crimes,, and banished from the
premises.
You have now heard my statement respecting the
effectiveness of joint education, and, though it is
made from a very extended and thorough acquaint
ance with the system, I shall not ask you to accept
it without the support of other and authoritative
testimony. Abundant confirmation of my state
ment will be found in all Official Reports and in
treatises that review this system, while no testi
mony of a contrary character is anywhere to be
found. I will first quote from the published
. Report of Mr Harris, Superintendent of the Public
Schools in St Louis. He is well known to the
leading students of German philosophy in all the
countries of Europe, and I think I may say in
his own country is recognised as standing in the
front rank of American educators. No other man
has brought so much philosophical insight to the
study of dur public school system. I quote from
Mr Harris’s Report of 1871 a condensed summary
of the results- of this system of joint education as
they have developed themselves under his observa
tion and direction. He says :—
- “ Within the last fifteen years the schools of St Louis have
been remodelled upon the plan of the joint education of the
sexes, and the results have proved so admirable that a few
remarks may be ventured on the experience which they
furnish.
. “ I-—Economy has been secured, for, unless pupils of widely
different attainments are brought together in the same classes,
�Young Men and Women.
15
the separation of the boys and girls requires a great increase
in the number of teachers.
“II.—Discipline has improved continually by the adoption
of joint schools ; our change in St Louis has been so gradual
that we have been able to weigh with great exactness every
point of comparison between the two systems. The joining
of the male and female departments of a school has always
been followed by an improvement in discipline ; not merely
on the part of the boys, but with the girls as well. The rude
ness and abandon which prevails among boys when separate
at once gives place to self-restraint in the presence of girls,
and the sentimentality engendered in girls when educated
apart from boys disappears in these joint schools, and in its
place there comes a dignified self-possession. The few schools
that have given examples of efforts to secure clandestine asso
ciation are those few where there are as yet only girls.
“ HI.—The quality of instruction is improved. Where the
boys and girls are separate, methods of instruction tend to
extremes, that may be called masculine and feminine. Each
needs the other as a counter-check. We find in these joint
schools a prevalent healthy tone which our schools on the
separate system lack—more rapid progress is the conse
quence.
“ IV.—The development of individual character is, as
already indicated, far more sound and healthy. . It has been
found that schools composed exclusively of girls or boys
require a much more strict surveillance on the part of the
teachers. Confined by themselves and shut off from inter
course with society in its normal form, morbid fancies and
interests are developed which this daily association in the
class-room prevents. Here boys and girls test themselves
with each other on an intellectual plane. Each sees the
strength and weakness of the other, and learns to esteem
those qualities that are of true value. Sudden likes, capri
cious fancies, and romantic ideas give way to sober judgments
not easily deceived by mere externals. This is the basis of
the dignified self-possession before alluded to, and it forms a
striking point of contrast between the girls and boys edu
cated in joint schools and those educated in schools exclu
sively for one sex. Our experience in St Louis has been
entirely in favour of the joint education of the sexes, in all
the respects mentioned and in many minor ones.”
�16
Joint Education of
I give Mr Harris’s statement as representative of
the sentiment of those who are engaged in public
school instruction in America. As I said before, in
some of the older cities, where the public schools
were earliest organised, the joint system has been
accepted as yet only partially, and the teachers, who
are only familiar with the separate system, gene
rally prefer it. But a very large proportion of
the public schools of the country are joint schools,
and a still larger proportion of the instructors and
managers of public schools favour the system of
joint education. Mr Harris’s testimony applies to
city schools, when the pupils reside at home.
I now quote to you from another authority, addi
tionally valuable inasmuch as it represents the
results of this system of education upon young men
and women who reside at the school and away from
the guardianship of parents.
In 1868 a meeting was called of all the College
Presidents of the country, to discuss questions
relating to college discipline and instruction. As
Oberlin was the oldest college that had adopted
the system of joint instruction, a strong desire
was felt to secure a critical and comprehensive
statement of the results of the system there. Dr
Fairchild, the present President of Oberlin, was
deputed to make the Report. He had at that
time been connected with Oberlin seven years
as a student and twenty-five years as professor,
and has long had the reputation of being the most
accomplished scholar and acute thinkei' among the
Oberlin professors. His statements may therefore
be accepted as absolute in point of fact, and as
wholly representative of the opinion of those who
have conducted the instruction and discipline at
�Young Men and Women.
!7
Oberlin. But my chief reason for selecting this out
of the accumulated published testimony is that it
.seems to me the best digest of the subject that I
have seen.
Dr Fairchild says :—
“ 1st.—On the point of economy In the higher depart
ments of instruction, where the chief expense is involved,
the. expense is no greater on account of the presence of the
ladies.
“ 2nd.—Convenience to the patrons of the school:—It is a
matter of interest to notice the number of cases where a
brother is followed by a sister, or a sister by a brother. This
is an interesting and prominent feature in our work. Each is
safer in the presence of the other.
“3rd.—The wholesome incitements to study, which the
system affords :—The social influence arising from the consti
tution of our classes operates continuously and upon all.
Each desires for himself the best standing he is capable of,
and there is no lack of motive to exertion. It will be observed,
too, that the stimulus is of the same kind as will operate in
after life. The young man going out into the world does
not leave behind him the forces that have helped him on.
They are the ordinary forces of society.
“ 4th.-—The tendency to good order that we find in the
system :—The ease with which the discipline of so large a
school is conducted has not ceased to be a matter of wonder
to ourselves. More than one thousand students are gathered
from every State in the Union, from every class in society, of
every grade of culture, the great mass of them bent on im
provement, but numbers are sent by anxious friends with the
hope that they may be saved or reclaimed from every evil
tendency. Yet the disorders incident to such gatherings are
essentially unknown among us. Our streets are as quiet
by day and by night as in any other country town. This
result we attribute greatly to the wholesome influence of the
system of joint education. College tricks lose their attrac
tiveness in a community thus constituted. They scarcely
appear among us. We have had no difficulty in reference to
the conduct and manners in the college dining-hall. There is
an entire absence of the irregularities and roughness so often
complained of in the college commons.
“ 5th.—Another manifest advantage is the relation of the
B
�18
Joint Education of
school to the community. A cordial feeling of goodwill and
the absence of that antagonism between town and college
which in general belongs to the history of universities and
colleges. The constitution of the school is so similar to that
of the community that any conflict is unnatural; the usual
provocation seems to be wanting,
“ 6th.—It can hardly be doubted that people educated
under such conditions are kept in harmony with society at
large, and are prepared to appreciate the responsibilities of
life, and to enter upon its work. If we are not utterly de
ceived in our position, our students naturally and readily find
their position in the world, because they have been trained in
sympathy with the world. These are among the advantages
of the system that have forced themselves upon our attention.
The list might be extended and expanded, but you will wish
especially to know whether'we have not encountered disad
vantages and difficulties which more than counterbalance
these advantages.
“ As to the question whether young ladies have the mental
vigour and physical health to maintain a fair standing in a
class with voung men, I must say, where there has been the
same preparatory training, we find no difference in ability to
maintain themselves in the class-room and at the examina
tions. The strong and the weak scholars are equally distri
buted between the sexes.
“ Whether ladies need a course of study especially adapted
to their nature and prospective work ?—The theory of our
school has never been that men and women are alike in
mental constitution, or that they naturally and properly
occupy the same position in their work of life. The educa
tion furnished is general, not professional, designed to fit men
and women for any position or work to which they may pro
perly be called. The womanly nature will appropriate the
material to its own necessities under its own laws.' Young
men and women sit at the same table and parta.ke of the
same food, and we have no apprehension that the vital forces
will fail to elaborate from the common material the osseous,
fibrous, and nervous tissues adapted to each frame and
constitution.
.
<£ Apprehension is felt that character will deteriorate on
the one side or the other,—that young men will become
frivolous or effeminate, and young women coarse and mas
culine.
�Toung Men and Women.
T9
“ That young men should lose their manly attributes and
character from proper association with, cultivated young
women is antecedently improbable and false in fact. It is
the natural atmosphere for the development of the higher
qualities of manhood—magnanimity, generosity, true chivalry,
and earnestness. The animal man is kept subordinate in the
prevalence of these higher qualities.
“We have found it the surest way to make men of boys
and gentlemen of rowdies.
“ On the other hand, will not the young woman, pursuing
her studies with young men, take on their manners, and
aspirations, and aims, and be turned aside from the true ideal
of womanly life and character ? The thing is scarcely con
ceivable. The natural response of woman to the exhibition
of manly traits is in the correlative qualities of gentleness,
delicacy, and grace.
“ It might better be questioned whether, the finer shadings
of woman’s character can be developed without this natural
stimulus ; but it is my duty not to reason, but to speak from
the limited historical view assigned me.
“You wish to know whether the result with us has been a
large accession to the number of coarse, strong-minded women,
in the disagreeable sense of the word; and I say, without
hesitation, that I do not know a single instance of such a
product as the result of our system of education.
“ Is there not danger that young men and young women
thus brought together in the critical period of fife, when the
distinctive social tendencies act with greatest intensity, will
fail of the necessary regulative force, and fall into undesirable
and unprofitable relations ? Will not such association result
in weak and foolish love affairs ? It is not strange that such
apprehension is felt, nor would it be easy to give an a priori
answer to such difficulties ; but if we may judge from our
experience, the difficulties are without foundation. The
danger in this direction results from excited imagination,
from the glowing exaggerations of youthful fancy, and the
best remedy is to displace these fancies by every-day facts
and realities.
“Theyoung man shut out from the society of ladies, with
the help of the high-wrought representations of life which
poets and novelists afford, with only a distant vision of the
reality, is the one who is in danger. The women whom he
sees are glorified by his fancy, and are wrought into his day
�io
Joint Education of
dreams and night dreams as beings of supernatural loveliness.
It would be different if he met them day by day in the class
room, in a common encounter with a mathematical problem,
or at a table sharing in the common want of bread and butter.
There is still room for the fancy to work, but the materials
for the picture are more reliable and enduring. Such associa
tion does not take all the romance out of life, but it gives as
favourable conditions for sensible views and actions upon
these delicate questions as can be afforded to human nature.
“ But is this method adapted to schools in general, or is the
success attained at Oberlin due to peculiar features of the
place, which can rarely be found or reproduced elsewhere,
and can it be introduced into men’s colleges with their tradi
tional customs and habits of action and thought ? Might not
the changes required occasion difficulty at the outset and
peril the experiment ? On this point I have no experience,
but I have such confidence in the inherent vitality and
adaptability of the system that I should be entirely willing to
see it subjected to this test.”
I am sorry not to give you a more lengthened
account of Dr Fairchild’s Report, but the time warns
me to hasten.
Respecting economy, school discipline, social
order, and the improved character of both young
men and young women, and the high scholar
ship attained by young women, you see that Dr
Fairchild’s statement fully corroborates my own
and that of Mr Harris. He agrees with us that
the grade of scholarship of the young men is in no
wise lowered by this joint work, but, on the con
trary, that the average is higher.
To be definite upon this point, my own opinion
is that those marvellous feats of scholarship that
sometimes occur in boys’ schools are not so likely to
occur in a joint school, where a little more of the
domestic and social element is found. On the other
hand, from a long and close observation, I feel fully
justified in saying the average scholarship is higher.
�Young Men and 'Women.
21
There is a more general stimulus for good scholar
ship. The standard of respectability is somewhat
different from what it is in a school exclusively for
boys. A boy may secure the respect of his boy
associates by being an adept on the playground or
generally a good fellow, but as he is known to the
girls only through his class work, he feels more
especially bound to make this creditable.
I should like to accumulate authority upon these
points, but I must ask you to accept my statement
that the opinions I have' given you are those held
by the very large majority of the educators of the
country.
In this system of joint education you see that
the difficulty of getting funds to establish schools
scarcely appears as an obstacle to the higher edu
cation of women. It requires so little more to edu
cate girls along with boys than it does to educate
boys alone, and lack of the masculine incentive to
study is largely supplied to the girls by class
rivalry. The girls like to remain at school, and
they like to do as much work and as good work as
the boys do; and the boys are equally eager to keep
the companionship of the girls, and to keep up the
competition in all the departments of the work.
There is a mutual rivalry which both enjoy, and
the girls work with zest, without thinking whether
there is to be any reward beyond the simple enjoy
ment of their work, without considering whether it
will ever bring them any farther returns.
The work of the girls in the joint schools has
done much to force up the standard in the exclu
sively girls’ schools. These schools could not afford
the disparaging comparison. So the teachers intro
duce the same studies as are found in the joint
�22
Joint Education of
schools, and do the best they can to get as good
work from their girls. But in most of the girls’
schools I have ever visited, the work will not com
pare with the work of girls in the joint schools.
When Dr Fairchild says he does not know a '
single instance in which a coarse, strong-minded
woman, in the disagreeable sense, has been the pro
duct of the Oberlin system of education, it must not
be understood that there have been no women of that
type at Oberlin, for there have been, and Oberlin
lias done much to soften them and refine them,
but it could not wholly change their natures and
previously-acquired habits. Upon this point there
is a pernicious popular delusion, and I am at a loss
to account for its origin. It is not association with
men that developes this type of character. The
reverse of this is the case, as Dr Fairchild has
indicated. It is true that many highly-intellectual
and highly-educated women have been peculiar,
have developed peculiarities or idiosyncrasies of
character or habit which lessened their companion
able and womanly attractiveness, but these women
have generally worked by themselves, away from
society, apart from the companionship of men.
Joint schools are the most complete corrective of
these tendencies. Whatever elevates women in the
eyes of men they are disposed to cultivate in the
presence of men, and whatever elevates men in the
eyes of women they cultivate in the presence of
women. There is little danger of careless toilet
with young women who are constantly meeting
young men; little danger of angular movement, of
unamiable sharpness, of egotism, and pronounced
self-assertion.
The disagreeable women, the women contemp-
�Toung Men and Women.
23
tuously called strong-minded, are women who have
not known a genial social atmosphere. Crotchety
men and crotchety women are the product of isola
tion from society, and formerly women could not
mount the heights of knowledge except in isolation.
The attractive women, the women who seem to have
a genius for womanliness, are the women who have
been much in the society of men,—women at court,
women in political and diplomatic circles, women
who are familiar with the thought and’ experience
of men, women who talk with men and work with
men.
Social intercourse at these joint schools is not of
course left to chance. Girls and boys need and get
as careful attention at school as in their homes.
Usually they enter and leave the school building
by different doors, and indeed meet only when they
are receiving instruction from the teachers, where
they occupy separate forms on different sides of the
room. Among the older pupils, at all times, except
at the lecture hours, the girls usually have their own
rooms and the boys theirs,'and no communication
between them is possible, except as the teachers
choose to grant permission, which is not asked with
out explaining the occasion. The boys do not
appear to care very much to talk to the girls, at
least they would not be willing to have it seen that
they did. At the boarding-schools the young men
and young women usually have their private apart
ments in different buildings, but meet in a common
dining-hall in the building occupied by the young
■ women. Here they arrange themselves as they
like, the size of the company and the presence of
teachers being quite sufficient to exclude objection
able manners. At the times allowed for recreation
�24
.•
Joint Education of
the arrangements are such as to preclude for the
most part opportunities for young men and young
women to meet, though there are very frequent
receptions at .the homes of the professors or at the
general parlours, when they meet as they would at
any ordinary social party. At a few of the smaller
boarding-schools much more freedom, of intercourse
has been allowed, and with very admirable results ;
but this requires great wisdom and care on the part
of the teachers, more than they are generally able
to give in a large school. Where the pupils live at
home no very especial care is required on the part
of the teachers, further than would under any
circumstances be necessary to secure general good
order.
This system of education developes self-reliance
and a sense of responsibility, to such a degree that,
as I quoted from Dr Fairchild, it is a constant sur
prise to see how little direction they need. A good
many times while I was at Antioch College, young
men who had got into disgrace, or had been dis
missed from young men’s colleges, were sent there
to be reclaimed from their bad habits, and it is
surprising what effect this home-like association
had upon them.
I have already mentioned Michigan University
as the best institution that has as yet opened its
doors to women. This was done three years ago.
For ten years the question had been pending before
the trustees. A letter was addressed to Horace
Mann, asking for minute information concerning
the working of Antioch, and seeking counsel in
reference to the advisability of attempting the
tame plan at the Michigan University. Mr Mann
replied, that though he was an ardent advocate
�Toung Men and Women. '
25
of joint education and was satisfied with the
results achieved at Antioch, he should be afraid
to attempt the plan in a large town, where college
residence was not required. This ‘letter settled
the matter for the time. The trustees said:—
“ We cannot, endanger the morality of our students,
and the reputation of our institution, to accommo
date the few women who wish to come. We give
them our sympathy, but can at present do nothing
more.” But every now and then, with the change
of trustees, the question was revived. The men of
this new rich State felt ashamed to do so much less
for their daughters than for their sons, and they
were particularly sensitive to the argument that the
privileges of the institution could be extended to
the young women with almost no increase in the
expenses. Three years ago the opposition found
itself in the minority, and a resolution was passed
admitting women to all the classes of the university.
The dangers Horace Mann feared have not, and
in all probability will not come. Even the young
men, who in anticipation dreaded an invasion of
women into their realm of free-and-easy habits,
now unite in the most cordial approval of the plan.
They find a genial element added to their college
life in place of a chafing restraint.
The first year only one woman came into the
Arts-classes. This bold venturer was the daughter
of a deceased professor, by whom she had been
trained up to a point a good deal in advance of the
requisites for entrance. This enabled her to step at
once into the front rank of the class of two hundred
young men, who had been in the university a year
before her. No sooner was she there than the
dread and anticipated restraint on the part of the
�26
*
'Joint Education of
young men were forgotten, and the most chivalric
feeling sprang up in its place.
For a whole year Miss Stockwell was alone in
the Arts-classes among seven or eight hundred young
men, yet nothing ever occurred to make her feel in
the slightest degree uncomfortable. She took her
B.A. degree last summer as the first Greek scholar
in the university. There are now a hundred young
women or more in the various departments of
the university. The Professor of Civil Engineer
ing has been in the habit of giving to his class
every year a particular mathematical problem,
a sort of pons asinorum, as a test of their
ability. Not once during fifteen years had any
member of the class solved it, though the professor
states that during that time he has propounded it
to fifteen hundred young men. Last year, as usual,
the old problem was again presented to the class.
A Miss White alone, of all the class, brought in the
solution. The best student in the Law school last
year was a woman.
I could tell you many other stories of the suc
cesses of women in these joint schools, but it would
not be safe to conclude from these accounts that the
young women in America are superior to the young
men ; for, as you would naturally suppose, the few
women who at present avail themselves of university
training, in opposition to the popular notion of what
is wise and becoming, are for the most part above
the average of the women of the country. I think
I may say, however, that girls are a little more
likely to lead the classes in the schools than boys
are. They are, perhaps, a little more conscientious
in doing the work assigned them, and have a little
more school ambition.
�Toung Men and Women.
27
I quote the following from the Annual Report of
the Michigan University for the year ending 1872 :—
■ “ In the Medical Department the women receive instruc
tion by themselves. In the other departments all instruction
is given to both sexes in common.
“ It is manifestly not wise to leap to hasty generalisations
from our short experience in furnishing education to both
sexes in our university. But I think all w’ho have been
familiar with the inner life of the university for the past
three years will admit that, thus far, no reason for doubting
the wisdom of the action of the trustees in opening the uni
versity to women has appeared.
“Hardly one of the many embarrassments which some
have feared have confronted us. The young women have
addressed themselves to their work with great zeal, and have
shown themselves quite capable of meeting the demands of
severe studies as successfully as their classmates of the other
sex. Their work, so far, does not evince less variety of apti
tude or less power of grappling even with the higher mathe
matics than we find in the young men. They receive no
favour, and desire none. They are subjected to precisely the
same tests as the men. Nor does their work seem to put a
dangerous strain upon their physical powers. Their absences
by reason of illness do not proportionably exceed those of the
men. Their presence has not called for the enactment of a
single new law, nor for the slightest change in our methods of
government or grade of work.
“If we are asked still to regard the reception of women
into our classes as an experiment, it must certainly be deemed
a most hopeful experiment. The numerous inquiries that
have been sent to us from various parts of this country, and
even from England, concerning the results of their admission
to the university, show that a profound and wide-spread
interest in the subject has been awakened.”
I can say for myself, that I have never known
any one who has spent a few days at one of these
colleges who has not become a convert to the
scheme.
There is in America a strong and constantly
growing conviction, that the best plan for educating
.
�28
"Joint Education of
both boys and girls is for them to reside at home
and attend day schools; that this avoids the defects
attendant upon the system of governesses and
tutors, and also the dangers that are inherent in
the congregated life of boarding-schools; and as
American families seldom leave home for, at most,
more than a few weeks in midsummer, this plan is
easily carried out. In accordance with this con
viction, the citizens of Boston have recently erected
and endowed a large university in the centre of
their city, although the time-honoured Harvard
stands scarcely two miles beyond their precincts.
The Boston University, which starts with larger
available funds than those of Harvard, will be
opened this autumn, and as a second step in the
direction of the popular educational sentiment, the
trustees have decided to offer its advantages and
honours to young women on the same conditions as
to young men.
There is evidently a disposition in America to
open all lines of study to women, and a few women
have entered each of the three learned professions,
but the time is too short and the number too small
for us to be able as yet to generalise upon the fitness
of women for professions, or their inclination to
choose them.
Most of our women—I think I may almost say
all of our women—expect to marry, and most of
them do marry. We have not that redundancy of
women to trouble and puzzle the advocates of
domesticity that you have here; and as fortunes are
more easily made, men are not timid in incurring
domestic responsibilities. As a consequence of this,
the industrial occupations that women seek, other
than domestic, are expected to be only temporary,
�Young Men and Women.
ig
and are such as may be entered upon without
much especial professional training, and may be
given up without involving much sacrifice of pre
vious study or discipline. I think I may say there
is a very general disposition to seek those that will
especially contribute to their fitness for domestic
life.
This brings me to a peculiar feature of American
education—the prevalence of women teachers. In
the public schools of St Louis there are forty men
teachers and over four hundred women teachers;
only about one-twelfth of the whole number are
men, and this I think would be about the general
average for the cities of the north. The primary
schools are taught exclusively by women—most of
the grammar schools have only a man at the head of
them, and in the high schools there is about an
equal number of men and women.
In two of the most successful grammar schools in
St Louis there are only women teachers. Recent
experiments in placing women at the head of several
of the grammar schools in Cleveland, Ohio, give
still stronger confirmation of the marked governing
power of women as contrasted with men.
Women teachers have been employed in the
schools in preference to men as a matter of economy,
but underneath this cloak of economy an unex
pected virtue has been found. It is now pretty
well settled that with equal experience and scholarly
attainments women teach better than men do, and
that they manage the pupils with more tact; that
is, they succeed in getting from the pupils what
they want, with more ease and less disturbance of
temper.
Where women do precisely the, same work as
�jo
Joint Education of
men in teaching, they get less pay. Wages have
followed the law of supply and demand. The guar
dians of the public school treasures have generally
not felt at liberty to offer more than the regular
market prices for work. But I am glad to say the
more enlightened public feeling is beginning to make
a change in this respect. A few women are paid
men’s wages—are paid what they ought to have,
rather than what they could command in an open
market.
Teaching in America, as I have indicated, is for
the most part a temporary occupation ; it is chiefly
done by young people between the ages of eighteen
and thirty who have no intention of making it a
profession. The women marry and the men enter
other occupations. How much the schools lose by
the immaturity and inexperience of the teachers it
is difficult to estimate accurately; but that they
gain much by the freshness and enthusiasm of these
young minds is unquestionable. Young teachers
get into closer sympathy with pupils, and can more
readily understand the movements of their minds
and apprehend their difficulties.
The plan of teaching for a few years is very
popular among young people, from the general
belief that it furnishes the best possible discipline
for a successful life. This experience in teaching is
considered valuable for young men, but still more
valuable for young women, and many young women
who have no need to earn money teach for a few
years .after leaving school, sometimes from their
own choice, but much oftener from the choice of
their parents, who wish to supplement the daughter’s
education with the more varied discipline that
teaching affords.
�Toung Men and Women.
31
Thus the teaching of women is encouraged from
four considerations :—
First. According to the present arrangement of
wages it is economical.
Second. Women seem to have an especial natural
aptitude for the work as compared with men.
Third. The general welfare of society demands
that wage-giving industries shall be provided for
women.
Fourth. Of all the employments offered to women,
teaching seems the best suited to fit them for
domestic life, the life that lies before the most of
them, and so positive are its claims in this direction
that it is being sought as an employment with that
single end in view.
A few years of teaching forms so prominent a
feature in the education of leading American
women, that I could not omit it in any general
consideration of this subject.
Note.—The Times of' January 3rd, 1874, gives the following
extracts from “Circulars of Information,” just published by the
United States Bureau of Education:—The total number of
degrees conferred in 1873 by the Higher Colleges was 4,493, and
376 honorary. One hundred and ninety-one ladies received
degrees. Illinois has thirteen Colleges, in which women have
the same or equal facilities with men ; Wisconsin has four, Iowa
three, Missouri four, Ohio ten, and Indiana nine; New York has
seven, and Pennsylvania, seven.
PRINTED BY C. W. REYNELL, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET, HAYMARKET.
��
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The joint education of young men and women in the American schools and colleges : being a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on 27th of April, 1873
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Beedy, Mary E.
Sunday Lecture Society
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 31 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Advertisement for Sunday Lecture Society on p.[2], delivered at St George's Hall, Langham Place. Printed by C.W. Reynell, Haymarket, London. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Sunday Lecture Society
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1873
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Education
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Coeducation-United States
Education
NSS
Women
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99217e5cf8c81b0bdc80c91df9ae021e
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Text
THE PHYSIOLOGICAL UNITY
OF
■ PLANTS AND ANIMALS.
DELIVERED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
ox
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 30th JANUARY, 1881,
BY
Q. S. BOULGER, F.L.S., F.G.S.
bonbon:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1881.
PRICE THREEPENCE.
�SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and to
encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science,—physical,
intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature, and Art; especially
on their bearing upon the improvement and social well-being of
mankind.
THE SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST. GEORGE'S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On Sunday Afternoons at FOUR o’clock precisely.
('Annually—from November to May.)
Twenty-four Lectures (in three series) are given in each year.
Members’ annual subscription, £1.
For Tickets and the printed Lectures, and for lists of all the
Lectures published by the Society, apply (by letter) to the Hon.
Treasurer, Wm. Henry Domville, Esq., 15, Gloucester Crescent,
Hyde Park.
SYLLABUS OF THIS LECTURE.
The progress of science consists in the connection of phe
nomena previously considered isolated.
The old Three Kingdoms of Nature now seen to be in many
points one, in most essential characteristics only two: the
Organic and the Inorganic, or Living and Not-Living.
Plants and animals identical in their ultimate chemical con
stituents; Carbon, Hydrogen, Oxygen, Nitrogen, Phosphorus,
Sulphur, Potassium, Iron: in most of their proximate principles;
Water, Carbonic acid, Sugar, Starch, Cellulose, Fibrin, Casein,
Chlorophyll, Protoplasm.
Structural identity of the lower groups—Hackel’s Protista.
Functions of living beings.
Identity in Respiration.
Identity in Nutrition, the presence of ferments, pepsin, diges
tive acid and peptones—The Chlorophyllian property—The
Conversion of starch into sugar.
The functions of Relation; Sensation, Nervous action and
Motion—The nerve-like action of protoplasm in Drosera—Motion
by pseudopodia or cilia.
Reproduction by fission, gemmation and ovulation—Ova and
Spermatozoa.
�THE PHYSIOLOGICAL UNITY OF
PLANTS AND ANIMALS.
NE of the cardinal laws of the modern philosophy
of evolution is that the history of the development
of the race is summarised in that of the individual. This
is exemplified in the growth of human knowledge, es
pecially of accurate knowledge or science: as a child
learns a number of detached words, chiefly nouns, before
it can frame a connected train of thought, and notices
with unreasoning surprise each phenomenon of nature
which it encounters, so in the progress of science the
human race learns to trace the general laws which govern
phenomena that it once looked upon as isolated and
marvellous.
Thus mankind were for ages content to talk of the
“Three Kingdoms of Nature,” and to look upon minerals,
plants, and animals, as three distinct categories having
little or nothing in common. We now know, however,
that in many respects these three are one, and that in
all essential characteristics they can only be considered
as two. They are subject to the same physical and
chemical laws: plants and animals contain no chemical
element not existing in inorganic minerals, even carbon
occurring in meteoric stones; their mode of growth is
not so radically unlike that of a collection of small crys
tals in a nutrient fluid as has been supposed; nor are the
simple geometrical beginnings of organic structure wholly
unlike crystallisation. The words “ inorganic ” or “ un
organised ” are as applicable to the lowest animals as to
the starch manufactured by chemical synthesis from its
elements in the laboratory; for it is a mere contradiction
in terms to term that an organism which is absolutely
destitute of organs. It would be extremely difficult to
show that in life we have more than an assemblage of
forces possessed individually, at least in some degree, by
the inorganic world ; and we still look upon the dead
body of plant or animal as being plant or animal when
not only is the individual dead, but even when no single
O
�4
The Physiological Unity of
tissue evinces lingering vitality by responding to stimu
lation. Thus the distinction between living and notliving is scarcely more precise than that between organic
and inorganic.
Still, however, though the boundary-line be not easily
definable, there are distinctions readily perceptible be
tween nearly all things that either do live or have lived
and those that have not.
Living beings have curved outlines ; they have much
of their structure in a soft condition; if alive, they ex
hibit numerous functions; they consist chiefly of complex
carbon compounds.
Between plants and animals, at first sight, there may
seem to be distinctions equally simple ; but this seeming
only arises from our thinking of types rather than of the
whole groups, and even popular natural history recog
nises the difficulty in detail in terming one group of
animals “ zoophytes,” or animal plants.
Plants and animals are identical in their ultimate
chemical constituents, i.e., in the elements or simple sub
stances, of which they are composed, the chief of which
are carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen, phosphorus,
sulphur, potassium, and iron. The proportion in which
these elements occur varies, however, to some extent in
the two groups, carbon being relatively more abundant in
the vegetable, and nitrogen, sulphur, and phosphorus in
the animal kingdom. These elements occur probably,
however, in every plant and in every animal. Oxygen
and hydrogen form water (H2 O), which constitutes from
14 to 94 per cent, of plants, 67 per cent, of the human
body, and far more in some other animals. Carbon and
oxygen form carbonic acid (C O2), and nitrogen and
hydrogen form ammonia (N H3), invariable products of
the disintegration of the bodies of plants and animals.
All vital actions in both plants and animals—growth,
assimilation, reproduction, nervous action, &c.—are con
ducted by the complex substances known as albuminoids,
which have an average pei’ centage composition of 53 of
carbon, 22 of oxygen, 16 of nitrogen, 7 of hydrogen, 1 of
sulphur, and a trace of phosphorus. Iron, the great
colouring matter of nature, necessary alike to the produc
tion of the green chlorophyll of leaves and of red blood, is
probably universally present; and potassium, which seems
�Plants and Animals.
5
in some way essential to the formation of starch and cellu
lose—those carbo-hydrates, so abundant in most plants,
so rare in animals—occurs, though in small quantities,
probably in all animals.
Many of the chief compounds or proximate principles
are also common to the two groups. Not to mention
further such products of decomposition as carbonic acid
and ammonia, or water, in the absence of which vitality is
impossible; starch (C6 H10 O5) has been detected in the
human brain and elsewhere; cellulose (C61I1O O5) occurs
in the “ mantle ” of the Tunicata, or marine Ascidians ;
fibrin, the chief ingredient of blood and meat, is all but
identical with the gluten of cereal grains ; casein, the
curd of milk, it represented most closely in those most
concentrated of vegetable foods, the seeds of peas and
lentils; chlorophyll even, that green colouring matter
which we look upon as so characteristic of the vegetable
world, not only exists in a score of animals belonging to
most varied groups,1 but in them has the same marked
effect upon the atmosphere that it exerts in plants; and
lastly, that protoplasm, or sarcode, which Professor
Huxley has so well termed “ the physical basis of life,”
appears absolutely identical in both divisions of the
organic kingdom. In either case it would seem to be
very probably a combination of a phosphamide and a sulphamide of some highly complex base containing carbon,
hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen.
If we leave composition and pass on to structure,
looking, as rational philosophy teaches us, at the base of
the diverging branches rather than at their summits, we
find the identity so close that the shrewdest naturalists
are baffled in their attempts to draw a boundary line; so
that Professor Hackel has been led to cut the gordian
1 The following list of these chlorophyllian animals has been
drawn up by Professor Ray Lankester:—
Foramimfera.
Ccelentera.
Radiolaria.
Hydra viridis.
Anthea smaragdina.
Rhaphiophrys viridis.
Heterophrys myriapoda.
Vermes.
Mesostomum viride.
Infusoria.
Stentor Mulleri, &c.
Boneilia viridis.
Chsetopterus Valenciennesii.
Spongida.
Crustacea (Isopoda).
Spongilla fluviatilis.
Idotsea viridis.
�6
The Physiological Unity of
knot by establishing the intermediate group of Protista,
neither plants nor animals, thus simply doubling the
difficulty.
I hope to show to-day that, without confining our
attention to these lowly forms, we may see an identity
in function superadded to these identities in composi
tion and structure, each leading physiological function
of the animal being represented among plants, and vice
versa.
Now the functions may be classified into three main
groups : those of nutrition, of primary importance, and
co-extensive in time with life, as being necessary to the
support of the individual; those of relation, useful in
bringing the organism into relation with its environment
(primarily evolved, no doubt, as aids to nutrition and selfdefence) ; and lastly, those of reproduction developed
when a mature size has been reached, or, as it has been
well put, when nutrition becomes discontinuous and
secures the permanence of the race.
Subsidiary to nutrition is the important function of
respiration, by which the body is supplied with atmos
pheric oxygen which is utilised in the breaking up or
waste of effete complex compounds in the body, and by
which also the resulting carbonic acid is exhaled. This
function, which it is convenient to discuss first, is univer
sally identical in plants and animals.
We are not concerned with the mechanism of respira
tion whether it be lungs, as in our own bodies, or gills,
or the general surface, as in many of the lower animals.
In both plants and animals oxygen is taken from the
inhaled air, and carbonic acid is exhaled. This breathing
continues as long as life lasts, by night as well as by
day, and even under the influence of anaesthetics, such as
chloroform. Among plants it is clearly observed in the
case of germinating seeds, as in the evolution of carbonic
acid in the artificially-produced sprouting of corn, known
as “ maltingin the action of fungi (which it would be
absurd to class as other than plants) upon the air, as
seen in the like evolution from brewers’ yeast; in the
effect on the atmosphere of any ordinary green plants
during the night or in the dark; and lastly, as we learn
from the luminous experiments due to the marvellous
acumen of the lamented Claude Bernard, in the effect on
�Plants and Animals.
7
their atmosphere of such ordinary green plants when put
under the influence of anaesthetics.
Green plants in the daylight, not under anaesthetics,
have an effect upon the atmosphere the converse of that
of animals, and have accordingly been said to inhale car
bonic acid, and to exhale oxygen.2 This is, however, to
render the physiological term “respiration” meaningless;
and is moreover conclusively disproved by Claude Ber
nard’s experiments, which show that a true respiration is
continually going on in these plants, and polluting the
air with additional carbonic acid, though the effects on
the atmosphere of this function are masked by the more
powerful chlorophyllian property which has a diametri
cally opposite effect. This remarkable action of the green
colouring-matter of leaves, under the influence of sun
light, in causing the removal of carbonic acid from the
air, is part of the nutritive functions properly so-called,
and, though more general among them, is by no means
confined to plants, as shown by the table of animals
belonging to most distant groups which contain chloro
phyll, as evidenced in several cases by the specific name
of “viridis.” (See note 1 p. 5.) This animal chloro
phyll has, moreover, been recently shown to produce the
same effect upon the air as does that of the plants. Many
plants, too—namely, the whole of the fungi—are without
chlorophyll.
This leads us to the functions of nutrition, to which
respiration is merely subsidiary. Most plants derive
their food from two sources : water, and saline substances
dissolved in it, from the soil, through their roots, and
carbon, from the carbonic acid of the atmosphere, ab
sorbed by their green leaves. Their nitrogen they un
doubtedly derive chiefly from nitrates in the soil; their
phosphorus from phosphates. Most animals, on the other
hand, are unable to build up the complex compounds of
which they consist from inorganic materials, subsisting
entirely on food previously assimilated by plants or other
2 I cannot at all agree with Dr. J. H. Gilbert, when he says
(Presidential Address to the Chemical Section of the British
Association at Swansea): “ It may, I think, be a question
whether there is any advantage in thus attempting to establish
a parallelism between animal and vegetable processes.”
See Mr. Corenwinder’s researches in “Revue Scientifique,” 1874.
�8
The Physiological Unity of
animals. This apparent contrast will not, however, hold
universally. Fungi and all parasitic plants depend, either
wholly or in a great measure, on food already assimilated;
whilst, on the other hand, those animals which contain
chlorophyll appear to be able to assimilate inorganic
matter.
The identity of the nutritive processes can, however, be
shown in much greater detail if we describe that even of
one of the higher animals, such as man, and refer in the
comparison partly to those plants which have been termed
“ carnivorous.”3 The food of a man, consisting of pre
viously elaborated animal and vegetable matter, is first
ingested or taken into the alimentary tract. In the mouth
it is masticated and mixed with saliva, a neutral or alkaline
watery fluid, containing a small quantity of ptyalin, a
nitrogenous substance, which, acting as a zymase, i.e., in
a manner similar to that of yeast and other ferments,
converts the insoluble starch into soluble glucose or grape
sugar (C6 H12 O6). The food than passes into the closed
stomach, the glands of which secrete an acid gastric
3 This term may be applied more or less fully to the following
plants belonging to widely different groups:—
Accidentally.
e.g. Lychnis (Campion). Caryophyllacese.
Saxifraga tridactylites. Saxifragacese.
Saprophagous, i.e., only absorbing the products
of decomposition ’? Dipsacus (.Teazle). Dipsacese.
With pitchers - Sarracenia.
Darlingtonia.
>Sarraceniacese.
.Heliamphora.
J
Utricularia.
1
With utricles Polypompholyx. }• Lentibulariacese.
Genlisea.
J
Digesting.
? Helleborus. Eanunculaceae.
? Parnassia. Saxifragacese.
Coelenterate.
Cephalotus. Saxifragacese.
Nepenthes. Nepenthacese.
Motile.
Pinguicula. Lentibulariacese.
Drosera (Sundew).
)
Drosopliyllum.
|
Dionsea (Venus’ Fly-trap). |
Aldxo vanda.
)
�Plants and Animals.
9
juice, containing pepsin, another nitrogenous ferment or
zymase, which acts upon the albuminoid constituents of
the food, rendering them soluble, or digesting them, when
they are known as peptones—substances that readily ooze
through a membrane. The entrance of food into the
stomach stimulates the nerves in its walls, and the neigh
bouring arteries swell so as to produce a blushing of the
surface. After quitting the stomach the conversion of
starch into sugar is completed by the pancreatin in the
intestinal juice of the small intestine, which is neutralised
by the alkaline bile. At the same time, the fatty portions
of the food are emulsionised, i.e.; separated into fine
particles suspended in the fluid, and to some extent sapo
nified, i.e., rendered more soluble by a conversion into
soap by the alkaline bile, just as animal and vegetable fats
and oils are converted into soap, in the_arts, by treatment
with caustic alkali; whilst any remaining albuminoids are
also digested.
The nutrient matter passes through the membranes of
the alimentary canal into the capillaries, or finest blood
vessels, and by the blood, the vehicle of circulation, it is
conveyed to every part of the body to be assimilated, or
taken up, by any organs requiring repair. Any subse
quent changes it may undergo are comprehended under
the term “ metastasis.”
In making this comparison we must not lose sight of
the fact that in the lowest animals we have no specialised
organs or structures to perform these varied functions.
Now, if we turn to plants in general, we find that the
watery solution taken in by the roots penetrates through
the cell-membranes, as the peptones do through those of
the alimentary canal in the animal, and that it is caused
to ascend to the leaves and growing parts by the evapora
tion from the surface. The air enters the stomata, or
pores, in the epidermis, and penetrates the cell-mem
branes, as it does in the air-cells of the bronchial tubes
in our own lungs. The primary product of the union of
this gaseous with this watery food seems to be the forma
tion of protoplasm, that complex albuminoid containing
not only carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen, but
also sulphur and phosphorus. Only plants that contain
chlorophyll are able to utilise the carbon of the air in
forming protoplasm or assimilation, others must obtain
�10
The Physiological Unity of
it elsewhere. Chlorophyll is formed in the protoplasm,
only in the presence of iron, and generally in daylight;
plants grown in the dark being bleached by its imperfect
formation. The presence of chlorophyll is necessary to
the formation of starch, though the latter is a very simple
substance.
Starch is therefore absent from the fungi.
Recent researches4 point to the conclusion that starch
is formed by the protoplasm under the influence of light
filtered, so to speak, through chlorophyll. Though in
soluble, starch seems to be readily rendered soluble, as,
though chiefly formed in the leaves, it is rapidly trans
ferred to the stem, the seeds and other parts, where it
is stored up as a food-reserve. It is from these stores
that man obtains some of the most important of his
food-stuffs—the flour of wheat, the sago from the stem
of the sago-palm, and the starchy tuber of the potato.
Agricultural chemists have come to the conclusion that
animals derive their fat from the carbo-hydrates of their
food,5* i.e., from cellulose, starch, and sugar—more es
8
pecially from the two lattei’; and it would seem highly
probable that the similar fatty oils in fruits and seeds,
such as the olive and the oil-palm, are due to the
transformation of starch. A more important change is
that into glucose and soluble starch in germination, in the
spring sap, and such cases, which is brought about by a
ferment or zymase, known as diastase, all but identical
with the similarly acting ptyalin of our own saliva.
While starch is formed by day, by night the proto
plasm originates cellulose, the cells divide and the plant
grows.
Assimilation thus proceeds mainly by day;
growth by night. Some new evidence on this part of
the subject has been educed by Dr. Siemens’s experiments
on plants under the electric light.
In germinating seeds the albuminoids are converted
into substances closely resembling the peptones of animal
4 Those of Pringsheim, remarkably confirmed by Mr. George
Murray, of the British Museum, who has shown that lichenine, a
form of starch occurring in lichens, is formed not in the chloro
phyll-containing “ gonidial layer,” but in the subjacent cells.
8 See Dr. J. H. Gilbert’s Presidential Address to the Chemical
Section of the British Association at Swansea.
�Plants and Animals.
11
digestion ; and in the transfer of these, of soluble starch,
dextrine, and sugar, to the growing parts, we have a close
analogy to animal circulation.6
In the various complex processes of change, known as
metastasis, acid-salts and free acids are formed in plants,
with instances of which we are all familiar, such as the
rhubarb, apple, gooseberry, and orange. Now free acids
are nearly always deleterious to organic tissues. These
acids are therefore either metamorphosed or neutralised,
or to some extent excreted by being stored up in glands
near the surface, as in the orange. Such embedded glands
are very common, as are also the thin-skinned glandular
hairs, which often have a viscid secretion, as in the catch
flies or campions of the genus Lychnis in Saxifraga tri
dactylites, in Pinguicula and in most Droseracec/e. Mr.
Darwin has shown7 that these hairs in Saxifrages,
Droseras, Primula, and Pelargonium, will absorb am
monia from a solution; hence they might obtain it from
dew, in which it occurs in small quantities. It is also
probable that they derive some benefit from the nitro
genous matter in the bodies of flies, with which Saxifraga tridactylites is always covered.
Flies are constantly drowned in the pitcher formed by
the two united leaves of the common teazle, into which
Dr. Francis Darwin thinks he has detected delicate pro
toplasmic threads protruded from the cells of the stem,
like the pseudopodia of a Foraminifer.8
Several plants, belonging to widely separated orders,
have their leaves modified into pitchers, or utricles, in
which insects get drowned and decay, the products of
decay being absorbed by glands on the inner surface of6
8
*
6 The presence of a pepsin-like ferment, or peptogene, which
might have been inferred from the transference of albuminoids
from one part of the plant to another, has been shown in the seeds
of Vetch by Gorup-Besanez. A similar substance occurs in the
milky juice of the papaw (Carica Papaya), which, like the gastric
juice of animals and the secretion from the leaves of the sundew
(Drosera), has the two-fold property of acting as an antiseptic by
destroying the microzymes, or organisms that induce putrefaction,
and of acting as a solvent or peptogene on albuminoids.
“Insectivorous Plants.” London, 1875.
8 Quarterly Journal of Microscopical Science, 1878.
�12
The Physiological Unity of
the organ? Such is the case with the Sarracenias and
their allies, an order related to the water-lilies, and with
the Utricularias or bladder worts, which are related to
the butterwort, Pinguicula, and less closely to the prim
rose tribe. In the true pitcher-plants, however, the
Cephdlotus and the Nepenthes, plants in no way related
morphologically, we reach a much higher physiological
grade. The leaves in this case develope pitchers strictly
comparable to the animal stomach. The glands on the
inner surface of these pitchers secrete a watery fluid
which is slightly acid. Albuminoid matter, whether ani
mal or vegetable, immersed in this fluid, even when
removed from the pitcher, is converted into soluble pep
tones, as in the gastric juice, and this change occurs so
rapidly that we naturally infer the presence of some
pepsin-like ferment. Mere acidulated water, without a
ferment, takes several days to digest albuminoid matter ;
though Professor Frankland has shown that, though dif
fering in the intensity of their action, nearly all acids
will effect such a digestion. After absorbing albuminoid
matter the glands of these pitchers become a bright red
colour, strangely reminding us of the blushing of the walls
of the stomach.
In Pinguicula and in the Droseracece, though we have no
stomach-like pitchers, we have a somewhat higher grade
in the introduction of motion to aid in the nutritive
processes.
The simple leaves of the butterwort are
covered with viscid, glandular hairs, the secretion from
which exerts a remarkable effect upon milk, coagulating
it; whence the name butterwort. When flies stick to
the hairs the leaves roll up at their margins, the secretion
becomes acid, and the albuminoid matter is digested and
absorbed. The absorption is shown by the fact that the
protoplasm in the cells of the glands becomes aggregated
or contracted. If milk is left on the leaves it is first
coagulated, and then its casein is absorbed.
We then come to a most interesting group, the Droseraceoe—a group not represented by any considerable
number of forms, but of world-wide distribution.
A
9 See, on the subject generally, Dr. (now Sir Joseph) Hooker’s
Address to the British Association at Belfast, in 1874, in “ Nature,”
vol. X., and Mr. Darwin’s work before referred to; on Cephalo
tus, Dr. Dickson, in the “Journal of Botany ” for 1878.
�• \ *«* * • r>.Y *.’••’• *
Plants and Animals.
’.• ’.':> '*} ’• »"^
,v? ';/<</ F v’A .\
13
large proportion of the species are natives of Australia;
but they occur also in Patagonia, whilst our British
species range throughout Europe, Siberia, to the Hima
layas, in Kamschatka and in America, from the'Arctic
Circle to Florida and Brazils.
So we may safely say
that they have been successful in the struggle for ex
istence. It affords a strong confirmation to our views as
to the source of their main food-supply that Sarracenias,
Utricularias, Pinguiculas, Nepenthes, and the Droseracece
are in all cases either submerged aquatic plants, or in
habitants of marshes, where they are often seen growing
on pure sand which can only yield them pure water.
Their roots are very small; in Aldrovanda they are
altogether absent.
The round-leaved sundew of our own marshes, which
grows under the protection of the Board of Works on
Hampstead Heath, in Epping Forest, and on Keston
Common, whence Mr. Darwin has procured his specimens,
has its leaves prolonged into glandular hairs or tentacles,
each surmounted by a drop of viscid secretion to which
they owe their name of sundew. The stickiness of this
secretion will amply suffice to detain a small fly by the leg.
On doing so, not only does that particular drop become acid,
but all the other glands instantaneously become aware of
the capture of some nitrogenous matter; their secretions
become acid, and they bend forward till the fly is carried
to the centre of the leaf, covered by the glands. Com
plete digestion then ensues, occupying a time which
varies according to the size of the prey, and the peptones
and other soluble results are absorbed by the glands of
the leaf, the protoplasm of which becomes aggregated.
A substance analogous to pepsin has been detected in the
secretion by Dr. Lawson Tait, who terms it droserin, and
the acid has been determined to be either propionic
(C3 H6 O2), or a mixture of acetic (C2 H4 O2), and butyric
(C4 H8 O2). It is noteworthy that the secretion has also
antiseptic properties, herein also resembling gastric juice.
Chlorophyll is but scantily developed in the mature leaves,
suggesting that organised food renders that derived di
rectly from the atmosphere to a large degree unnecessary.
That the plant derives a decided advantage from this
leaf-absorbed nitrogen is conclusively proved by Dr.
Francis Darwin’s comparative experiment, in which he
�14
The Physiological Unity of
grew some hundred meat-fed plants side by side with a
like number of others not so fed, the former proving
the superior in weight, number of off-sets, of flower
stalks, of flowers, and of seeds, and in the weight of their
seeds.
It is, however, in the exotic ally of our sundew, the
Venus’s fly-trap (Dioncea muscipula) of North Carolina,
perhaps, that we have the highest degree of specialisation
for nutrition in the direction we are considering. In this
plant, rapid movement produced by an electro-magnetic
change in the condition of the blade of the leaf on stim
ulation, takes the place of a viscid secretion. The blade
of the leaf is orbicular, divided by a hinge-like midrib,
and surrounded by spinous prolongations corresponding
to the tentacles of Drosera. Its upper surface is covered
with glands, and bears long sensitive hairs, generally three
on each lobe. These, from their action, I think I may
venture to term vibrissce, i.e., rudimentary sense-organs.
These vibrissae are extremely sensitive to the touch, the
two halves of the leaf instantly closing, their spinous
tentacles becoming interlocked like the teeth of a gin.
Dr. Burdon Sanderson has shown 10 the existence in the
leaf of a normal electric current precisely similar to that
of animal muscle; and that, on the vibrissae being touched,
a deflection of this current, which can be observed with
the galvanometer, is produced, precisely as in the con
traction of muscle under nervous stimulation. Though it
is an anticipation of the next division of my subject, I
must here call your attention also to the remarkable
analogy we have here presented with that deflection of a
normal electric current in the optic nerve which has been
recently shown by Professors McKendrick and Dewar to
be produced by the action of light on the eye in most
animals. The motor impulse, both in this plant and in
Prosera, is transmitted not only by the vascular tissue,
but also by the cellular. The glands are both secretive
and absorptive, but do not secrete until stimulated by
absorption. The acid secretion in the temporarily-formed
stomach acts like that of Drosera. In neither case is fat
absorbed, nor — which is rather remarkable — casein,
though cheese produces an abundant flow of the acid
10 Proc. Royal Society, vol. xxi., and. ‘Nature,’ vol. x.
�Plants and Animals.
15
secretion. In digesting this albuminoid, the butterwort
(Pinguicula) is more active; but perhaps we should look
upon the leaf-digestion in plants as a recently-acquired
function—geologically speaking—so their digestive powers
may as yet be weak. Over-feeding seems to have a fatal
effect either on leaves or on whole plants.
In leaving the subject of nutrition, I hope it will not
be supposed that in dwelling thus at length upon these
plants, I look upon their functions as exceptional. They
are well exhibited for purposes of experiment and com
parison in these so-called “ carnivorous ” plants; but
they are represented in the processes of assimilation and
metastasis throughout the plant-world.11
The functions of relation are motion, sensation, and
nervosity. Some few animals lose the power of moving
from place to place, a power possessed only by the very
lowest plants. Higher plants, however, are carried as
winged fruits or seeds to a distance, and in many cases
possess as much power of relative movement, i.e., the
movement of certain of their parts as do many animals,
e.g., the circum-nutation, as Mr. Darwin has termed it, or
revolving motion of tendrils, twining plants and shoots,
and the irritability of stamens, as in the barberry, or of
carpels as in the balsam. Motion is effected
pseudo
podia in the Myxomycetes and some other Thallophytes,
as much as in the lowest animals, and by cilia in some
what higher members of both groups, whilst muscles are,
of course, as absent in the Protozoa as in plants.
The definitions of sensation, given in most manuals of
physiology, presuppose the existence of nerves and nerve
ganglia. These occur in no animals lower than the
Jellyfishes; yet, I think, most naturalists would rather
look upon protoplasm as a diffused nerve-matter, as
suggested by the late Dr. Bowerbank, than deny sensation
altogether to the Protozoa. Leaving out of consideration
the remarkably rapid action of the sensitive-plant (Mimosa
pudica) and the related movements in various compound
leaves, known as “ sleep,” as being still problematical, I
would ask whether the instantaneous reaction of the
secretion in Drosera (its becoming acid) on stimulation, or
11 I endeavoured to elucidate this point in an article on ‘ Plant
Nutrition ’ in the Gardenerd Chronicle for 1878, vol. ix., p. 202.
�16 The Physiological Unity of Plants and Animals.
the electric action of Dioncea, is not entitled to be con
sidered as the same in kind with animal sensation.
The function of reproduction is performed in three
different ways: by fission, by budding or gemmation, or
by ovulation. Each of these processes is represented both
among plants and among animals, though fission and gem
mation are termed vegetative functions—functions, that is,
of mere discontinuous growth as distinguished from ovu
lation or sexual reproduction. Eission, or cell-division,
is the normal method of reproduction among the lowest
cellular plants (Protophyta), and even a sea-anemone,
when cut in half, has healed to form two perfect indi
viduals. Gemmation, or the production of off-sets more
or less distinct, familiar to us in ferns, bulbs, and straw
berry runners, occurs also in the freshwater polyp {Hydra)
and other animals higher in the scale.
In the processes of sexual reproduction we have, how
ever, perhaps the most striking of all the parallelisms
beween plants and animals. In both we have the im
pregnation of a germ-cell or ovum by a sperm-cell, the
male element: in Cryptogamic plants, and in animals,
this male element is a minute body furnished with one or
more cilia, known as a,spermatozoid: in both kingdoms the
ovum is a single cell originated within its parent cell by
what is termed free-cell formation: in both this ovum
subdivides to form the embryo ; and in the egg of the one,
as in the seed of the other, there is often, in addition to
the embryo, a food-supply for its early nourishment. In
fairness it must be noticed that the animal ovum is seg
mented into four, eight, sixteen or more segments, whilst
that of the plant forms in general a filament (hypha or
suspensor), at the end of which the embryo originates;
and secondly, that flowering plants have perhaps advanced
a grade beyond animals in substituting the fovilla of
pollen for the spermatozoid.
I have thus in detail endeavoured to trace a funda
mental identity, in nutrition, in relation, and in repro
duction, in plants and animals. My object in so doing
has been to extend, as far as our knowledge permits us,
the reign of law and uniformity; and to show that the
study of the physiology even of plants may not be with
out its practical lessons to so exalted an animal as Man.
Kenny & CO., Printers, 25, Camden Road, N.W.
�
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Original Format
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Pamphlet
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Title
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The physiological unity of plants and animals: a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 30th January, 1881
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Boulger, G.S.
Description
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 16 p. ; 18 cm
Notes: Includes bibliographical references. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Sunday Lecture Society
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1881
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G3425
N079
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<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br />This work (The physiological unity of plants and animals: a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 30th January, 1881), identified by Humanist Library and Archives, is free of known copyright restrictions.
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application/pdf
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Text
Language
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English
Subject
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Biology
NSS
Physiology
-
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Text
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Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
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Title
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The Edda songs and sagas of Iceland. A lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, St George's Hall, Langham Place on Sunday afternoon, 13th February 1876
Creator
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Browning, George
Description
An account of the resource
Place of publication: London
Collation: 45, [3], p. ; 19 cm.
Series title: Art-historical and ethnographical lectures
Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Printed by C.W. Reynell, Haymarket, London. Other works by the author, and a list of his Art-Historical & Ethnographical Lectures, afternoon meetings for 1876 given on unnumbered pages at the end. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
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Sunday Lecture Society
Date
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1876
Identifier
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G5169
N112
Subject
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Iceland
Mythology
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The Edda songs and sagas of Iceland. A lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, St George's Hall, Langham Place on Sunday afternoon, 13th February 1876), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
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Text
Language
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English
Conway Tracts
Eddas
Iceland
NSS
Sagas
Songs
-
https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/d9399899f51bd6d3a275616f65b5b55e.pdf?Expires=1773878400&Signature=gMuR%7EQ8QTs4b4rNh0ViwVNuulllBY08CDyerP0LHkisKmyd1pFh%7EZ4d2lb8aEydn7C95nmqRpESAgr%7EyiFojuyMbzhHI89GlbZ6FKtGCxBvYP4HOde3J8D2nhcqLAaNoYRifMDlFL3xUFYhhq6EUkv834arDiKD%7EyfGkvVet7gZtx8BXT8hGSCoEbGZIOqrs6PFMYchL1zxCeixTirdjNKjxbdQ6hvCZwe35WMPyTaext3eag7hlZgGkjAH58tEw80wAD1vFthy5XHZRoABbEeQQrnmcrfi%7EeQdF33t7gjxjyy%7En2EAbZBVDawAjYh8J09RjA3XReq6wveGvDL5MfQ__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM
a17391d325e74992ee6f4cedbb5857bb
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Text
national SECULAR SOOT'™
tJil£
THE DOCTRIKE
HUMAN- AUTOMATISM.
A LECTURE
(WITH ADDITIONS}
delivered before
THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
On Sunday Afternoon, 7th March, 1875.
BY
w. B. CARPENTER, LL.D., M.D.,
F.R.S., F.L.S., F.G.S.
CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE INSTITUTE OF FRANCE,
AND REGISTRAR OF THE UNIVERSITY OF LONDON. 1
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTUBE SOCIETY,
18 75,'
Price Threepence.
�SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and to
encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science—
physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature, and
Art; especially in their bearing upon the improvement and
social well-being of mankind.
THE SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST. GEORGE’S HALE, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o’clock precisely
(Annually—from November to May).
Twenty-eour Lectures (in three series), ending 2nd May, 1875, will
be given.
Members’ £1 subscription entitles them to an annual ticket (trans
ferable, and admitting to the reserved seats), and to eight single
reserved-seat tickets available for any lecture.
Tickets for each series (one for each lecture), as below :—
To the Shilling Reserved Seats—5s. 6d.
To the Sixpenny Seats—2s., being at the rate of Threepence
each lecture.
For tickets apply (by letter) to the Hon. Treasurer, Wm. Henry
Domville, Esq., 15 Gloucester Crescent, Hyde Park, W.
Payment at the door
One Penny
Sixpence ■—and (Reserved
Seats) One Shilling.
�IS MAN AN AUTOMATON?
Ladies and Gentlemen,—In. introducing to you the
■question which is to be the subject of my address this
evening—the question, Is Man an Automaton ?■—it is
perhaps well that I should define, at the commencement,
the sense in which I intend to use these words ; and it will
be more convenient to take the second first—What do I
mean by an Automaton ? The word automaton is derived
■from two Greek words, which mean self-moving. Well, of
•course, man is a self-moving being, and in that sense he is
an automaton. But the word automaton, as we use it, has
& different signification. It means a structure which moves
by a mechanism, and which can only move in a certain
way. I.might take as illustrations various automata which
are exhibited from time to time—I remember to have seen
in my boyhood many remarkable collections. But I will
draw my illustration from this very hall in which we are
met. The great organ behind me is blown, I understand,
by water power. You know, I daresay, that formerly
organs were blown by manual or human power. The
bellows-blower had before him what is called a “ tell-tale,”
a little weight so hung as to indicate the amount of wind in
the organ; and his business was to work the bellows so as
■always to keep the “ tell-tale ” below a certain point On
the other hand, by a piece of mechanism constructed for
the purpose with a great deal of skill, the organ is now
blown by water-pressure. The water-pressure so acts, that
when the organist requires a large supply of wind, as when
he is playing loud through a great many pipes, the bellows
�4
move faster ancl supply that wind ; while, on the otherhand, when he plays softly, and little wind is required, the
bellows move more slowly. If that apparatus were incased
in the frame of a human figure, and made to work the
bellows-handle up and down, we should call it an auto
maton.
.
Now, let us see on what the working of that automaton
depends. It depends, in the first place, upon its structure.
The mechanist who has constructed that apparatus has soarranged the play of its various parts, that it shall work
with the' power communicated to it, in accordance with the
oro-anist’s requirements. Then its working depends upon
the force supplied by the water-pressure; that force being •
made, by the construction of the machine, to exert itself
in moving the bellows at the rate determined by the playing
of the organist. Without a sufficient water-pressure the
machine will not work; and when the organist ceases to
touch the keys, the movement of the ■ bellows comes to a>
stand. There you have then a machine which is moved,
on the one hand, by a certain power, and the action of
which is regulated by another set of circumstances external
to itself. Now that is, I think, what we mean by an
automaton—a machine which has within itself the power
of motion, under conditions fixed for it, but not by it A
watch, for instance, is an automaton. You wind it upand give it the power of movement; while you make it
regulate itself by its balance, which you can so adjust as to
make it keep accurate time. Any piece of mechanism of
that sort, self-moving and self-regulating, is an automaton.
But then all these machines are made to answer certain
purposes, and cannot go beyond. They are entirely de
pendent, first, upon their original construction, secondly,
upon the force which is applied to them, and thirdly, upon
the conditions under which that force is .made to act. -^he
question then is, whether Man is a machine of that kind .
his original constitution, derived from his ancestry, in the
first place, shaping the mechanism of his body; and in the
second place, the circumstances acting upon him through the
whole period of his growth, and modifying the formation ot
his body, also, in the same manner, determining the con
stitution of his mind. Are we to regard the whole subse-
�5
(mental aS Wel1 as bodily) of eacp individual,
with his course of action in the world, as a necessary
consequence or resultant of these conditions—as strictly
•determined by his inherited and acquired organisation, and
-by the external circumstances which act upon it?
We must now consider what we understand by Man. I
do not mean Man according to the zoologist’s definition—
• a Vertebrate animal, belonging to the class Mammalia,
older Bimana, genus and species Homo sapiens ; but Man
as he is familiarly known to us, and as we have to regard
him m our present inquiry-the bodily man and the mental
man. We cannot help separating these two existences in
thought, although my own course of study has been directed
o the investigation of the nature of their relation. The
-metaphysician considers man simply in his mental aspect;
ih/^
eltCiallng With the organs of sensation;
d the mode in which man acquires his knowledge of the
external wor d through those organs; nor can°he help
cea mg with the subject of voluntary action, and with the
movements which express mental emotions. The physio
logist, on the other hand, looks simply at the body of man-and yet he cannot help dealing with the physiological con
ditions of mental activity—the way in which we become
conscious of the impressions made upon the organs of sense
appatatim °dVritl111011
Upon the muscu1^
appaiatus. A little consideration will shew that we mav
justly regard the body of man as the instrument by which
ns mind comes into relation with the external world. We
exteraTworld Z m/3a.ns/omething distinct from the
personalitZ
convenieilt to call that
feels think?7?
^tm term Ago. This Ego-which
eels thinks, reasons judges, and determines—receives
all its impressions of the external world through the
Ze ZZ Z °f
Again’ a11
action of
e E^o upon the external world—including in that term
the mmds m other men—is exerted through the instru
mentality of the body. What am I doing "at the ZseZ
time?—endeavouring to excite in your minds certain Ideas
meais ?f paSSmg throufh W own. How do I do so?—by
means of my organs of speech, which are regulated bv
my nervous system; that apparatus being the instrument
' '
�6
through which my mind expresses my ideas in spoken
laimuao'e. The sounds I utter, transmitted to you by
vibrations of the air falling upon your ears, excite m the
nerves with which those organs are supplied certain changes
which are propagated through them to the sensonum, that
wonderful organ through the medium of which a certain
state of consciousness is aroused in your minds; and my aim
is, by the use of appropriate words, to suggest to your minds
the ideas I desire to implant in them.
Such is the aspect under which I would have you con
sider Man’s body this evening. I do not say it is the only
aspect: but it best suits our present discussion to consider
the body as the instrument by which the mind of each
individual is made conscious of what is taking place
around him, and by which he is able to act upon the ex
ternal world; thus becoming the instrument of communi
cation between one mind and another. To illustrate what
I would have you keep before you strongly—that the Mind
is the essential Ego—I will ask your attention to one or
two facts of very familiar experience. It must have hap
pened to most of you to have formed impressions of other
individuals without any knowledge of their bodily appear
ance. We do not know them m the flesh at all, but we
know them intimately, or think we do, in the spirit.. 1
remember, in the year 1851, the year of the first, great
. Exhibition, being told that a number of the Telegraph
establishments in the country having given their clerks a
free ticket to London, to enable them to go up and see
the world’s fair—as it was called—m Hyde Park almost
every clerk on first coming to Town before going; to the
great Exhibition, went down to the telegraph office in
city to fraternise with his chum. You P^^ably know that
telegraph clerks very soon find out who is at the o
end.” Several clerks occasionally work a particulai ^s
ment, and each comes to know in half a dozen
w
has - gone on.” They recognise the style of telegjaphm,,
just as you would recognise the handwilting
+o i;ve
After a'little there is some one whom eachcomess wlike
better than others; A communicates individually with_ ,
and B with A; and beginning with the exchange>of lrttfe
friendly messages at odd times, intimacies, I have been
�7
assured, of the most fraternal kind, frequently spring up
between those who have never seen each other. I daresay,
now that young ladies are employed in telegraphing—and
a most fitting employment it is for them—some more
tender relations may spring up in the same manner.
Take again another illustration—the way in which our
sympathies are aroused with an author, when we come to
. know his mind as presented in his writings. A great many
of you felt when Dickens died, as if you had lost a personal
friend—one with whose mind your own had grown into
dose relation, whose thoughts had exercised a most valu
able influence on yours, and whom you felt to be nearer
to you than many so-called friends.
Let me give you an instance from my own experience.
I have been for some years a great admirer of an American
writer, whose books I have read with the deepest interest,
because I found in these books expressions of some of my
own best thoughts, a great deal better put forth than I
could put them forth myself—the products of a similar
course of scientific inquiry, worked out with the aid of
great poetic insight and a great fund of human sympathy,
—a large human capacity altogether. In his writings I
have felt as if I had one of my nearest and truest friends.
Circumstances lately drew forth a letter from him to myself,
in which he did me the honour to say that I had been his
teacher in science; but I felt he was completely my master
in everything that gives the best expression to scientific
thoughts. Now if I were to go to America, the first man
with whom I should seek to make acquaintance, with the cer
tainty that we should meet as old personal friends, is Oliver
Wendel Holmes.—I do not speak of Ralph Waldo Emer
son, because we have long been personal friends. In the
preface to a book I have lately received from him, he'sums
up all I have been now saying in these pregnant words—
“ Thoughts rule the world.”
Thus it is the mind that reciprocates the mind, much
more than the body reciprocates the body. The body is
the symbol of the mind, just as spoken or written words
are symbols of ideas ; and when we think of a friend whom
we know personally, we combine with the conception of
his personality our whole knowledge and conception of his
�8
character. When yon say, “ I met my friend so and so in
the street,” you do not mean you met simply his body, but
that you met the man—the whole man. But when you
say that you know a man “ by sight” only, you mean that
you know his outside body and nothing more.
In considering the body as the instrument of the mind,
I shall shew you, first, the large amount of automatism in
the human body, as to which I want you to have clear
ideas. I do not wish, for any purpose whatever, to lead
you away from this truth. I wish that you should be in the
position yourselves to appreciate facts, so as not to be led
away by one-sided statements. I desire particularly that
my statements should not be one-sided; and so far as time
will allow, I will place before you the whole of the moat
important considerations relating to this subject.
We must separate our body into two parts; and shall
first consider the part that is most important as the instru
ment of our mind—that which physiologists call the apparratus of animal life. This takes in the nervous system—
the recipient of impressions made by the external world
upon our organs of sense, the instrument through which
these impressions are enabled to affect our conscious minds,
and conversely the medium through which our minds ex
press themselves in action on our bodies. Then, again,
there is the muscular apparatus, which is called into action
through the nervous system, and the framework of bones
and joints by which this muscular apparatus gives move
ment to the several parts of the body.
But this “apparatus of animal life” cannot be maintained
in its integrity, and cannot perform the actions which it is
adapted to execute, without certain conditions. It must be
maintained by nutrition, because it is always wearing and
wasting by its very action, and is. in constant need of
repair; and the material for this repair must be supplied
by the blood-circulation. Again, the power it puts forth is
dependent upon the operation of oxygen on the material of
its tissues or of the blood which circulates through them;
and this is as essential a condition as the pressure of water
is upon the bellows of the organ.
Then the circulation of the blood involves the prepara
tion of the blood from food, and its exposure to the atmo-
�9
■sphere in the lungs, so as to get rid of the carbonic
■acid which is the product of the chemical change that
generates nervo-muscular energy, and may take in a fresh
supply of oxygen ; and hence there is required an apparatus
of organic life. This apparatus consists of all the organs
which take in the food, which digest it, prepare it, and
convert it into blood, those which circulate the blood, and
also those which subject the blood to the influence of the
air. The working of this apparatus in man involves the
action of certain nerves and muscles•, though it is not so with
many of the lower animals, which are provided with a much
simpler mechanism. In the case of man we have the need
of muscles to take in and swallow the food, and of muscles
to move the coats of the stomach in the process of its
digestion; and we require a powerful muscle—the heart
•—to circulate the blood through the body by the alternate
contraction of its several chambers; while powerful muscles
of respiration alternately fill and empty the lungs.
Now, the first point I would lay stress upon is, that
all these actions are essentially and originally automatic.
When I say originally, I mean from the very beginning—
from the moment when the child comes into the world, or
oven before. We know that the first thing the new-born
infant does is to draw a long breath; and from that time
breathing never ceases,—the cessation of breathing being
the cessation of life. The heart’s action has been going
on for months before birth; and its entire suspension for
■& very short time, whether before or after birth, would
bring the whole vital activity of the body to an end.
These motions are executed by the nervo-muscular
apparatus, in a way that does not involve our conscious
ness at all. We do not even know of our heart’s action
unless it be very violent, or we be in such a position that
we feel it knocking against our side. But still it is going
on regularly and tranquilly, though it may not be felt
from one day’s end to another. We cannot stop it, if we
would, by-any effort of the will; but it is affected by our
'©motional states.
So, again, we do not know that we are breathing, unless
we attend to it. The moment that we direct our attention
to it, we become aware of the fact; but if we are studying
a2
�10
closely, or listening to a discourse, or attending to some
piece of music, or, indeed, doing anything that engages our
consciousness, we are no more aware of our breathing than
we are during sleep. This shews you, then, that when
breathing goes on regularly the action is purely automatic.
But we have a very considerable control over our muscles
of respiration. If my respiratory movements were as purely
automatic as those of an insect, I could not be addressing
vou to-night; because the whole act of speech depends upon
the regulation of those movements. We must have such
power over the muscles, as to be able to breathe forth succes
sive jets, as it were, of air, which, by the apparatus of arti
culation, are converted into sounding words. Though we
have power over the respiratory organs to a certain extent,
we cannot “ hold our breath” many seconds. In the West
Indies the overworked negroes used formerly to try to
commit suicide by holding their breath, but could not do
it, except by doubling their tongues back so as to stop the
aperture of the glottis; for the impulse and' necessity forbreathing became so imperative, that they could no longer
resist the tendency to draw in a breath. Thus, whilst, we
have a certain voluntary control over this act of breathing,
so as to be enabled to regulate it to our purposes, we can
not suspend its automatic performance long enough to
interfere seriously with the aeration of the blood.
Let me briefly notice some of our other automatic
actions. In the act of swallowing, which properly begins
at the back of the throat, the “swallow” lays hold of the
food or the drink brought to it by the muscles of the mouth,,
and carries this down into the stomach. We are quit®
unconscious of its passage thither, unless we have taken
a larger morsel or something hotter or colder than ordinary.
This is an instance of purely automatic action. If you
carry a feather, for instance, a little way clown into the
“swallow,” it is laid hold of and carried down involuntarily,
unless drawn back with your fingers.
Take as another instance, the act of coughing. What
does that proceed from ? You may have allowed a drop of
water or a crumb of bread to “go the wrong way,” and get
into the air-passages. It has no business there, and will
excite a cough. This consists, in the first place, in the-
�closure of the glottis—the narrow fissure which gives
passage to the air—and then in a sort of convulsive action
of the expiratory muscles, which sends a blast of air
through the aperture, that serves to carry away the
offending substance. Nothing can be more purpose-like
than that action, yet it is purely automatic. You cannot
help it. You may try to stifle a cough for the sake of the
audience or the lecturer, but the impulse is too strong for
you. You see, then, the purely involuntary nature of this
action. The person who feels inclined to cough may
endeavour to overcome the automatic tendency by an
effort of his will. He may succeed to a certain degree,
but cannot always do so.
Now, although we cannot voluntarily stifle a cough when
it is strongly excited, we can cough voluntarily, with no
excitement at all. You can cough, if you choose, to interrupt
the lecturer, as in the House of Commons coughing is some
times used to put down a troublesome speaker; and little
coughs are sometimes got up to give signals to some friend
privately. Or, again, the lecturer, who may feel his voice
husky in consequence of some little mucus in his throat,
wishes to clear it away; its presence does not excite the
movement, but he coughs intentionally to get rid of it.
Now, I would have you fix your attention on these two
points : in the first place, coughing as an involuntary move
ment excited by a stimulus in the throat; and in the second
place, as a voluntary movement executed by a determinate
effort. This distinction is the key to the whole study of
the nature of the relation between the mind of man and
his muscular apparatus.
The automatic movements of which I have been speaking
depend upon a certain part of the nervous centres, which
does not enter into the structure of the brain properly so
called; namely, the medulla oblongata, or the upward
prolongation of the spinal marrow—the spinal cord, as
physiologists call it—into the skull (a, figs. 1, 2).
The effect of the stimulus or irritation in the windpipe
may not be felt as tickling; for coughing will take place in
a state of profound insensibility. An impression is made
upon the nerves which go to the medulla oblongata, and
in that centre' excites a change. It is the fashion now to call
�12-
this change a “movement of moleculesbut it is nothing ■
more than a name for
the action excited there,
;of the nature of which
we know very little. I
• do not think that this
expression is really very
much better than the old
doctrine of “vibrations”
put forth by Hartley
& more than a century ago.
The change thus excited
produces a converse ac
tion in the mo tor.nerves
which go to the muscles,
and thus calls forth the
combined muscular move
ment of which I have
spoken. This is a typi
Fig. 1.—Under Surface oe Brain.— cal example of what the
a. Medulla oblongata, cut off from physiologist terms
the spinal cord; b, pons varolii; c, “reflex action.”
infundibulum; d, portion of the
The whole Spinal Cord
convoluted surface of the cerebrum;
■ e, portion of the same laid open, is a centre of “ reflex
shewing the difference between the action,” in virtue of the
grey or ganglionic substance of the grey or ganglionic mat
convolutions, and the white or fibrous
substance; /, cerebellum; 1, olfac ter it contains, in addi
tory ganglion; 2, optic nerves; 3-9, tion to the white strands
which form the connec
successive cranial nerves.
tion between the spinal nerves and the brain j and this grey
matter is present in different parts of the cord in different
amounts, in proportion to the size of the nerves connected
with each. Each ordinary spinal nerve contains both
sensory and motor fibres, bound up in the same trunk, blit
these are separate at its roots (fig. 3) ; and a part of each
set of fibres has its centre in the grey matter of the spinal
cord itself, whilst another part is continued into its white
strands. Although, however, we speak of “ sensory
fibres, we do not mean that impressions on them always
call forth sensations. For in the case of many involuntary
acts, ascertain impression is made on the sensory nerve,
�■:I3
.and a reflex influence excited by this. acts through the
corresponding motor nerve without calling forth any sen
sation. Ah impression is conveyed towards the ganglionic
centre, which possesses a
• power of reflexion — not
reflection in the mental
sense, but in the optical
sense of the reflection of fffy'
rays from a mirror. If we
break any part' of this
a nervous circle,” ‘ as Sir
Charles Bell called it, its
action is destroyed.' Cut
the sensory ' nerves, and
no reflex action can be
excited. Cut the motor
nerves? and no muscular
contraction can be called
forth. Destroy the centre, Fig. 2.—Vertical Section of Brain
THROUGH ITS MIDDLE PLANE;
and you will not have the shewing the relation of the Cere
reflexion. The complete brum A and the Cerebellum B, to
nervous circle is necessary the Sensori-motor Tract, which
for the performance of may be considered as the upward
extension of the
every one of these reflex a, and includes medulla oblongata,
the parts lettered
actions. • ■
cl, e,f -, at h is shewn in section the
What I want first to corpus callosum, or great transverse
impress upon you is, that commissure uniting the two cere
the reflex movements im bral hemispheres; and at g the
longitudinal
connect
mediately concerned in the ing the frontcommissure, parts of
and back
maintenance of Organic ’ each; i, optic nerve.
life all take place through
this lower portion of the nervous system, which has no
necessary connection with either sensation or will. That
is to say, that if there were no higher part of the nervous
System than the spinal cord, we should still have reflex
action without the Ego having anything to do with it.
■ -I may illustrate this by the act of sucking, which in
volves a curious combination of respiratory movements with
movements of the lips. This act can be performed without
any brain at all; for infants have come into the world with. out the brain, properly so-called—with nothing higher than.
�14
the prolongation of the spinal cord—and have sacked,
-pibreathed, and even cried
for some hours; and all the
true brain has beenremoved
experimentally from new
born puppies, which still
Fig. 3.—Transvep.se Section of
Spinal Cord ; shewing its grey or sucked at the finger when
ganglionic core, enclosed in its moistened with milk and
white strands; a, r, anterior or put between their lips. This
motor roots;
r, posterior or shews how purely automatic
sensory roots.
these actions are.
But we now come to that other class of movements—
namely, those properly belonging to the apparatus of
Animal life—which are concerned in the obtaining of food and in carrying on ordinary
locomotion. I have to shew you to what a
large extent, among some of the lower ani
mals, these movements are originally auto
matic ; and, on the other hand, to inquire
into their nature in Man.
We will go to the class of Insects and their
allies the Centipedes, as giving the best illus
tration of the primary automatic movements
of animal life. Here (fig. 4) is a diagram of a
Centipede. Every child who has dug in the
ground knows the “ hundred-legs,” and is
pretty sure to have chopped one in two, and.
noticed that each half continues to run. This
is in virtue of the ganglion existing in every
joint of the body, which is the centre of the
reflex action of the legs belonging to it, and
which keeps each joint in motion even after
it is separated from the body. If one of these
creatures is cut into half a dozen pieces, every
one of them will continue to run along. But,
again, if we divide the nervous cord which
connects the ganglia, the sight of an obstacle
Fig. 4.—Gan may cause the animal to stop the movement
gliated Ner of its fore legs, yet the hind legs will continue
vous Cord of to push it on. If you take out the middle por
Centipede.
tion of the chain of ganglia, the legs of that
�15
part will not move J but the legs of the front part will move
or not, according to the direction of the ganglia of the head,
•which seem to control the action of the other ganglia in vir
tue of their connection with the eyes; and the legs of the
hind part will continue to move as before.
When one of these creatures goes out of the way of an
•object before it, we may assume that it sees the object;
for although we have no absolute proof that insects do
see anything, I cannot see that there is any disproof of a
conclusion to which all analogy points. Certainly it seems
to me that if I try to catch a fly, and if it jumps or flies
away, or if I go out and try to catch a butterfly with a
net, and it flies off, it does so because it sees the net.
Those who have watched bees, when a storm is coming on,
flying straight down from many yards’ distance to the en
trance of the hive, can scarcely help concluding that they see
the entrance. At any rate, it is not proved that they do not.
Well, then, the Centipede avoids an obstacle. A visual
impression is made on the eyes, and by their agency is.com
municated to the large ganglia in the head; the reflex
action of which controls that of the other ganglia, and
directs the movement of the body.
We find that the size of these cephalic ganglia in flying
Insects has a very close relation to the development of their
eyes; the eyes being most highly developed in the most
active insects, and the ganglia connected with them the
largest; while the general movements of these insects are
most obviously guided by their sight. Here is a clear case
of Original or primary automatism; because these actions
are all performed by the insect almost immediately that it
comes forth from the chrysalis or pupa state; as soon as
its wings have dried, it begins to fly; and obviously sees
and avoids obstacles just as well as if it had been practising
these movements all its life.
Then, in the case of Insects, we notice that very remark
able uniformity of action, which we characterise as “instinc
tive.” They execute most remarkable constructions after a
Certain plan or pattern, with such extraordinary uniformity
and absence of guidance from experience, that we infer
that they must have inherent in them a tendency to
perform those actions.
�16
We see this in the case of hive bees, which are distin
guished for theii* elaborate architecture, and for their rem arkable domestic economy. I do not say that there is no
rationality in insects, and that there is nothing done with
conception and purpose; because some of their actions seem
to indicate this, especially those which are described in
recent accounts of ants given by Mr. Belt in his “ Naturalist
in Nicaragua.” Sir John Lubbock’s experiments also cer
tainly do seem to indicate a power of adaptation to changes of
circumstances that were not likely to have frequently oc
curred naturally in the history of the race, so as to have
become habitual—changes brought about by human agency,
so foreign to the ordinary habits and instincts of the crea
tures, that we can scarcely attribute their consequent action
to anything but a conscious adaptation to these ends. Bub
this is a matter to be still cleared up—how far experience
modifies the actions of insects. As a general fact, I may say
that they carry Automatism to its very highest extreme. .
To give another illustration—the Mantis religiosa (fig. 5),.
an insect which is allied to the crickets and grasshoppers, but
which does not habitu
ally either jump or fly.
It is a very savage insect,
and lies in wait for its
prey like a tiger. You
can see the curious form
of the long fore-legs,
which act as arms, and
are waved about in the
air; and it rests on the
two hinder pairs of legs.
Now, observe that the
front pair are supported^,
upon a very long first
segment of the thorax;
the two other segments
bearing the wings and
the two other pairs of
legs. Each of these
he centre of the move
ments of the limbs attached to it. The insect is always
�IT
lying in wait; and if any unlucky insect comes sufficiently
near, the arms dose round it and dig-in a pair of hooks,
with which the feet are furnished. By this act the unfor
tunate victim is soon put out of existence. Now if the
head Of this Mantis be cut off, the arms still go on moviim
-the
aild if anything is brought
Wife! their reach, they impress the hooks upon whatever
&SSSP’ Fhe 6FS Simply direct their action>the a^ion
itself being dependent on the ganglion from which the
nerves of these members proceed. Further, if we cut off that
«Vision and separate it from the hind part of the bodyithe
same thing will go on If anything is put within its grasp,
the arms close round it and impress the hooks with just
W game automatic action as we see in the Venus’s fly-trap.
Not only
but if you try to upset the body, it will
balance, and rise again upon the hind kgs.
Ibis shews you how completely automatic the move
ments are. The name of Mantis religiosa is derived from
the curious attitude in which this insect habitually livesT? -tS TT prayer’ We have not this insect
Britain; but the French call it the Prie Dieu
is equivalent to religiosa. •
’
C°nie thS 10A7r Vertebrate animals, of which
We my take the Frog as the best illustration. Its Spinal
’V
�18
Cord may be considered as the representative of the chain
of ganglia in the centipede ; the principal difference being
that its ganglionic matter forms a continuous tract, instead
of being broken up into distinct segments. But we find in the
head, instead of the one pair of ganglia connected with the
eyes, a series of ganglia connected with the several Organs
of sense, together with two masses of which we have no
distinct represent*
It
atives among the
lower animals —
namely, the cere
brum and the cere
bellum. The rela
tion of these to the
other
ganglion»
centres is shewn in
tig. 6, which represents the brain oi
the Turtle; A being
the olfactive lobe,,
or ganglion of smell,
from which proceed
the olfactory nerve»;
B the cerebrum; C
the optic lobe or
ganglion of sight,
from which proceed
the optic nerves;
D, the cerebellum;
and E, the spinal
cord. In mOTi
fishes the cerebrum
is actually smaller
Tig. 7.—Diagram of Brain, shewing the than the optic lobes;
relations of its principal parts: a, spinal but as we ascend in
cord; b, b, cerebellum divided so as to lay the series towards
open the fourth ventricle, 4, which sepa man, we find it borates it from the medulla oblongata ;
c, corpora quadrigemina ; d, optic thalami; coming relatively
f, corpora striata, forming the sensori-motor larger and larger;
tract; g, g, cerebral hemispheres ; h, corpus so that it covers-in
callosum; i, fornix; 1,1, lateral ventricles;
piJes the series
Hr
3, third ventricle; 5, fifth ventricle.
�19
«f ganglionic centres lying along the floor of the skull.
These sensori-motor ganglia, (fig. 7, c, d, f), though com
monly regarded as appendages to the cerebrum, really con
stitute the fundamental portion of the brain; they may be
regarded as an upward continuation of the spinal cord; and
I have been accustomed to designate this whole series of
centres (excluding the cerebrum and cerebellum) as the
axial cord In this all the nerves of sense terminate, and
irom it all the nerves of motion arise, the cerebrum having
only an indirect connection with either.
°
The proportional size of the Cerebrum in different animals
compared with that of their axial cord, corresponds so
closely with the manifestations of intelligence (that is, the
'^itentional adaptation of means to ends, under the Guid
ance o experience) as contrasted with blind unreasoning
instinct, that there can be no doubt of its being the instn”
Xnent of the reasoning faculty. The cerebrum attains its
maximum size and complexity in Man ; on the other hand,
111} froS it is relatively much smaller than in the turtle •
and it would seem that the actions of this animal are pro
wled for almost entirely by the reflex power of its auto
matic apparatus—namely, the spinal cord with the ganglia
Z-ITe’rJ.1Su?P°?e that we divide tlie spinal cord in the
»Welle of the back, between the fore legs and the hind le^s
•what nappens? We find that the animal can no longer move
tte hind legs by any power of its own, but that they can be
made to move by pinching the skin of the foot. If acid
SS put on one leg, the other will try to wipe it off: and a
Wimber of movements of that kind are called forth by
»famuli of various kinds. Yet we feel justified in saying
A® frog does not feel them. We know, as a matter of
penence that if a man receives a severe injury to his
—
Wy Often in
Md also, I
through his^tT5’ am0I1S tlle.slliPPing “ ‘he docks&h his stukmg some projecting object in falling
8o,T oomF,eteIy paralysed. He hal no feeling £
tat shock
power of moving them. But after the
S a„fe?„?fl, hera7dent has passed off- if y°u “»He
the lei »™fnhlS feet’ or aPPly a hot plate to them,
« +u-e£S a^e drawn UP- The man will tell you he feels
othmg whatever, and would not know what had taken
�20
■ place if he did not see the movement. A case of this bir d
occurred to the celebrated surgeon, John Hunter, who asked
a man, 11 Do you feel this in your legs'?”“ No, sir,” he
replied, (e but my legs do.” That was not scientifically
correct, because his legs could not be properly said to feel
that of which the Ego was unconscious ; but it expressed
the fact that the irritation called’forth a respondent motion.
■ • There is only one other mode of explaining this action';
namely, that by dividing the spinal cord.we have made a
second Ego—a new centre of sensation—in the lower part
of the cord. In that case we make as many Egos in the
centipede as we cut the body in pieces; and we might make
three separate Egos in the frog—the head, the upper part of
the trunk with the fore-legs, and the lower part with the
hind legs, each acting independently. This seems, to me
inconceivable; I entirely go with those who maintain that
these actions are provided for by a purely automatic
mechanism.
' .
. - A” still more remarkable fact is, that if we remove
• the higher nervous centres, leaving only the Spinal Cord,
and with it the Cerebellum (which appears to have the
■ power of combining or co-ordinating the movements), we
find that the general actions of locomotion are per
formed as in the uninjured animal. Thus the frog will
continue to sit up in its natural position ; and if we throw
it into the water it will strike out with its limbs and swim,
just as if the whole nervous system.was intact. * This is
■ the case also with the Dytiscus marginalis, a water-beetle,
which, when the ganglia of the head have been removed,
' will remain unon a hard substance without any movement;
' yet, if dropped into water, will begin to strike out, swim
ming in the usual way, but without any. avoidance o±
obstacles. So the frog, if a stimulus is applied, will jump
- just as if the brain had been left. If put on the hand it sits
. there perfectly quiet, and would remain so unless stimulated
to action; but if the hand be inclined very gently and slowly,
so that the frog would naturally slip oil', the creature s *pre"
feet are shifted on to the edge of the hand until he can just
prevent himself from falling. If. the turning of the hand be
■ slowly continued, he mounts up with great care and deli
beration, putting first one leg forward and then the other,
�.21;
nnial he balances himself with perfect precision upon the
edge; ancl if the turning of the hand is continued, over he
goes through the opposite set of operations, until he comes
to be seated in security upon the back of the hand. All
this is done after the brain proper has been removed,
shewing how completely automatic this action is. Another
remarkable fact is, that if you stroke one particular part of
the skin, the frog will croak.
*
.. .
Precisely parallel experiments were made by Flourens.
By removing the brain of a Pigeon he found that the anwal
retained its position, and would fly when thrown into the
air* If the optic ganglia were left, he found evidence that
animal either saw, or that its movements were guided by
impressions received through its eyes. The head of the
pigeon would move round and round if a light was moved
round in front of the eyes. So in the frog it was found that,
if the optic ganglia were left, it would avoid obstacles placed
in front of it, when excited to jump.
Thus we see how completely automatic these movements,
are, and how entirely they are dependent on the reflex
■action of the axial cord, the Cerebrum not being necessary
for their performance. The removal of that organ, how
ever, seems to deprive the animal of all spontaneity; it
remains at rest unless excited to move, and seems to do
nothing with a purpose.
Let us now go to Man, and examine the nature of his
movements. You have all seen a child learning to walk.
You know that it does not get upon its legs to walk all at
©nee, like a newly-dropped lamb ; but that its muscles have
to be trained, and this training is a very long process. The
child learning to walk, as Paley says, is the greatest
posture-master in the world. It requires a long course
■bf experience to acquire the power of moving its limbs in
® proper .manner to execute the successive steps; but far
more training is required in balancing. This balancing
of the body is one of the most curious things in our
mechanism. No automaton has ever been made to walk.
I once saw an automaton that professed to walk; but it had
only a gliding motion; and upon looking at the feet I found
some concealed springs beneath, so that neither foot was
ever really lifted.
�22
The act of walking requires a. continual shifting, of the
centre of gravity from side to side, so as to keep it over
the base during every step; and it is this shifting from side
to side, that constitutes the great difficulty, in. the act of
walking. Almost every muscle in the body is in action in
the maintenance of our balance and in the forward move
ment. The muscles of the eyes, even, are in operation in
keeping our gaze fixed upon what is before us, and thus
guiding our onward movement. But when this movement
has been once acquired, it goes on unconsciously. If you.are
walking with a friend and engaged in earnest conversation,
you may walk a mile and not be the least conscious all the
time of your having been successively advancing one leg
after another; and you do exactly the same thing, while
walking in a state of mental abstraction. So, again, you
are guided by your sight, when you have once set out,
along the line you are accustomed to take. I am in the
habit of walking down the Regent’s Park every lawful, day,
as you call it in Scotland, to my office at the University of
London. I frequently fall into some train of thought—as
latelv about this lecture; and I follow on that train of
thought, not only unconscious of the movements of my legs,
but unaware of the directing action of my vision. Yet I
know that my eyes have been directing me. When I have
come into the crowded streets, I have not. run against my
fellow passengers, or knocked myself against a lamp-post.
My legs have been moving the whole time, and have
brought me to my destination, sometimes to my surprise.
This must have been the experience of all of you who are
accustomed frequently to walk along a certain line. It has
even been the case that when you have set out with the
intention of departing from your accustomed line, for some
little business or other, and have , fallen into a tram ot
thought, through pre-formed association you keep m the
habitual line. After getting half way down a street you
suddenlv find that you have not gone out of your way, as
you intended to do. I regard such habitual action as
purely automatic; not primarily, but secondarily automatic,
the automatism not being original but acquired. . Ihis. is
the most universal of all forms of acquired automatic action
�23
in Man—not only the motion of the limbs, but the direction
of their movements by the sight.
The act of walking may become so automatic as to be
performed during sleep. Soldiers fatigued by a long march
continue to plod onward when sound asleep. If there are
Bo obstacles they go steadily onwards, just like the centi
pede when its head has been cut off. The Indian punkahpullers—men who are engaged the whole day pulling a
string backwards and forwards, to move the great fan
which produces a current of air in every room—often go
on as well when they are asleep as when they are awak®.
These are two instances of acquired automatism; and I
might add a great many more, because everything that
becomes habitual to a man is occasionally performed auto
matically in the state called absence of mind. Thus when
& gentleman goes up to his dressing-room to dress for a
party, the first thing he commonly does is to take out his
Wtch and lay it on the table. The next thing he often
does— I have done it myself—is to wind up his watch,
as if he was retiring for the night. I have known a
case in which the gentleman completed his undressing
and then went to bed-; so that when his wife came in
Search of him, he was comfortably resting from his day’s
Work. That was a case of pure automatism ; and I could
relate many more instances of the same kind, but you
must all have noticed such things in your own experience.
A particular manual operation can be done, if it is one not
requiring the constant direction of the mind, quite autoinatically. A man can plane a board, for instance, or work
his loom, while his mind is entirely occupied in another
direction. A musician will play a piece of music, and yet
maintain a continuous conversation at the same time.
There is a very amusing and suggestive book which I
recommend you to peruse, “ The Autobiography of Robert
Moudin, the Conjurer,” who describes the training by which
he prepared himself for the performance of various of his
feats of dexterity. Amongst other things, he tells us that
he devoted a great deal of time and attention in early life
to the acquirement of the faculty of being able to read a
book continuously, and at the same time to keep up balls
in the air. He brought himself to be able to keep up four
�24'
balls in the air, without detaching his mind from his book
for a moment. He could continue the tram of thought
that the book suggested, without giving his attention at
all to the keeping up of the balls; this action being only
a more elaborate form of the trained automatism that 1
have spoken of. The thought occurred to him, when
writing his autobiography, that he would try whether,
after thirtv years’ cessation from this performance, he
could still execute it. He stops, and then continues his
memoii-: “ I have tried this, and find I can keep up three
balls ” There, I believe, the nervo-muscular combination
that was required, had come by early training to be a part of
his physical constitution, and had been kept up by nutrition.
Whatever, in fact, we learn to do in the period of growth, .
we can continue to do without practice after the growth
has been completed; whilst acquirements that we make
subsequently are more easily lost when we are out o
practice.” I think all experience shews that; and I believe it
is for this physiological reason—that the bodily and mental
constitution'acquired during the period of growth becomes
“a second nature,” and is maintained throughout life,
whilst any modification it may undergo afterwards is some
thing superadded to that basis, and is the first to decline
when the habit of action ceases.
.
We now pass to the other part of our subject—the rela
tion between the higher part of our nature, the Ego, and
these automatic actions. What I shall endeavour to shew
you very briefly is this, that the whole of the neryomuscular apparatus concerned in executing the mandates
of the mind acts as a framed automaton. Anything which
' we mentally determine to do “we will, as we say. In
using the word “will” I do not mean a separate faculty,
I mean the Ego in a state of action. The Ego determines
to do a certain action, and commands the automaton to do it
*The will does not, as physiologists used to believe, thio
itself into a particular set of muscles; but says to the auto
maton, “do this,” and it does it. There are manF
which the Ego desires to do, but which he cannot make the
automaton do for want of training. For instance, manyof
you may strongly desire to be able to play a musical instru
ment. You may be able to read the music, and by watchmo
�25
a performer may see precisely how to do it, but you cannot
do it, simply for want of training. The same is the case with
a great many other actions which we can only acquire by
practice. Again, you may wish to do something physicallv
impossible. The Ego may earnestly desire and intend to
make some great effort—to take a great leap, for instance, to
save his life. He may will to hang on to a cord as long as
xaay be necessary to prevent his falling from a height.
The Ego wills this with all his energy; but his muscles will
not. obey him, because it is not in their nature to maintain
their tension for longer than a certain period.
Let me give you a little experiment that I think every
One will find instruction in performing on himself; it
occurred to me while lecturing on physiology as suited to
conduct my students exactly to the idea I wished to impress
upon them. There happened to be a bust opposite me,
and I said, “ Now, I will to look at that bust, and I will
at the same time to move my head from side to side.” I
told, them to watch my eyes, and they could all see them
rolling from side to side in their sockets,—as you can see
for yourselves by looking at your own eyes in a lookingglasSj and turning your head from side to side. You do not
feel that you are using the slightest exertion, and would not
be aware of the motion of your eyes unless you knew it
as a matter of fact, or some one else told you that you were
<at>ing so. You have said to your automaton, “Look at it”
(whatever it may be), and at the same time “ move your
head round.; ’ and the automaton rolls its eyes in the conteary direction, and thus keeps the image on the same part
•of the retina.
r
That is what I maintain to be the general doctrine of
the automatism of the body, directed and controlled by the
will;—the Ego willing the result, and leaving it to the
automaton to work it out; as when I set my automaton to
walk to a certain place, and direct my thoughts to some
thing altogether different.
kave now, in the last place, to consider how far the
Mind of man acts automatically. This is a subject con
fessedly of very great difficulty. There are those who consider that the mind of man is essentially and entirely
c ependent upon his bodily organisation, although they may
�26
still hold the separate existence of the mind. They find.it,.
indeed, very difficult to conceive that there can be anything
else than automatic action; because they see to what a
very large extent our mental activity is conditioned by the
physical constitution of the body.
The Physiologist can have no more doubt that there is a
mechanism of thought and feeling, of intellect and imagina
tion, of which the Cerebrum is the instrument, than that
there is a mechanism of instinct of which the Axial Cord is
the instrument. "When one idea suggests a second, in accor
dance with a preformed association, the second a third, and
so on, constituting what we call a “train of thought,” without
any order from ourselves, we seem fully justified by a large
body of evidence in affirming that this is the mental ex
pression of a succession of automatic changes, each causing
the next, in the ganglionic matter which forms the con
voluted surface-layer of the Cerebrum. These changes may
or may not result in bodily motion. What we call the
“ movements of expression,” are the involuntary signs of
the state of our feelings ; and so the movements executed
by sleep-walkers are the expressions of the ideas with
which their minds are possessed. So great talkers, like
Coleridge, sometimes run on automatically, when they have
got patient listeners; one subject suggesting another, with
no more exertion or direction of the will than we use in
walking along a course that has become habitual. All this
may be regarded, physiologically, as the “reflex action of
the cerebrum,” the physical mechanism of which is partly
shaped by its inherited constitution, and partly by the
training to which it has been subjected, whether by inten
tional education, or by the education of. circumstances—the
brain “ crowing to” the mode in which it is habiuually
worked, &just a's the mechanism of our bodily movement
shapes itself to the work we habitually call on it to peiform.
We constantly see that mental faculties are inherited, as
well as bodily powers ; that children brought up after the
parents’ death, shew most remarkably the mental tendencies
of one or both of them. They do a number.of things in
exactly the same manner that the parent did, have the
same moral and intellectual tendencies, and present an
extraordinarily striking resemblance in general character.
�27
This principle of the hereditary transmission of facultiesthrough the physical organisation is now generally admitted;,
and what is more, I think it is clear that many of these
Acuities and tendencies have been acquired and superin
duced, as it were, in the constitution of the parent, upon
what it originally possessed. There is one very remarkable
and too common example of this hereditary transmission,
namely, the tendency to alcoholic excess. I remember
a friend telling me he had known a man who for forty years
got up every morning with the strong apprehension of being
unable to resist that craving, which was an essential and
inherent part of his nature, inherited from the unhappy
indulgence of his father. That man fought a most heroic
fight every day of his life. Every now and then he fell,
but recovered himself; and, to my mind, fall as he did, his
recovery shewed him to possess a far higher moral nature
than that of the man who never yieids because he is never
tempted. I cite this merely as one example of acquired
tendency hereditarily transmitted; all of us are familiar
with cases more or less resembling it.
But the question is, whether the Ego is completely
under the necessary domination of his original or inherited
tendencies, modified by subsequent education ; or whether
he possesses within himself any power of directing ancl
controlling these tendencies ? It is urged by some that as
the physical structure of his Cerebrum at any one moment
is the resultant of its whole previous activity, so its reflex
action, determined by that physical structure, must be
really automatic; the only difference between a voluntary
oi’ rational, and an involuntary or instinctive action, lying
in the complexity of the antecedent conditions in the
former case, as distinguished from their simplicity in the
latter. And it is held, in like manner, by many who
look at the question from the mental side, and who do
not trouble themselves at all about the physiological aspect
of it, that a man cannot act in any other way than in
accordance with his character; and that his character at
any one moment is the general resultant of his whole
previous mental life. But even John Stuart Mill, the
most able and conspicuous advocate of this doctrine, felt
that in making every man entirely dependent upon his in
�28
herited constitution, and his subsequent “circumstances,” it
excluded all possibility of real seZ/-direction, all hope of selfimprovement ; and this, he tells us in his autobiography,
■weighed on his existence like an incubus. “ I felt,” he
says, “ as if I was scientifically proved to be the helpless
slave of antecedent circumstances, as if my character and
that of all others had been formed for us by agencies •
beyond our control, and was wholly out of our own power.”
'The way out of this darkness he found in what seems to
have struck him as a new discovery, although it was
fa.mil 13,r enough to many who had previously studied the
action of the mind,—“that we have real power over the
formation of our own character; that our will, by influenc
ing some of our circumstances, can modify our future
"habits or capacities of willing.”
Now, this I hold to be accordant with the experience of
every one who has thought and observed, without troubling
himself with philosophical theories. "VVe all perceive that
in the earlier period of our lives, our characters have been
formed for us, rather than by us. But we also recognise
the fact, that there comes a time when each Ego 'may
take in hand thé formation of his own character ; and that
it thenceforth depends mainly upon himself what course
its development shall take,-—the most valuable result of
early training being that which prepares him to be his
own master, keeping in subjection his lower appetites and
passions, and giving the most favourable direction to the
exercise of his higher faculties. And I shall now explain
to you what seems to me the process by which this is
■ effected.
Every one knows that he can determinately fix h%s
attention upon some one object of sense, to the. more or
less complete exclusion of all others. In looking at a
picture, for instance, he can examine each part of it sepa
rately; or, if he has a “musical ear,” he can single out any
one instrument in an orchestra, and follow it through its
whole performance. Now, just in the same manner we
can fix our attention upon one state of consciousness (a
thought or feeling) to the exclusion of others. Supposing
that you are endeavouring to fix your mind upon a certain
object of study, or are reading a book that requires much
�29
thought to follow it, or are trying to master a mathe
matical problem, or are desiring to work out a certain
question as to the conduct of your own lives, and you are
attracted by the coming-in of a book or a newspaper which
you would like to look at, or are distracted by noises or
the playing of a musical instrument, you feel that it is in
your power to fix and maintain your attention by a suffi
cient effort. That determinate effort is what we call an
act of the will; and I believe that the power of so fixing.
Our attention is the source of all that is highest and best
in our intellectual self-education, as, in another direction, it.
is the source of all our moral self-improvement.
The automatist will say that your doing so is merely
the result of the preponderance of one motive over the
other,—the desire to go on with your study being stronger
than the attractive or distracting influence. But if this
be the whole account of the matter, why should we have
to “ make an effort,”—to struggle against that influence ?We choose, as it seems to me, which is the thing that we
deem preferable; and we then throw the force of the Ego
into the doing of it, just like a man who makes a powerful
muscular exertion to free himself from some restraint.
And I hold that just as the Ego can turn to his own
account the automatic action of his nervo-muscular appa
ratus, regulating and directing his bodily movements, .so
ha can turn to his own account the automatic activity of
his cerebrum, regulating and directing the succession of
his thoughts, the play of his emotions. That succession
is in itself automatic; you cannot produce anything, other
wise than by utilising what may spontaneously present,
itself; and you do so by the selective attention of which I
have spoken, intensifying your mental gaze so as to make ,
the object before you call up some other, until you get
what you are seeking for. This you may readily trace
out for yourselves if you will observe your own mental
experiences, in trying to recollect something. And what
shews the essentially automatic action of the cerebral
mechanism in this familiar operation, is that after you
have been for some time trying in vain to recall some
forgotten name or some recent occurrence which has
“ escaped your memory,” it will often flash into your mind
�30
some little time afterwards, when yon have turned your
attention to something else. In the same manner many
important inventions and discoveries have proceeded from
the automatic working of the Cerebrum, set going in the
first place by the determinate fixation of the attention on
the object to be attained; the success of the result being
due to the whole previous “ training” of the organ.
The act of fixing the attention, in my belief, lies at the
foundation of all education, and is one to be fostered and
encouraged in every child. It is better to begin with only
a few minutes at a time; gradually, by encouragement, the
child comes to feel that it has a power of its own to pro
long its attention; and at last the encouragement is no
longer needed, for the child that has been judiciously
trained will exert all its determination to learn its lesson,
in spite of temptations to go out and play or to amuse itself
in any other mode. But if this determination were simply
the expression of a preponderance of motive, I do not see
why an effort should have to be made. If the motive to fix
the attention be stronger than the attraction of any other
object, or the prospective influence of the good to be
gained be more powerful than the distracting influence, the
mere preponderance of the one over the other would produce
the result. But we know and feel that the making such a
determinate effort, involves more expenditure, “ takes more
out of you,” than the continuous sustained attention when
there is no distracting influence; therefore, I say there
is something here beyond the automatic preponderance of
motive—the mark and measure of the independent exertion
of the will.
Now this power, call it what we may, is capable of being
strengthened by exercise—no power more so; neglected
children being generally most deficient in it, and most
carried away by their own impulses. No doubt a greater
power of concentration is natural to some, and a greater
mobility to others. But still I believe there is no healthy
mind in which this power is not capable of being developed
by training, just like the power of the limbs in walking. Its
possession is the foundation of all intellectual discipline;
without it we can do nothing good in intellectual study.
Look, now, at the moral side, and see how it operates
�there. We begin by saying, “ I ought not” to do so and
SOj*—assuming a moral standard. Take the case, which is
unfortunately so common a one, of a man who has a strong
temptation to alcoholic indulgence. He .knows perfectly
well that an habitual yielding to that temptation will be
his ruin. I have heard of a man who said that if a glass
of spirits was put before him, and he knew that the pit of
hell was yawning between, he must take it. This is an
instance of the overpowering attraction it has for some
individuals ; but this generally results from habit; and it
is over the formation of habits that the will can exert its
greatest power, by fixing the attention on one set of motives
to the exclusion of other motives. I do not say that a man
can bring motives before his mind. He cannot do that—
we can only take what comes into our minds; but he can
direct his thoughts in a certain line, as it were, so as to
find them. He can think of his family or the future, and
80 exclusively fix his attention on the consequences, as to
withdraw it from the immediate attraction. That I take
to be the best mode. A struggle goes on in the mind of
many a man subject to temptation; but if he has strength
of principle enough to resist the immediate tendency to
wrong action, and so gets time to deliberate, he may thus
Herve himself for the conflict. Many good resolutions are
formed—we know what place is said to be paved with them
and we hope to realise them. We determine in ourselves
that we will avoid particular indulgences. We may have
Some strong disposition to apply our powers to ill uses, to
play some mean trick, or something of that kind. Most of
us have temptations of self-interest—not less strong be
cause not pecuniary,-—as to gain credit that does not belong
to us, and so on. We hold back—•“ puli ourselves together ”
is the phrase of the present time—and summon all our
resolution and determination not to yield. There is some
thing more, here, than mere preponderance of motive; for
we determinately direct our attention to the reasons why
we should or should not do the particular act. I believe
that in such cases the mind is best withdrawn from the
temptation, fixing the attention upon something else. That
is the real secret of victory. By fixing our mind upon the
object, and saying “I won’t do it.” the temptation still
�32
keeps haunting us. I have known many a struggle of this
kind relieved by the determination to follow an entirely
different course. We know that in cases of insanity, where
a man is led by, physical disorder to take a miserable view
of everything relating to himself, the medical man sends
him abroad, where he is attracted by a new set of objects
—something which prevents his mind from brooding over
his gloomy thoughts; and in that way, as his physical health
improves, the man comes to feel that he can voluntarily
transfer his attention from them to objects of interest
round him. This, I believe, is the manner in which we
should distract our minds from anything we feel and know
to be unworthy of our attention;—we should find out
something more worthy, and pursue it with determination.
I ask you to take as your guiding star, as it were, in the
conduct of your lives, these four words—“I am,” “ I ought,”
“I can,” “I will.”—“I am” is the expression of reflection
and self-consciousness, the looking-in upon our own trains
of thought. If we do not feel “ I am" we do not think of
ourselves and our own nature—we surrender ourselves. “ I
ought"—expresses the sense of moral obligation. By steadily
fixing our attention on the “I ought,” the course of action
is first directed right, and its continuance m that path
becomes habitual. “ Turn to the right and keep straight
on,” and you will find the doing so easy in proportion.
Every right act, every struggle of the will against wrong, is
the exercise of a power which strengthens with use, and
will make the next act easier to you. On the other hand,
every time you surrender your will to the temptations of
self-interest, or sensual gratification, or anything that turns
you from the straight path, there is a loss of power which
makes the next effort more difficult. Then, “I can"—the
consciousness of power, is the foundation of all effort.
And, lastly, it is not enough to say, “ I ought to do it, and
I can do it,” but we must will to do it. The “ I am,” “ I
ought,” “I can,” “I will,” of the Ego, can train the
mental as well as the bodily Automaton, and make it do
anything it is capable of executing.
�
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The doctrine of human automatism : a lecture (with additions) delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 7th March, 1875
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Place of publication: London
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national secular society
BODY AND MIND.
&
DELIVERED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
ON
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 1st NOVEMBER, 1874.
BY
Professor W. K. CLIFFORD, F.R.S.
Reprintedfrom the ‘Fortnightly Review,' by kind permission of the Editor.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1875.
Price Threepence.
�♦
SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and
to encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science,
—physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature,
and Art; especially in their bearing upon the improvement
and social well-being of mankind.
THE SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o’clock precisely.
(Annually—from November to May).
Twenty-Four Lectures (in three series), ending 2nd May,
1875, will be given.
Members’ £1 subscription entitles them to an annual ticket
(transferable and admitting to the reserved seats), and to eight
single reserved-seat tickets available for any lecture.
Tickets for each series (one for each lecture) as below,—
To the Shilling Reserved Seats—5s. 6d.
To the Sixpenny Seats—2s., being at the rate of Threepence
each lecture.
For tickets apply (by letter) to the Hon. Treasurer, Wm. Henry
Domville, Esq., 15 Gloucester Crescent, Hyde Park, W.
Payment at the door :—One
(Reserved Seats) One Shilling.
Penny ;—Sixpence ;—and
�BODY AND MIND.
HE subject of this Lecture is one in regard to which
a great change has recently taken place in the public
mind. Some time ago it was the custom to look with sus
picion upon all questions of a metaphysical nature as being
questions that could not be discussed with any good result,
and which, leading inquirers round and round in the same
circle, never came to an end. But quite of late years there
is an indication that a large number of people are waking
up to the fact that Science has something to say upon these
subjects ; and the English people have always been very
ready to hear what Science can say—understanding by
Science what we shall now understand by it, that is,
organised common sense.
When I say Science, I do not mean what some people
are pleased to call Philosophy. The word “philosopher,”
which meant originally “ lover of wisdom,” has come in
some strange way to mean a man who thinks it his business
to explain everything in a certain number of large books.
It will be found, I think, that in proportion to his colossal
ignorance is the perfection and symmetry of the system
which he sets up; because it is so much easier to put an
empty room tidy than a full one. A man of science, on
the other hand, explains as much as ever he can, and then
he says, “ This is all I can do ; for the rest, you must ask
the next man.” And with regard to such explanations as
he has given, whether the next man comes at all, whether
there is any next man or any further explanation or no (and
we may have to wait hundreds or even thousands of years
before another step is made), yet if the original step was
a scientific step, was made by true scientific methods, and
was an organization of the normal experience of healthy
men, that step will remain good for ever, no matter how
much is left unexplained by it.
Now the supposition that this subject in itself is neces
sarily one which cannot be discussed to good purpose, that
is to say, in such a way as to lead to definite results, is a
T
�4
Body and Mind.
mistake. The fact that the subject has been discussed
for many hundreds of years to no good purpose, and with
out leading to definite results, by great numbers of people,
is due to the method which was employed, and not to the
subject itself; and, in fact, if we like to look in the same
way upon other subjects as we have been accustomed to
look upon metaphysics—if we regard every man who has
written about mathematics or mechanics as having just
the same right to speak and to be heard that we give to
every man who has written about metaphysics—then I
think we shall find that exactly the same thing can be said
about the most certain regions of human science.
Those who like to read the last number of the Edinburgh
Revieiv, for example, will find, from an article on “ Comets,”
that it is at present quite an open question whether bodies
which are shot out from the sun by eruptive force may not
come to circle about the sun in orbits which are like those
of the planets. Now that is not an open question ; the
supposition is an utterly absurd one, and has been utterly
absurd from the time of Kepler. Again, those who are
curious enough to read a number of pamphlets that are to
be found here and there, may think it is an open question
whether the ratio of the circumference of a circle to its dia
meter may not be expressed by certain finite numbers. It
is not an open question to Science; it is only open to those
people who do not know any Trigonometry, and who will
not learn it. In exactly the same way there are numbers
of questions relating to the connection of the mind with
the body which have ceased to be open questions, because
Science has had her word to say about them; and they are
only open now to people who do not know what that word
of Science is, and who will not try to learn it.
The whole field of human knowledge may be divided
roughly, for the sake of convenience, into three great
regions. There are first of all what we call par
excellence the Physical Sciences—those which deal with
inanimate matter. Next, there are those sciences which
deal with organic bodies—the bodies of living things,
whether plants or animals, and the rules according to
which those things move. And lastly, there are those
sciences which make a further supposition—which suppose
that besides this physical world, including both organic
�Body and Mind.
5
and inorganic bodies, there are also certain other facts,
namely, that other men besides me, and most likely other
animals besides men, are conscious. The sciences which
make that supposition are the sciences of Ethics and
Politics, which are still in the practical stage, and especially
the more advanced science which is now to be considered
■—Psychology, the Science of Mind itself; that is to say,
the science of the laws which regulate the succession of
feelings in any one consciousness.. Each of these three
great divisions began in the form of a number of per
fectly disconnected subjects, between which nobody knew
of any relation; but in the history of science each of them
has been woven together, in consequence of connections
being found between the different subjects included in it,
into a complete whole ; and the further progress of the
history of science requires that each of these great threads,
into which all the little threads have been twined, should
themselves be twined together into a single string.
Now with regard to the first, two groups, the group of
mechanical sciences as we may call them, or the physics
of inorganic bodies, and the group of biological sciences, or
the physics of organic bodies—the gulf between these two
has in these last days been firmly bridged over. A
description of that bridge, and an account of the doctrines
which form it, will be found in Professor Huxley’s admirable
lecture delivered at Belfast before the British Association,
which is printed in the November number of the Fortnightly
Review. That bridge, as we have it now, is, in the con
ception of it, mainly due to Descartes ; but parts of it have
been worked out since his time by a vast number of physio
logists, with the expenditure of an enormous amount of
labour and thought. Such facts as that discovered by
Harvey, that the movement of the blood was a mere question
of Hydrodynamics, and was to be explained upon the same
principles as the motion of water in pipes—facts like these
have been piled up, one upon another, and have gradually
led to the conclusion that the science of organic bodies is
only a complication of the science of inorganic bodies.
It would not be advisable here to describe in detail the
stones which compose this bridge ; but we have to ask
whether it is possible to construct some similar bridge
between the now united Science of Physics, which deals
�6
Body and Mind.
with all phenomena, whether organic or inorganic, in fact
with all the material world, and the other science, the
Science of Consciousness, which deals with the Laws of
Mind and with the subject of Ethics. This is the question
which we have now to discuss.
In order to make this bridge a firm one, so that it will
not break down like those which philosophers have made,
it is necessary to observe with great care what is the exact
difference between the two classes of facts. If we confuse
the two things together to begin with, if we do not recog
nise the great difference between them, we shall not be
likely to find any explanation which will reduce them to
some common term. The first thing, therefore, that we
have to do is to realise as clearly as possible how profound
the gulf is between the facts which we call Physical facts
and the facts which we call Mental facts. The difference
is one which has been observed from primeval times, when
man or his prehuman ancestor found it not good to be
alone ; for the very earliest precept that we find set forth
in all societies to regulate the lives of those who belong
to them, is, “Put yourself in his place;” that is to say,
ascribe to other men a consciousness which is like your
own. And this belief which the lowest savage got, that
there was something else than the physical organization in
other men, is the foundation of Natural Ethics as well as of
the modern Science of Consciousness. But in very early
times an hypothesis was formed which was supposed to
make this belief easier. If you eat too much you will
dream when you are asleep ; if you eat too little you will
dream when you are awake, or have visions; and those
dreams of savages whose food was very precarious led them
to a biological hypothesis. They saw in those dreams
their fellows, other men, when it appeared from evidence
furnished to them afterwards that those other men were
not there when they were dreaming. Consequently, they
supposed that the actions of the organic body were caused
by some other body which was not physical in the ordinary
sense, which was not made of ordinary matter, and this
other body was called the Soul. Animism, as Mr. Tylor
calls this belief, was at first, then, an hypothesis in the
domain of biology. It was a physical hypothesis to account
for the peculiar way in which living things went about.
�Body and Mind.
7
But then when people had got this belief in another body
which was not a physical body, after a long series of years
they reasoned in this way. It is very difficult indeed to
suppose that the ordinary matter which makes a man’s
body can be conscious. This Me is quite different from
the flesh and blood which make up a man; but then as to
this other body, or soul, we do not know anything about it,
so that it may as well be conscious as not. That hypo
thesis put upon the soul, whose basis was in the phenomena
of dreams, the explanation of the consciousness which we
cannot help believing to exist in other men. I have men
tioned this early hypothesis on the subject, because out of
it grew the almost universal custom of holding at this
time of the year the Festival of the Dead which we preserve
in our All Souls’ Day.
But now let us see what it is that Science can tell us,
and what we can believe in place of that early hypothesis
of our savage ancestors. In the first place, let us consider
a little more narrowly what we mean by the body, and
more especially what we mean by the nervous system ; for
it is the great discovery of Descartes that the nervous
system is that part of the body which is related directly
to the mind. This can hardly be better expressed than it
is by the first of that series of propositions which Pro
fessor Huxley has stated in his lecture.
I. “ The brain is the organ of sensation, thought, and
■emotion; that is to say, some change in the condition of
the matter of this organ is the invariable antecedent of
the state of consciousness to which each of these terms
is applied.” We may complete this statement by saying
not only that some change in the matter of this organ
is the invariable antecedent, but that some other change is
the invariable concomitant of sensation, thought, and
■emotion; and that is rather an important remark, as you
will see presently.
Let us now look at the general structure of the brain
and see what it is like. We can easily make a rough
picture of it, which will serve our present purpose (see
p. 12). A parachute is a round piece of paper, like the
top of a parasol, with strings going from its circumference
to a cork. Let us imagine a parachute with two corks, a
red and a blue one; each of these corks being attached by
�8
Body and Mind,
strings, not only to the circumference of our piece of
paper, but to innumerable points in the inside of it.
Moreover, let innumerable other strings go across from
point to point of the paper, like a spider’s web spun in the
inside of a parasol. And the corks themselves must be
tied to each other and to a third cork, say the white one,
while from all three streamers fly away in all directions.
This is our diagram. Now the sheet of paper repre
sents the cerebral hemispheres, a great sheet of grey
nervous matter which forms the outside of your brain, and
lies just under your skull. Our red and blue corks are two
other masses of grey matter lying at the base of the brain,
and called the optic thalami and the corpora striata
respectively. The white cork is another mass of grey
matter called the medulla oblongata, which is the top of
the spinal cord. Our strings which tie part of the para
chute together, and our streamers which go out in all
directions from the corks represent the nerves, white
threads that run all over the body. And they are of two
kinds; there are some which go to the brain from any
part of the body, and others which come from the brain
to it. As regards the position of the nerves this is the
same thing for both of them, but it is not the same thing
with regard to what they do. The nerves which are called
Sensory nerves, and which go to the brain, are those
which are excited whenever any part of the body is
touched. When your finger is touched a certain excite
ment is given to the nerves which end in your finger, and
that excitement is carried along your arm and away up to
the medulla, represented by our white cork. But when
you are going to move your arm the excitement starts from
the brain, and goes along the other set of nerves which
are called Motor nerves, or moving nerves, and goes to the
muscles which work the part of the arm which you want
to move. And that excitement of the nerves by purely
mechanical means makes those muscles contract so as to
move the part which you want to move. We have then a con
nection between the brain and any part of the body which
is of a double kind: there is the means of sending a
message to the brain from this part of the body, and the
means of taking a message from the brain to this part.
The nerves which carry the message to the brain are called
�Body and Mind.
9
the “Sensory nerves” because they accompany what we
call sensation; the nerves which carry the message from
the brain are called “Motor nerves” because they are the
agents in the motion of that part of the body.
All this is expressed in Professor Huxley’s second and
third propositions.
II. “ The movements of animals are due to the change of
form of the muscles, which shorten and, become thicker; and
this change of form in a muscle arises from a motion of the
substance contained within the nerves which go to the
muscle.”
III. “ The sensations of animals are due to a motion of
the substance of the nerves which connect the sensory organs
with the brain.”
I pass on to his fourth proposition:—
IV. “ The motion of the matter of a sensory nerve mag
be transmitted through the brain to motor nerves, and thereby
give rise to a contraction of the muscles to which these motor
nerves are distributed; and this reflection of motion from a
sensory into a motor nerve may take place without volition^
or even contrary to it.”
Let us take that organ of sense which always occurs to
us as a type, of the others, because it is the most perfect—
the eye. The optic nerve which runs from the eye towards
the brain may be represented by one of our streamers going tothe red cork, to which it is fastened by a knot that is called
the “ Optic ganglion.” Supposing that you move your hand
rapidly towards anybody’s eye, a message with news of this
movement goes along the nerve to the optic ganglion, and
it comes away back again by another streamer, not direct
from the ganglion, but from a point on the blue cork very
near it, to the muscles which move the eyelid, and that
makes the eye wink. You know that the winking of the
eye, when anybody moves his hand very rapidly towards it, is
not a thing which you determine to do, and which you con
sider about; it is a thing which happens without your in
terference with it; and in fact it is not you who wink your
eye, but your body that does it. This is called Automatic
■ or involuntary motion, or again it is called Reflex action,
because it is a purely mechanical thing. A wave runs
along that nerve, and comes back on another nerve, and
that without any deliberation; and at the point where it
�IO
Body and Mind.
stops and comes back it is just a reflection like the wave
which you send along a string and which comes back from
the end of the string, or like a wave of water which is sent
up against a sea-wall, and which reflects itself back along
the sea.
V. The. motion of any given portion of the matter of
the brain excited by the motion of a sensory nerve, leaves
behind it a readiness to be moved in the same way in that
part, and anything which resuscitates the motion gives rise
to the appropriate feeling. This is the physical mechanism
of memory.” We can, perhaps, make this a little more
clear in the following manner :—Suppose two messages are
sent at once to the brain ; each of them is reflected back,
but the two disturbances which they set up in the brain
create, in some way or other, a link between them, so that
when one of these disturbances is set up afterwards the
other one is also set up. It is as if every time two bells of
a house were rung together, that of itself made a string to
tie them together, so that when you rang one bell it was
necessary to ring the other bell in consequence. That, re
member, is purely a physical circumstance which we know
happens. There is a physical excitation or disturbance
which is sent along two different nerves, and which pro
duces two different disturbances in the brain, and the effect
of these two disturbances taking place together is to make
a change in the character of the brain itself, so that when
the one of them takes place it produces the other.
Now there are two different ways in which a stimulus
coming to the eye can be made to move the hand. In the
first place, suppose you are copying out a book; you have
the book before you, and you read the book whilst you are
copying with your hand, and consequently the light coming
, into your eye from the book directs your hand to move in
a certain way. It is possible for this light impinging upon
the eye to send a message along the optic nerve into the
ganglion, and that message may go almost, though not
quite, direct to the hand, so as to make the hand move, and
that causes the hand to describe the letter which you have
seen in the book; or else the message may go by a longer
route which takes more time. A simple experiment to dis
tinguish between these processes was tried by Donders, the
great Dutch physiologist. He made a sign to a man at a
�Body and Mind.
11
distance, and when he made this sign the man was to put
down a key with his hand. He measured the time which
was taken in this process, that is to say, the time which
was taken by the message in going from the eye to the gan
glion, and then to the hand. Measurements of the rate of
nerve-motions have also been made by Helmholtz. The
velocity varies to a certain extent in different people, but it
is something like one hundred feet a second. But Donders
also made another measurement. Suppose it is not decided
beforehand whether the man is to move the key with his
right or his left hand, and this is to be determined by the
nature of the signal, then before he can move his hand he
has to decide which hand he will use. The time taken for
that process of decision was also measured. That process of
decision, when looked at from the physical side, means
this. The message goes up from the eye to the ganglion.
It is immediately connected there with the mass of grey
matter represented by our red cork. From that mass of
grey matter there go white threads away to the whole of
the surface of the cerebral hemispheres, or the paper of our
parachute, and they take that message, therefore, which
comes from the eye to the ganglion away to all this grey
matter which is put round the inside of your skull. There
are also white threads which connect all the parts of this
grey matter together, and they run across from every part
of it to almost every other part of it. As soon as a message
has been taken to this grey matter, there is a vast inter
change of messages going on between those parts; but
finally, as the result of that, a number of messages come
upon other white threads to another piece of grey matter,
which is represented by our blue cork ; from that the
message is then taken to the muscles of the hand. There
are then two different ways in which a message may go from
the eye to the hand. It may go to the optic ganglion, and
then almost straight to the hand, and in that case you do
not know much about it—you only know that something
has taken place, you do not think that you have done it
yourself; or it may go to the optic ganglion, and be sent
up to the cerebral hemispheres, and then be sent back to
the sensory tract and then on to the hand. But that takes
more time, and it implies that you have deliberated upon
the act.
�12
Body and Mind.
and H is the hand.
The curve C C represents the
cerebral hemispheres, or the top of our parachute. If the
action is so habitually associated with the signal that it
takes place involuntarily, without any effort of the will,
the message goes from the eye to the hand along the line
E B B H. This may happen with a practised performer
when it is settled beforehand which hand he is to use.
But if it is necessary to deliberate about the action, to call
in the exercise of the will, the message goes round the
loop-line, E B C 0 B H ; from the eye to the optic thalami,
from them to the cerebrum, thence to the corpora striata,
and so through the medulla to the hand.
Besides this fact which we have j ust explained, the fact
of a message going from one part of the body to the brain
and coming out in the motion of some other part of the
body, there is another thing which is going on continually,
and that is this. There is a faint reproduction of some
excitement which has previously existed in the cerebral
hemispheres, and which calls up, by the process which we
have just now described, all those that have become
associated with it; and it is continually sending down
faint messages which do not actually tell the muscles to
move, but which begin to tell them to move as it were.
They are not always strong enough to produce actual
motions, but they produce just the beginnings of those
motions: and that process goes on even when there is
apparently no sensation and no motion. If a man is in a
�Body and Mind.
i3
brpwn study, with his eyes shut, although he apparently
sees and feels nothing at all, there is a certain action going
on inside his brain which is not sensation, but is like it,
because it is the transmission to the cerebral hemispheres
of faint messages which are copies of previous sensations ;
and it does not produce motion, but it produces something
like it; it produces incipient motion, the beginnings of
motion which do not actually take effect. Sometimes a
train of thought may so increase in strength as to produce
motion. A man may get so excited by a train of thought
that he jumps up and does something in consequence.
And the sensory impressions which are taken from the
ganglia to the hemispheres may be so strong as to produce
an illusion ; he may think that he sees something, he may
think that he sees a ghost, when he does not. This con
tinuous action of the brain depends upon the presence of
blood ; so long as a proper amount of blood is sent to the
brain it is active, and when the blood is taken away it
becomes inactive. And it is a curious property of the
nervous system that it can direct the supply of blood
which is to be sent to a particular part of it. It is possible,
by directing your attention to a particular part of your
hand, to make a determination of blood to that part which
shall in time become a sore place. Some people have
given this explanation, which seems a very probable one,
of what has happened to those saints who have meditated
so long upon the crucifixion, that they have got what are
called stigmata, that is, marks of wounds corresponding to
the wounds in what they were thinking about.
That, then, is the general character of the nervous
system which we have to consider in connection with the
mind. There is a train of facts between stimulus and
motion which may be of two kinds ; it may be direct or it
may be indirect, it may go round the loop-line or not; and
also there is a continuous action of the brain even when
these steps are not taking place in completeness. More
over, when two actions take place simultaneously they form
a sort of link between them, so that if one of them is
afterwards repeated the other gets repeated with it. That
is what we have to remember chiefly as to the character of
the brain.
Now let us consider the other class of facts and the con
�14
Body and Mind.
nections between them—the facts of consciousness. An
eminent divine once said to me that he thought there were
only'two kinds of consciousness—to have a feeling and to
know that you have a feeling. Now it seems to me that
there is only one kind of consciousness, and that is to have
fifty thousand feelings at once, and to know them all in
different degrees. Whenever I try to analyse any particular
state of consciousness in which I am, I find that it is an ex
tremely complex one. I cannot help at this moment having
a consciousness of all the different parts of this hall, and
of a great sea of faces before me; and I cannot help having
the consciousness, at the same time, of all the suggestions
that that picture makes, that each face represents a person
sitting there and listening or not, as the case may be. And
I cannot help combining with them at the same moment a
number of actions which they suggest to me, and in par
ticular the action of going on speaking. There are a great
number of elements of complexity which I cannot describe,
because I am so faintly conscious of them that I cannot
remember them. Any state of our consciousness, then, as
we are at present constituted, is an exceedingly complex
thing ; but it certainly possesses this property, that if two
feelings have occurred together, and one of them afterwards
occurs again, it is very likely that the other will be called
up by it. That is to say, two states of consciousness which
have taken place at the same moment produce a link
between them, so that a repetition of the one cafis up a
repetition of the other.
Again I find a certain train of facts between my sensa
tions and my exertions. When I see a thing, I may go
through a long process of deliberation as to what I shall do
with it, and then afterwards I may do that which I have
deliberated and decided upon. But, on the other hand, I
may, by seeing a thing, be quite suddenly forced into doing
something without any chance of deliberation at all. If I
suddenly see a cab coming upon me from the corner of a
street where I did not at all expect it, I jump out of the
way without thinking that it is a very desirable thing to
get out of the way of the cab. But if I see a cab a little
while before, and have more time to think about it, then it
occurs to me that it will be unpleasant and undesirable to
be run over by that cab, and that I can avoid it by walking
�Body and Mind.
!5
out of the way. You here see that there are in the case of
the mind two distinct trains of facts between sensation and
exertion. There is an involuntary train of facts when the
exertion follows the sensation without asking my leave,
and there is a voluntary train in which it does ask my
leave.
Then, again, there is this fact : that even when there is
no actual sensation and no actual exertion, there may still
be a long train of facts and sensations which hang
together; there may be faint reproductions of sensation
which are not so vivid as are the sensations themselves,
but which form a series of pictures of sensations which
pass continually before my mind; and there will be faint
beginnings of action. Now the sense in which there are
faint beginnings of action is very instructive. Any beginning
of an action is what we call a judgment. When you see a
thing, you in the first instance form no judgment about it
at all—you are not prepared to assert any proposition—
you merely have the feeling of a certain sight or sound
presented to you ; but after a very short space of time, so
short that you cannot perceive it, you begin to frame pro
positions. If you consider what a proposition means, you
will see that it must correspond to the beginning of some
sort of exertion. When you say that A is B, you mean
that you are going to act as if A were B. If I see water
with a particularly dull surface, and with stones resting
upon the surface of it, then, first of all, I have merely an
impression of a certain sheet of colour, and of ‘ certain
objects which interrupt the colour of that sheet. But the
second thing that I do is to come to the conclusion that the
water is frozen, and that therefore I may walk upon it.
The assertion that the water is frozen implies a bundle of
resolves ; which means, given certain other conditions, I
shall go and walk upon it. So, then, an act of judgment
or an assertion of any kind implies a certain incipient
action of the muscles, not actually carried out at that time
and place, but preparing a certain condition of the mind
such as afterwards, when the occasion comes, will guide the
action that we shall take up.
Now, then, what is it that we mean by the character of
a person ? You judge of a person’s character by what be
thinks and does under certain circumstances. Let us see
�16
Body and Mind.
what determines this. We can only be speaking here of
voluntary actions—those actions in which the person is con
sulted, and which are not done by his body without his
leave. In those voluntary actions what takes place is,
that a certain sensation is communicated to the mind, that
sensation is manipulated by the mind, and conclusions are
drawn from it, and then a message is sent out which causes
certain motions to take place. Now the character of the
person is evidently determined by the nature of this
manipulation. If the sensation suggests a wrong thing,
the character of the person will be bad; if the sensation
suggests in the great majority of cases a right thing, you
will say that the character of the person is good. So,
then, it is the character of the mind which determines
what it will do with a given sensation, and what act will
follow from it, which determines what we call the per
sonality of any person ; and that character is persistent in
the main, although it is continually changing a little.
The vast mass of it is a thing which lasts through the
whole of every individual’s life, although everything which
happens to him makes some small change in it, and that
constitutes the education of the man.
Now, then, the question arises, is there anything else in
your consciousness of a different nature from what we have
here described ? That is a question which every man has
to decide by examining his own consciousness. I do not
find anything else in mine. If you find anything else in
yours, it is extremely important that you should analyse it
and find out all that you possibly can about it, and state it
in the clearest form to other people ; because it is one of the
most important problems of philosophy to account for the
whole of consciousness out of individual feelings. It seems
to me that the account of which I have only given a very
rough sketch, which was begun by Locke and Hume, and
has been carried out by their successors, chiefly in this
country, is in its great general features complete, and
leaves nothing but more detailed explanations to be de
sired. It seems to me that I find nothing in myself which
is not accounted for when I describe myself as a stream of
feelings such that each of them is capable of a faint repeti
tion, and that when two of them have occurred together the
repetition of the one calls up the other, and that there are
�Body and Mind.
17
rules according to which the resuscitated feeling calls up
its fellows. These are, in the main, fixed rules which de
termine and are determined by my character ; but my cha
racter is gradually changing in consequence of the education
of life. It seems to me that this is a complete account of
all the kinds of facts which I can find in myself ■ and, as I
said before, if anybody finds any other kinds of facts in
himself, it is an exceedingly important thing that he should
describe them as clearly as he possibly can.
We have described two classes of facts ; let us now notice
the parallelism between them. First, we have these two
parallel facts, that two actions of the brain which occur to
gether form a link between themselves, so that the one
being called up the other is called up; and two states of
consciousness which occur together form a link between
them, so that when one is called up the other is called up.
But also we find a train of facts between the physical fact
of the stimulus of light going into the eye and the physical
fact of the motion of the muscles. Corresponding to a part of
that train, we have found a train of fact between sensation,
the mental fact which corresponds to a message arriving
from the eye, and exertion, the mental fact which corre
sponds to the motion of the hand by a message going out
along the nerves. And we have found a correspondence
between the continuous action of the brain and the con
tinuous existence of consciousness apparently independent
of sensation and exertion.
But let us look at this correspondence a little more
closely; we shall find that there are one or two things
which can be established with practical certainty. In the
first place, it is not the whole of the physical train of
facts which corresponds to the mental train of facts. The
beginning of the physical train consists of light going into
the eye and exciting the retina, and then of that wave of
excitation being carried along the optic nerve to the gan
glion. For all we know, and it is a very probable thing,
the mental fact begins here, at the ganglion. There is no
sensation till the message has got to the optic ganglion for
this reason, that if you press the optic nerve behind the eye
you can produce the sensation of light. It is like tapping
a telegraph, and sending a message which has not come
from the station from which it ought to have come;
B
�18
Body and Mind.
nobody at the other end can tell whether it has come from
that station or not. The optic ganglion cannot tell whether
this message which comes along the nerve has come from
the eye or is the result of a tapping of the telegraph,
whether it is produced by light or by pressure upon the
nerve. It is a fact of immense importance that all these
nerves are exactly of the same kind. The only thing
which the nerve does is to transmit a message which has
been given to it; it does not transmit a message in any
other way than the telegraph wire transmits a message—
that is to say, it is excited at certain intervals, and the
succession of these intervals determines what this message
is, not the nature of the excitation which passes along the
wire. So that if we watched the nerve excited by pressure
the message going along to the ganglion would be exactly
the same as if it were the actual sight of the eye. We may
draw from this the conclusion that the mental fact does not
begin anywhere before the optic ganglion. Again, a man
who has had one of his legs cut off can try to move his toes,
which he feels as if they were still there ; and that shows
that the consciousness of the motor impulse which is sent
out along the nerve does not go to the end to see whether
it is obeyed or not. The only way in which we know
whether 'our orders, given to any parts of our body, are
obeyed, is by having a message sent back to say that they
are obeyed. If I tell my hand to press against this black
board, the only way in which I know that it does press is
by having a message sent back by my skin to say that it is
pressed. But supposing there is no skin there, I can have
the exertion that precedes the action without actually per
forming it, because I can send out a message, and con
sciousness stops with the sending of the message, and does
not know anything further. So that the mental fact is
somewhere or other in the region B 0 0 B of the diagram,
and does not include the two ends. That is to say, it is
not the whole of the bodily fact that the mental fact cor
responds to, but only an intermediate part of it. If it just
passes through the points R B, without going round the
loop from C to 0, then we merely have the sensation that
something has taken place—we have had no voice in the
nature of it and no choice about it. If it has gone round
from C to C we have a much larger fact—we have that
�Body and Mind.
J9
fact which we call choice, or the exercise of vojition. We
may conclude, then—I am not able in so short a space as
I have to give you the whole evidence which goes to an
assertion of this kind; but there is evidence which is suffi
cient to satisfy any competent scientific man of this day—
that every fact of consciousness is parallel to some disturb
ance of nerve matter, although there are some nervous dis
turbances which have no parallel in consciousness, properly
so called ; that is to say, disturbances of my nerves may
exist which have no parallel in my consciousness.
We have now observed two classes of facts and the
parallelism between them. Let us next observe what an
^enormous gulf there is between these two classes of facts.
"The state of a man’s brain and the actions which go
•along it are things which every other man can perceive,
observe, measure, and tabulate • but the state of a man’s
own consciousness is known to him only, and not to any
other person. Things which appear to us and which we
•can observe are called objects or pAenomewa. Facts in a
man’s consciousness are not objects or phenomena to any
■other man ; they are capable of being observed only by
him. We have no possible ground, therefore, for speaking
of another man’s consciousness as in any sense a part of
the physical world of objects or phenomena. It is a thing
entirely separate from it; and all the evidence that we
have goes to show that the physical world gets along
entirely by itself, according to practically universal rules.
That is to say, the laws which hold good in the physical
world hold good everywhere in it—they hold good with
practical universality, and there is no reason to suppose
anything else but those laws in order to account for any
physical fact; there is no reason to suppose anything but
the universal laws of mechanics in order to account for
the motion of organic bodies. The train of physical facts
between the stimulus sent into the eye, or to any one of
our senses, and the exertion which follows it, and the train
of physical facts which goes on in the brain, even when
there is no stimulus and no exertion, these are perfectly
complete physical trains, and every step is fully accounted
for by mechanical conditions. In order to show what is
meant by that, I will endeavour to explain another supposi
tion which might be made ; that when stimulus comes
�20
Body and Mind,
into the eye there is a certain amount of energy transferred
from the ether, which fills space, to this nerve; and this
energy travels along into the ganglion, and sets the
ganglion into a state of disturbance which may use up
some energy previously stored in it. The amount of
energy is the same as before by the law of the conserva
tion of energy. That energy is spread over a number of
threads which go out to the brain, and it comes back again
and is reflected from there. It may be supposed that a
very small portion of energy is created in that process,
and that while the stimulus is going round this loop-line it
gets a little push somewhere, and then, when it comes back
to the ganglia, it goes away to the muscle and sets loose a
store of - energy in the muscle so that it moves the limb.
Now the question is, Is there any creation of energy any
where ? Is there any part of the physical progress which
cannot be included within ordinary physical laws ? It has
been supposed, I say, by some people, as it seems to me
merely by a confusion of ideas, that there is, at some part
or other of this process, a creation of energy ; but there is
no reason whatever why we should suppose this. The
difficulty in proving a negative in these cases is similar to
that in proving a negative about anything which exists on
the other side of the moon. It is quite true that I am not
absolutely certain that the law of the conservation of energy
is exactly true; but there is no more reason why I should
suppose a particular exception to occur in the brain than any
where else. I might just as well assert that whenever any
thing passes over the Line, when it goes from the north side
of the Equator to the south, there is a certain creation of
energy, as that there is a creation of energy in the brain..
If I chose to say that the amount was so small that none
of our present measurements could appreciate it, it would
be difficult or indeed impossible for anybody to disprovethat assertion ; but I should have no reason whatever for
making it. There being, then, an absence of positive
evidence that the conditions are exceptional, the reasons
which lead us to assert that there is no loss of energy in
organic any more than in inorganic bodies are absolutely
overwhelming. There is no more reason to assert that
there is a creation of energy in any part of an organic body,
because we are not absolutely sure of the exact nature of
�Body and Mind.
21
the law, than there is reason, because we do not know what
there is on the other side of the moon, to assert that there
is a sky-blue peacock there with forty-five eyes in his tail.
Then it is not a right thing to say, for example, that
the mind is a force, because if the mind were a force we
should be able to perceive it. I should be able to perceive
your mind and to measure it, but I cannot; I have abso
lutely no means of perceiving your mind. I judge by
analogy that it exists, and the instinct which leads me to
come to that conclusion is the social instinct, as it has
been formed in me by generations during which men have
lived together, and they could not have lived together
unless they had gone upon that supposition. But I may
very well say that among the physical facts which go along
at the same time with mental facts there are forces at work.
That is perfectly true, but the two things are on two
utterly different platforms—the physical facts go along by
themselves, and the mental facts go along by themselves.
There is a parallelism between them, but there is no inter
ference of one with the other. Again, if anybody says that
the will influences matter, the statement is not untrue, but
it is nonsense. The will is not a material thing, it is not
a mode of material motion. Such an assertion belongs to
the crude materialism of the savage. Now the only thing
which influences matter is the position of surrounding
matter or the motion of surrounding matter. It may be
conceived that at the same time with every exercise of
volition there is a disturbance of the physical laws; but
this disturbance, being perceptible to me, would be a
physical fact accompanying the volition, and could not be
the volition itself, which is not perceptible to me. Whether
there is such a disturbance of the physical laws or no, is a
question of fact to which we have the best of reasons for
giving a negative answer ; but the assertion that another
man’s volition, a feeling in his consciousness which I cannot
perceive, is part of the train of physical facts which I may
perceive, this is neither true nor untrue, but nonsense ; it
is a combination of words whose corresponding ideas will
not go together.
Then we are to regard the body as a physical machine,
which goes by itself according to a physical law, that is to
say, is automatic. An automaton is a thing which goes by
�22
Body and Mind.
itself when it is wound up, and we go by ourselves when*
we have had food. Excepting the fact that other men areconscious, there is no reason why we should not regard the
human body as merely an exceedingly complicated machine
which is wound up by putting food into the mouth. But
it is not merely a machine, because consciousness goes with
it. The mind, then, is to be regarded as a stream of
feelings which runs parallel to, and simultaneous with, a
certain part of the action of the body, that is to say, that
particular part of the action of the brain in which thecerebrum and the sensory tract are excited.
Then, you say, if we are automata what becomes of thefreedom of the will ? The freedom of the will, according,
to Kant, is that property which enables us to originate
events independently of foreign determining causes ; which,,
it seems to me, amounts to saying precisely that we areautomata, that is, that we go by ourselves, and do not want
anybody to push or pull us. The distinction between an
automaton and a puppet is, that the one goes by itself
when it is wound up and the other requires to be pushed
or pulled by wires or strings. We do not want any stimulusfrom without, but we go by ourselves when we have our
food, and therefore so far as that distinction goes we arc
automata. But we are more than automata, because we areconscious ; mental facts go along with the bodily facts.
That does not hinder us from describing the bodily factsby themselves, and if we restrict our attention to them we
must describe ourselves as automata.
The objection which many people feel to this doctrine is
derived, I think, from the conception of such automata as
are made by man. In that case there is somebody outside
the automaton who has constructed it in a certain definite
way, with definite intentions, and has meant it to go in
that way; and the whole action of the automaton is deter
mined by such person outside. Of course, if we consider,
for example, a machine such as Frankenstein made, and
imagine ourselves to have been put together as that fearful
machine was put together by a German student, the con
ception naturally strikes us with horror ; but if we consider
the actual fact, we shall see that our own case is not an
analogous one. For, as a matter of fact, we were not made
by any Frankenstein, but we made ourselves. I do not
�Body and Mind.
^3
mean that every individual has made the whole of his own
character, hut that the human race as a whole has made
itself during the process of ages. The action of the whole
race at any given time determines what the character . ot
the race shall be in the future. From the continual storing
up of the effects of such actions, graven into the character
of the race, there arises in process of time that exact human
constitution which we now have. By that process ot
Natural Selection all the actions of our ancestors are built
into us and form our character, and in that sense it may
be said that the human race has made itself. In that
sense also we are individually responsible for what the
human race will be in the future, because every one of our
actions goes to determine what the character of the race
shall be to-morrow. If, on the contrary, we suppose that
in the action of the brain there is some point where
physical causes do not apply, and where there is a discon
tinuity, then it will follow that some of our actions are not
dependent upon our character. Provided the action which
goes on in my brain is a continuous one, subject to physical
rules then it will depend upon what the character of my
brain is ; or if I look at it from the mental side, it will
depend upon what my mental character is; but if there is
a certain point where the law of causation does not app y,
where my action does not follow by regular physical causes
from what I am, then I am not responsible for it, because
it is not I that do it. So you see the notion that we. are
not automata destroys responsibility; because, if my actions
are not determined by my character in accordance with the
particular circumstances which occur, then I am not re
sponsible for them, and it is not I that do them.
Moreover, if we once admit that physical causes are not
continuous, but that there is some break, then we_ leave
the way open for the doctrine of a destiny or a providence
outside of us, overruling human efforts and guiding history
to a foregone conclusion. Now of course it is the business
of the seeker after truth to find out whether a proposition
is true or no, and not what are the moral consequences
which may be expected to follow from it. But I do think
that if it is right to call any doctrine immoral, it is right
so to call this doctrine ; when we remember how often it
has paralysed the efforts of those who were climbing
�24
Body and Mind.
honestly up the hillside towards the light and the right
and how often it has nerved the sacrilegious arm of the
society °r
adventurer wlao was conspiring against
I want now, very briefly indeed, to consider to what
extent these doctrines furnish a bridge between the two
c asses of facts. I have said that the series of mental facts
corresponds to only a portion of the action of the organism
Hut we have to consider not only ourselves, but also those
animals which are next below us in the scale of organisalon, and we cannot help ascribing to them a consciousness
which is.analogous to our own. We find, when we attempt
to enter into that and to judge by their actions what sort
of consciousness they possess, that it differs from our own
in precisely the. same way that their brains differ from our
rams. There is less of the co-ordination which is implied
by a message going round the loop-line. A much larger
number of the messages which go in at a cat’s eyes and
come out at her paws go straight through without any
loop-line at all than do m the case of a man ; but still there
is a Lttle loop-line left. And the lower we go down in the
scale of organisation the less of this loop-line there is; yet
we cannot suppose that so enormous a jump from one
creature to another should have occurred at any point in
the process of evolution as the introduction of a fact entirely
different and absolutely separate from the physical fact. It
is impossible for anybody to point out the particular place
in the line of descent where that event can be supposed to
have, taken place. The only thing that we can come to, if
we accept the doctrine of evolution at all, is that even in
the very lowest organisms, even in the Amceba which swims
about in our own blood, there is something or other, incon
ceivably simple to us, which is of the same nature with
our own consciousness, although not of the same complexity
that is to say (for we cannot stop at organic matter,
knowing as we do that it must have arisen by continuous
physical processes out of inorganic matter), we are obliged to
assume, m order to save continuity in our belief, that along
wit every motion of .matter, whether organic or inorganic,
there is some fact which corresponds to the mental fact in
ourse ves. The mental fact in ourselves is an exceedingly
■complex thing ; so also our brain is an exceedingly complex
�Body and Mind.
thing. We may assume that the quasi-mental fact which
corresponds and which goes along with the motion of. every
particle of matter is of such inconceivable simplicity, as
compared with our own mental fact, with our consciousness,
as the motion of a molecule of matter is of inconceivable
simplicity when compared with the motion in our brain.
This doctrine is not merely a speculation, but is a, result
to which all the greatest minds that have studied this
question in the right way have gradually been approxi
mating for a long time.
Again, let us consider what takes place when we perceive
anything by means of our eye. A certain picture is pro
duced upon the retina of the eye, which is like the picture
on the ground-glass plate in a photographic camera ; but
it is not there that the consciousness begins, as I have
shown before. When I see anything there is a picture
produced on the retina, but I am not conscious of it there ;
and in order that I may be conscious the message must be
taken from each point of this picture along the special
nerve-fibre to the ganglion. These innumerable fine nerves
which come away from the retina go each of them to a
particular point of the ganglion, and the result is that,
corresponding to that picture at the back of the retina,
there is a disturbance of a great number of centres of. grey
matter in the ganglion. If certain parts of the retina of
my eye, having light thrown upon them, are disturbed so
as to produce the figure of a square, then certain little
pieces of grey matter, in this ganglion, which are distributed
we do not know how, will also be disturbed, and the impres
sion corresponding to that is a square. Consciousness
belongs to this disturbance of the ganglion, and not to the
picture in the eye; and therefore it is something quite
different from the thing which is perceived.. But at the
same time, if we consider another man looking at some
thing, we shall say that the fact is this there is something
outside of him which is matter in motion, and that which
corresponds inside of him is also matter in motion. The
external motion of matter produces, in the optic ganglion
something which corresponds to it, but is. not like it.
Although for every point in the object there is a point, of
disturbance in the optic ganglion, and for every connection
between two points in the object there is a connection be-
�26
Body and Mind.
tween two disturbances, yet they are not like one another.
Nevertheless they are made of the same stuff; the object
outside and the optic ganglion are both matter, and that
matter is made of molecules moving about in ether. When
I consider the impression which is produced upon my mind
of any fact, that is just a part of my mind ; the impression
is a part of me. The hall which I see now is just an
impression produced on my mind by something outside of
it, and that impression is a part of me.
We may conclude from this theory of sensation, which is
established by the discoveries of Helmholtz, that the feeling
which I have in my mind—the picture of this hall—is some
thing corresponding, point for point, to the actual reality
outside. Though every small part of the reality which is
outside corresponds to a small part of my picture, though
every connection between two parts of that reality outside
corresponds to a connection between two parts of my picture,
yet the two things are not alike. They correspond to one
another, just as a map may be said in a certain sense to
correspond with the country of which it is a map, or as a
written sentence may be said to correspond to a spoken
sentence. But then I may conclude, from what I said
before, that, although the two corresponding things are
not alike, yet they are made of the same stuff. Now what
is my picture made of ? My picture is made of exceedingly
simple mental facts, so simple that I only feel them in
groups. My picture is made up of these elements ; and I
am therefore to conclude that the real thing which is out
side me, and which corresponds to my picture, is made up
of similar things ; that is to say, the reality which under
lies matter, the reality which we perceive as matter, is that
same stuff which, being compounded together in a particular
way, produces mind. What I perceive as your brain is
really in itself your consciousness, is You ; but then, that
which I call your brain, the material fact, is merely my
perception. Suppose we put a certain man in the middle
of the hall, and we all looked at him. We should all have
perceptions of his brain ; those would be facts in our con
sciousness, but they would be all different facts. My
perception would be different from the picture produced
upon you, and it would be another picture, although it
might be very like it. So that corresponding to all those
�Body and Mind.
27
pictures which are produced in our minds from an external
object there is a reality which is not like the pictures, but
which’ corresponds to them point for point, and which is
made of the same stuff that the pictures are The actual
reality which underlies what we call matter is not the
same thing as the mind, is not the same thing as our per
ception, but it is made of the same stuff. To use the wor
o/the old disputants, we may say that matter is not of
the same substance as mind, not Z^m^.but it is ot
ZiA-e substance, it is made of similar stuff differently com
pacted together, homoi-ousion.
, , , .,
~
With the exception of just this last bridge connec g
the two great regions of inquiry that we have been discuss
ing, the whole of what I have said is a body of doctrine
which is accepted now, as far as I know, by all compe e
people who have considered the subject There are of
course, individual exceptions with regard to particular
points, such as that I have mentioned about the possible
creation of energy in the brain ; but these are few, an
they occur mainly, I think, among those who are sa
exceedingly well acquainted with one side of the subJ
that they regard the whole of it from the pom o v
of that side, and do not sufficiently weigh what may come
from the other side. With such exceptions as those, and
with the exception of the last speculation of all,
&
doctrine which I have expounded to you is the doctrine of
Science at the present day.’
These results may now be applied to the considera
of certain questions which have always been 0 grea
interest. The application which I shall make is a pure y
tentative one, and must be regarded as merely indica ingthat such an application becomes more possible every day.
The first of these questions is that of the possible existence
of consciousness apart from a nervous system of mind
without body. Let us first of all consider the effect upon
this question of the doctrines which are. admitted by all
competent scientific men. All the consciousness
a we
know of is associated with a brain in a certain definite
manner, namely, it is built up out of elements m the same
way as part of the action of the brain is built up out ot
elements: an element of one corresponds to an element in
the other ; and the mode of connection, the shape ot the
�28
Body and Mind.
building, is the same in the two cases. The mere fact
that all the consciousness we know of is associated with
certain complex forms of matter need only make us
exceedingly cautious not to imagine any consciousness
apart from matter without very good reason indeed ; just
as the fact of all swans having turned out white up to a
certain time made us quite rightly careful about accepting
stories that involved black swans. But the fact that mind
and brain are associated in a definite way, and in that
particular way that I have mentioned, affords a very strong
presumption that we have here something which can be
explained; that it is possible to find a reason for this
exact correspondence. If such a reason can be found, the
case is entirely altered • instead of a provisional proba
bility which may rightly make us cautious, we should have
the highest assurance that Science can give, a practical
certainty.on which we are bound to act, that there is no
mind without a brain. Whatever, therefore, is the
probability that an explanation exists of the connection of
mind with brain in action, such is also the probability that
each of them involves the other.
If, however, that particular explanation which I have
ventured to offer should turn out to be the true one, the
case becomes even stronger. If mind is the reality or
substance of that which appears to us as brain-action, the
supposition of mind without brain is the supposition of an
organised material substance not affecting other substances
(for if it did it might be perceived), and therefore not
affected by them; in other words, it is the supposition of
immaterial matter, a contradiction in terms to the funda
mental assumption of uniformity of nature, without
practically believing in which we should none of us have
been here to-day. But if mind without brain is a con
tradiction, is it not still possible that an organisation like
the brain can exist without being perceived, without our
being able to hold it fast, and weigh it, and cut it up ?
Now this is a physical question, and we know quite enough
about the physical world to say, “ Certainly not.” It is made
of atoms and ether, and there is no room in it for ghosts.
The other question which may be asked is this : Can we
regard the universe, or that part of it which immediately
surrounds us, as a vast brain, and therefore the reality
�Body and Mind.
29
which underlies it as a conscious mind ? This question has
been considered by the great naturalist Du Bois Reymond,
and has received from him that negative answer which I
think we also must give. For we found that the particular
organisation of the brain which enables its action to run
parallel with consciousness amounts to this—that dis
turbances run along definite channels, and that two
disturbances which occur together establish links between
the channels along which they run, so that they naturally
occur together again. Now it will, I think, be clear to
every one that these are not characteristics of the great
interplanetary spaces. Is it not possible, however, that
the stars we can see are just atoms in some vast organism,
bearing some such relation to it as the atoms which make
up our brains bear to us ? I am sure I do not know. But
it seems clear that the knowledge of such an organism
could not extend to events taking place on the earth, and
that its volition could not be concerned in them. And
if some vast brain existed far away in space, being
invisible because not self-luminous, then, according to the
laws of matter at present known to us, it could affect the
solar system only by its weight.
On the whole, therefore, we seem entitled to conclude
that during such time as we can have evidence of, no
intelligence or volition has been concerned in events
happening within the range of the solar system, except
that of animals living on the planets. The weight of
such probabilities is, of course, estimated differently by
different people, and the questions are only just beginning
to receive the right sort of attention. But it does seem to
me that we may expect in time to have negative evidence
on this point of the same kind and of the same cogency
as that which forbids us to assume the existence between
the Earth and Venus of a planet as large as either of them.
• Now about these conclusions which I have described as
probable ones, there are two things that may be said. In
the first place it may be said that they make the world a
blank, because they take away the objects of very impor
tant and widespread emotions of hope and reverence and
love, which are human faculties and require to be exercised,
and that they destroy the motives for good conduct. To
this it may be answered that we have no right to call the
�3°
Body and Mind.
world a blank while it is full of men and women, even
though our one friend may be lost to us. And in the
regular everyday facts of this common life of men, and in
the promise which it holds out for the future, there is
room enough and to spare for all the high and noble
emotions of which our nature is capable. Moreover,
healthy emotions are felt about facts and not about
phantoms; and the question is not “ What conclusion will
be most pleasing or elevating to my feelings ? ” but “What
is the truth ? ” For it is not all human faculties that have
to be exercised, but only the good ones. It is not right
to exercise the faculty of feeling terror or of resisting
evidence. And if there are any faculties which prevent
us from accepting the truth and guiding our conduct by
it, these faculties ought not to be exercised. As for the
assertion that these conclusions destroy the motive for
good conduct, it seems to me that it is not only utterly
untrue, but, because of its great influence upon human
action, one of the most dangerous doctrines that can be
set forth. The two questions which we have last dis
cussed are exceedingly difficult and complex questions; the
ideas and the knowledge which we used in their discussion
are the product of long centuries of laborious investigation
and thought; and perhaps, although we all make our little
guesses, there is not one man in a million who has any
right to a definite opinion about them. But it is not
necessary to answer these questions in order to tell an
honest man from a rogue. The distinction of right and
wrong grows up in the broad light of day out of natural
causes wherever men live together; and the only right
motive to right action is to be found in the social
instincts which have been bred into mankind by hundreds
of generations of social life. In the target of every true
Englishman’s allegiance, the bull’s-eye belongs to his
countrymen, who are visible and palpable and who stand
around him ; not to any far-off shadowy centre beyond
the hills, ultra monies, either at Rome or in heaven.
Duty to one’s countrymen and fellow-citizens, which is the
social instinct guided by reason, is in all healthy com
munities the one thing sacred and supreme. If the course
of things is guided by some unseen intelligent person, then
this instinct is his highest and clearest voice, and because
�Body and Mind.
3i
of it we may call him good. But if the course .of things
is not so guided, that voice loses nothing of its sacred
ness, nothing of its clearness, nothing of its obligation.
In the second place it may be said that Science ought
not to deal with these questions at all; that while
scientific men are concerned with physical facts, they
are clans leur droit, but that in treating of such subjects
as these they are going out of their domain, and must
do harm.
What is the domain of Science ? It is all possible
human knowledge which can rightly be used to guide
human conduct.
In many parts of Europe it is customary, to leave a
part of the field untilled for the Brownie to live in,
because he cannot live in cultivated ground. And if you
grant him this grace, he will do a great deal of your
household work for you in the night while you sleep.
In Scotland the piece of ground which is left wild for the
devil to live in is called “ the good man’s croft.” Now,
there are people who indulge a hope that the ploughshare
of Science will leave a sort of good man’s croft around the
field of reasoned truth ; and they promise that in that
case a good deal of our civilising work shall be done for us
in the dark, by means we know nothing of. I do not share
this hope ; and I feel very sure that it will not be realised.
I think that we should do our work with our own hands
in a healthy straightforward way, and not leave any croft
to the good man from which his arrow may fly by night
and in which his pestilence may walk in the noonday. It
is idle to set bounds to the purifying and organising work
of Science. Without mercy and without resentment she
ploughs up weed and briar; from her footsteps behind her
grow up corn and healing flowers; and no corner is far
enough to escape her furrow. Provided only that we take
as our motto and our rule of action, Man speed the plough.
PRINTED BY C. W. REYNELL, LITTLE PULTENEY STREET, HAYMARKET.
��
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Victorian Blogging
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A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
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Body and mind, a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 1st November, 1874
Creator
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Clifford, William Kingdon [1845-1879]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 31 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Printed by G.W. Reynell, London. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Sunday Lecture Society
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1875
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N091
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Science
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Text
Language
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English
Mind and body
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NATIONALSECULARSOCIETY
, MO) 3
RIGHT AND WRONG:
THE SCIENTIFIC GROUND OF THEIR DISTINCTION.
DELIVERED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE
SOCIETY,
ST. GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
ON
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 7tJi NOVEMBER,
1876.
BY
Professor W. K. CLIFFORD, F.R.S.
Reprinted from the ‘Fortnightly Review,’ by kind permission of the Editor.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1876. ’
Price Threepence.
�SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and
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and Art; especially in their bearing upon the improvement
and social well-being of mankind.
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SOCIETY’S LECTURES
ARE DELIVERED AT
ST. GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o'clock precisely.
(Annually— from November to May).
Twenty-Four Lectures (in three series), ending 23rd April,
1876, will be given.
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�SYLLABUS.
We feel that, it is wrong to steal or tell lies, and right to
take care of our families ; .and that we are responsible for
our actions. The aggregate of such feelings we call.Conscience,
or the Moral Sense.
In this lecture it is proposed to consider what account can
be given of these facts by the scientific. method. This is a
method of getting knowledge by inference ; first of pheno
mena from phenomena, on the assumption of uniformity of
nature, and secondly of mental facts simultaneous with and
underlying these phenomena, on the assumption that other
men have feelings like mine. Each of these assumptions
rests on a moral basis; it is our duty to guide our beliefs in
this way.
A man is morally responsible for an action in so far as he
has a conscience which might direct it. Moral approbation
and reprobation are used as means of strengthening this con
science and bringing it to bear upon the action. The use of
this means involves the assumption that the man is the same
man at different times, i.e., that the effect of events is pre
served in his character ; and that his actions depend upon
his character and the circumstances. The notion of respon
sibility is founded on the observed uniformity of this connec
tion.
The question of right or wrong in a particular case is
primarily determined by the conscience of the individual.
The further question of what is the best conscience (the
question of abstract or absolute right) is only to be deter
mined by knowledge of the function or purpose of the con
�4
Syllabus.
science ; and this must be got at by study of its origin and
evolution. This leads to Mr. Darwin’s doctrine that the pur
pose of conscience is the advantage of the community as such
in the struggle for existence. There are two kinds of pur
pose : one due to natural selection, the survival of the best
adaptation, the other (design) due to a complex nervous
system in which an image or symbol of the end determines
the use of the means. The conscience must always be based
on an instinct serving a purpose of the first kind ; but it may
be directed by a purpose of the second kind.
Allegiance to the community, or piety, is thus the first
principle of morals. This involves the negative duty of
abstaining from obvious injury to others, and the positive
duty of being a good citizen in each department of life. It is
to be distinguished from altruism, and from a sentimental
shrinking from the idea of suffering.
Truth, or straightforwardness, is a consequence of piety,
and depends upon faith in man. The duty of searching after
truth is based upon the great importance to mankind of a
true conception of the universe. Belief is a sacred thing,
which must not be profanely wasted on unproved statements.
It is not necessary even for other people to believe what is
false in order to do what is right.
�RIGHT AND WRONG:
THE SCIENTIFIC GROUND OF THEIR DISTINCTION.
HE questions which are here to be considered are
especially and peculiarly everybody’s questions.
It is not everybody’s business to be an engineer, or a
doctor, or a carpenter, or a soldier ; but it is evervbody’s
business to be a citizen. The doctrines and precepts
which guide the practice of the good engineer are of inter
est to him who uses them and to those whose business it
is to investigate them by mechanical science ; the rest
■of us neither obey nor disobey them. But the doctrines
and precepts of morality, which guide the practice of
the good citizen, are of interest to all; they must be
either obeyed or disobeyed by every human being who
is not hopelessly and for ever separated from the rest of
mankind. No one can say, therefore, that in this inquiry
we are not minding our own business, that we are med
dling with other men’s affairs. We are in fact studying
the principles of our profession, so far as we are able;
a necessary thing for every man who wishes to do good
work in it.
Along with the character of universal interest which
belongs to our subject there goes another. What is
everybody’s practical business is also to a large extent
what everybody knows; and it may be reasonably ex
pected that a discourse about Right and W rong will be
full of platitudes and truisms. The expectation is a
just one. The considerations I have to offer are of the
very oldest and the very simplest commonplace and
common sense ; and no one can be more astonished than
I am that there should be any reason to speak of them
at all. But there is reason to speak of them, because
platitudes are not all of one kind. Some platitudes
have a definite meaning and a practical application, and
are established by the uniform and long-continued ex-
JL
B
�6
Right and Wrong.
perience of all people. Other platitudes, having 11»
definite meaning and no practical application, seem not
to be worth anybody’s while to test; and these are quite
sufficiently established by mere assertion, if it is auda
cious enough to begin with and persistent enough after
wards. It is in order to distinguish these two kinds of
platitude from one another, and to make sure that those
which we retain form a body of doctrine consistent with
itself and with the rest of our beliefs, that we undertake
this examination of obvious and widespread principles.
First of all, then, what are the facts ?
We say that it is wrong to murder, to steal, to tell
lies, and that it is right to take care of our families.
When we say in this sense that one action is right
and another wrong, we have a certain feeling towards
the action which is peculiar and not quite like any other
feeling. It is clearly a feeling towards the action and
not towards the man who does it; because we speak of
hating the sin and loving the sinner. We might reason
ably dislike a man whom we knew or suspected to be a
murderer, because of the natural fear that he might
murder us ; and we might like our own parents for
taking care of us. But everybody knows that these
feelings are something quite different from the feeling
which condemns murder as a wrong thing, and approves
parental care as a right thing. I say nothing here about
the possibility of analyzing this feeling, or proving that
it arises by combination of other feelings ; all I want to
notice is that it is as distinct and recognisable as the
feeling of pleasure in a sweet taste or of displeasure at
a toothache. In speaking of right and wrong, we speak
of qualities of actions which arouse definite feelings that
everybody knows and recognises. It is not necessary,
then, to give a definition at the outset; we are going to
use familiar terms which have a definite meaning in the
same sense in which everybody uses them. We may
ultimately come to something like a definition; but
what we have to do first is to collect the facts and see
what can be made of them, just as if we were going to
talk about limestone, or parents and children, or fuel.
*
* These subjects were treated in the lectures which immediately preceded
and followed the present one.
�Right and PFrong.
7
It is easy to conceive that murder and theft and
neglect of the young might be considered wrong in a
very simple state of society. But we find at present
that the condemnation of these actions does not stand
alone; it goes with the condemnation of a great number
of other actions which seem to be included with the ob
viously criminal action in a sort of general rule. The
wrongness of murder, for example, belongs in a less
degree to any form of bodily injury that one man may
inflict on another ; and it is even extended so as to in
clude injuries to his reputation or his feelings. I make
these more refined precepts follow in the train of the
more obvious and rough ones, because this appears to
have been the traditional order of their establishment.
“ He that makes his neighbour blush in public,” says the
Mishna, “ is as if he had shed his blood.” In the same
way the rough condemnation of stealing carries with it a
condemnation of more refined forms of dishonesty: we
do not hesitate to say that it is wrong for a tradesman
to adulterate his goods, or for a labourer to scamp his
work. We not only say that it is wrong to tell lies, but
that it is wrong to deceive in other more ingenious ways;
wrong to use words so that they shall have one sense to
some people and another sense to other people ; wrong
to suppress the truth when that suppression leads to
false belief in others. And again, the duty of parents
towards their children is seen to be a special case of a
very large and varied class of duties towards that great
family to which we belong—to the fatherland and them
that dwell therein. The word duty which I have here
used, has as definite a sense to the general mind as the
words right and wrong; we say that it is right to do our
duty, and wrong to neglect it. These duties to the
community serve in our minds to explain and define our
duties to individuals. It is wrong to kill any one ; unless
we are an executioner, when it may be our duty to kill a
Criminal; or a soldier, when it may be our duty to kill
the enemy of our country ; and in general it is wrong to
injure any man in any way in our private capacity and
for our own sakes. Thus if a man injures us, it is only
right to retaliate on behalf of other men. Of two men
in a desert island, if one takes away the other’s cloak, it
�8
Right and Wrong.
may or may not be right for the other to let him have
his coat also ; but if a man takes away my cloak while
we both live in society, it is my duty to use such means
as I can to prevent him from taking away other people’s
cloaks. Observe that I am endeavouring to describe
the facts of the moral feelings of Englishmen, such as
they are now.
The last remark leads us to another platitude of ex
ceedingly ancient date. We said that it was wrong to
injure any man in our private capacity and for our own
sakes. A rule like this differs from all the others that
we have considered, because it not only deals with phy
sical acts, words and deeds which can be observed and
known by others, but also with thoughts which are
known only to the man himself. Who can tell whether a
given act of punishment was done from a private or from
a public motive ? Only the agent himself. And yet if
the punishment was just and within the law, we should
condemn the man in the one case and approve him. m the
other. This pursuit of the actions of men to their very
sources, in the feelings which they only can know, is as
ancient as any morality we know of, and extends to the
whole range of it. Injury to another man arises from
anger, malice, hatred, revenge; these feelings are. con
demned as wrong. But feelings are not immediately
under our control, in the same way that, overt actions
are : I can shake anybody by the hand if I like, but 1
cannot always feel friendly to him. Nevertheless we
can pay attention to such aspects of the circumstances,
and we can put ourselves into such conditions, that our
feelings get gradually modified in one way or the.other;
we form a habit of checking our anger by calling up
certain images and considerations, whereby in time the
offending passion is brought into subjection and control.
Accordingly, we say that it is right to acquire and to exer
cise this control; and the control is supposed to exist when
ever we say that one feeling or disposition of mind is right
and another wrong. Thus, in connection with the pre
cept against stealing, we condemn envy, and covetous
ness ; we applaud a sensitive honesty which shudders, at
anything underhand or dishonourable. In connection
with the rough precept against lying, we have built up
�Right and Wrong.
9
and are still building a great fabric of intellectual.mora
lity, whereby a man is forbidden to tell lies to himself,
and is commanded to practise candour and fairness and
open-mindedness in his judgments, and to labour zea
lously in pursuit of the truth. And in connection with
the duty to our families, we say that it is right to culti
vate public spirit, a quick sense of sympathy, and all that
belongs to a social disposition.
Two other words are used in this connection which it
seems necessary to mention. When we regard an action
as right or wrong for ourselves, this feeling about the
action impels us to do it or not to do it, as the case may
be. We may say that the moral sense acts in this case as
a motive ; meaning by moral sense only the feeling in
regard to an action which is considered as right or
wrong, and by motive something which impels us to act.
Of course there may be other motives at work at the
same time, and it does not at all follow that we shall do
the right action or abstain from the wrong one. This
we all know to our cost. But still our feeling about the
rightness or wrongness of an action does operate as a
motive when we think of the action as being done by us ;
and when so operating it is called conscience. I have
nothing to do at present with the questions about con
science, whether it is a result of education, whether it
can be explained by self-love, and so forth ; I am only
concerned in describing well-known facts, and in getting
as clear as I can about the meaning of well-known words.
Conscience, then, is the whole aggregate of our feelings
about actions as being right or wrong, regarded as tend
ing to make us do the right actions and avoid the wrong
ones. We also say sometimes, in answer to the question,
“ How do you know that this is right or wrong ? ” “ My
conscience tells me so.” And this way of speaking is
quite analogous to other expressions of the same form;
thus if I put my hand into water, and you ask me how I
know that it is hot, I might say, “ My feeling of warmth
tells me so.”
When we consider a right or a wrong action as done
by another person, we think of that person as worthy of
moral approbation or reprobation. He may be punished
or not; but in any case this feeling towards him is quite
�IO
Right and Wrong.
different from the feeling of dislike of a person injurious
to us, or of disappointment at a machine which will not
go. Whenever we can morally approve or disapprove a
man for his action, we say that he is morally responsible
for it, and vice versa. To say that a man is not morally
responsible for his actions, is the same thing as to say
that it would be unreasonable to praise or blame him for
them.
The statement that we ourselves are morally respon
sible is somewhat more complicated, but the meaning is
very easily made out; namely, that another person may
reasonably regard our actions as right or wrong, and
may praise or blame us for them.
We can now, I suppose, understand one another pretty
clearly in using the words right and wrong, conscience,
responsibility; and we have made a rapid survey of the
facts of the case in our own country at the present time.
Of course I do not pretend that this survey in any way
approaches to completeness; but it will supply us at
least with enough facts to enable us to deal always with
concrete examples instead of remaining in generalities ;
and it may serve to show pretty fairly what the moral
sense of an Englishman is like. We must next consider
what account we can give of these facts by the scientific
method.
But first let us stop to note that we really have used
the scientific method in making this first step; and also
that to the same extent the method has been used by all
serious moralists. Some would have us define virtue, to
begin with, in terms of some other thing which is not
virtue, and then work out from our definition all the de
tails of what we ought to do. So Plato said that virtue was
knowledge, Aristotle that it was the golden mean, and
Benthan} said that the right action was that which con
duced to the greatest happiness of the greatest number.
But so also, in physical speculations ; Thales said that
everything was Water, and Heraclitus said it was All
becoming, and Empedocles said it was made’out of Four
Elements, and Pythagoras said it was Number. But we
only began to know about things when people looked
straight at the facts, and made what they could out of
them; and that is the only way in which we can know
�Right and Wrong.
II
anything about right and wrong. Moreover, it is the
way in which the great moralists have set to work, when
they came to treat of verifiable things and not of
theories all in the air. A great many people think of
a prophet as a man who, all by himself, or from some
secret source, gets the belief that this thing is right and
that thing wrong. And then (they imagine) he gets
up. and goes about persuading other people to feel as
he does about it; and so it becomes a part of their con
science, and a new duty is created. This may be in some
*
cases, but I have never met with any example of it in
history. When Socrates puzzled the Greeks by asking
them what they precisely meant by Goodness and Justice
and Virtue, the mere existence of the words shows that
the people, as a whole, possessed a moral sense, and
felt that certain things were right and others wrong.
What the moralist did was to show the connection be
tween different virtues, the likeness of virtue to certain
other things, the implications which a thoughtful man
could find in the common language. Wherever the
Greek moral sense had come from, it was there in the
people before it could be enforced by a prophet or dis
cussed by a philosopher. Again, we find a wonderful
collection of moral aphorisms in those shrewd sayings of
the Jewish fathers which are preserved in the Mishna
or oral law. Some of this teaching is familiar to us all
from the popular exposition of it which is contained in
the three first Gospels. But the very plainness and
homeliness of the precepts shows that, they are just
acute statements of what was already felt by the popular
■common sense; protesting, in many cases, against the for
malism of the ceremonial law with which,they arecuriously
mixed up. The rabbis even show a jealousy of prophetic
interference, as if they knew well that it takes not one
man, but many men, to feel what is right. When a cer
tain Rabbi Eliezer, being worsted in argument, cried
out,, “ If I am right, let heaven pronounce in my favour 1”
there was heard a Bath-kol or voice from the skies, say
ing, “ Do you venture to dispute with Rabbi Eliezer,
who is an authority on all religious questions ? ” But ,
Rabbi Joshua rose and said, “ Our law is not in heaven,
but in the book which dates from , Sinai, and, which j,
�12
Right and Wrong.
teaches us that in matters of discussion the majority"
makes the law.”*
One of the most important expressions of the moral
sense for all time is that of the Stoic philosophy, espe
cially after its reception among the Romans. It is here
that we find the enthusiasm of humanity—the caritas
generis liumani—which is so large and important a
feature in all modern conceptions of morality, and whose
widespread influence upon Roman citizens may be traced
in the Epistles of St. Paul. In the Stoic emperors, also,
we find probably the earliest example of great moral
principles consciously applied to legislation on a large
scale. But are we to attribute this to the individual in
sight of the Stoic philosophers ? It might seem at first
sight that we must, if we are to listen to that vulgar vitu
peration of the older culture, which has descended to us
from those who had everything to gain by its destruc
tion.f We hear enough of the luxurious feasting of the
Roman capital, how it would almost have taxed the
resources of a modern pastrycook; of the cruelty of
gladiatorial shows, how they were nearly as bad as autida-fe, except that a man had bis fair chance, and was
* Treatise Bab. bathr. 59. b. I derive this story and reference from a
most interesting book, Koi K6re (vox clamantis), La Bible, le Talmud, et
l’Evangile; par le R. Elie Soloweyczyk. Paris : E. Brifere. 1870.
+ Compare these passages from Merivale (‘ Romans under the Empire,’
vi.), to whom “ it seems a duty to protest against the common tendency of
Christian moralists to dwell only on the dark side of Pagan society, in order
to heighten by contrast the blessings of the Gospel.”
“Much candour and discrimination are required in comparing the sins of
one age with those of another................. the cruelty of our inquisitions
and sectarian persecutions, of our laws against sorcery, our serfdom and
our slavery; the petty fraudulence we tolerate in almost every class and
calling of the community; the bold front worn by our open sensuality; the
deeper degradation of that which is concealed; all these leave us little
room for boasting of our modern discipline, and must deter the thoughtful
inquirer from too confidently contrasting the morals of the old world and
the new.”
“ Even at Rome, in the worst of times. ... all the relations of life
were adorned in turn with bright instances of devotion, and mankind
transacted their business with an ordinary confidence in the force of con
science and right reason. The steady development of enlightened legal
principles conclusively proves the general dependence upon law as a guide
and corrector of manners. In the camp, however, more especially as the
chief sphere of this purifying activity, the great qualities of the Roman
character continued to be plainly manifested. The history of the Caesars
presents to us a constant succession of brave, patient, resolute, and faithful
soldiers, men deeply impressed with a sense of duty, superior to vanity,
despisers of boasting, content to toil in obscurity and shed their blood at
the frontiers of the empire, unrepining at the cold mistrust of their masters,
not clamourous for the honours so sparingly awarded to them, but satisfied
in the daily work of their hands, and full of faith in the national destiny
which they were daily accomplishing.”
�Right and Wrong.
13
not tortured for torture’s sake ; of the oppression of
provincials by people like Verres, of whom it may even
be said that if they had been the East India Company
they could not have been worse; of the complaints of
Tacitus against bad and mad emperors (as Sir Henry
Maine says) ; and of the still more serious complaints of
the modern historian against the excessive taxation
*
which was one great cause of the fall of the empire.
Of all this we are told a great deal; but we are not told
of the many thousands of honourable men who carried
civilisation to the ends of the known world, and adminis
tered a mighty empire so that it was loved and worshipped
to the furthest corner of it. It is to these men and their
common action that we must attribute the morality
which found its organised expression in the writings of
the Stoic philosophers. From these three cases we may
gather that Right is a thing which must be done before
it can be talked about, although after that it may only
too easily be talked about without being done. . Indivi
dual effort and energy may insist upon getting that
done which was already felt to be right; and individual
insight and acumen may point out consequences of an
action which bring it under previously known moral
rules. There is another dispute of the rabbis that may
serve to show what is meant by this. It was forbidden
by the law to have any dealings with the Sabasan idola
ters during the week preceding their idolatrous feasts.
But the doctors discussed the case in which one of these
idolaters owes you a bill; are you to let him pay it
during that week or not ? The school of Shammai said
“ No ; for he will want all his money to enjoy himself at
the feast.” But the school of Hillel said “ Yes, let him
pay it; for how can he enjoy his feast while his bills are
unpaid ?” The question here is about the consequences
of an action; but there is no dispute about the moral
principle, which is that consideration and kindness are
to be shown to idolaters, even in the matter of their
idolatrous rites.
It seems, then, that we are no worse off than anybody
else who has studied this subject, in finding our mate
rials ready made for us; sufficiently definite meanings
* Finlay, ‘ Greece under the Romans.’
�Right and Wrong.
given in the common speech to the words right and
wrong, good and bad, with which we have to deal; a
fair body of facts familiarly known, which we have to
organise and account for as best we can. But our
special inquiry is, what account can be given of these
facts by the scientific method ? to which end we cannot
do better than fix our ideas as well as we can upon the
character and scope of that method.
Now the scientific method is a method of getting
knowledge by inference, and that of two different kinds.
One kind of inference is that which is used in the phy
sical and natural sciences, and it enables us to go from
known phenomena to unknown phenomena. Because a
stone is heavy in the morning, I infer that it will be
heavy in the afternoon; and i infer this by assuming a
certain uniformity of nature. The sort of uniformity
that I assume depends upon the extent of my scientific
education; the rules of inference become more and more
definite as we go on. At first I might assume that all
things are always alike; this would not be true, but it
has to be assumed in a vague way, in order that a thing
may have the same name at different times. Afterwards
I get the more definite belief that certain particular
qualities, like weight, have nothing to do with the time
of day; and subsequently I find that weight has nothing
to do with the shape of the stone, but only with the
quantity of it. The uniformity which we assume, then,
isnot that vague one that we started with, but a chastened
and corrected uniformity. I might go on to suppose, for
example, that the weight of the stone had nothing to do
with the place where it was ; and a great deal might be
said for this supposition. It would, however, have to be
corrected when it was found that the weight varies
slightly in different latitudes. On the other hand, I
should find that this variation was just the same for my
stone as for a piece of iron or wood; that it had nothing
to do with the kind of matter. And so I might be led
to the conclusion that all matter is heavy, and that the
weight of it depends only on its quantity and its position
relative to the earth. You see here that I go on arriving
at conclusions always of this form; that some one cir
cumstance or quality has nothing to do with some other
�Right and Wrong.
*5x
circumstance or quality. I begin by assuming that it is
independent of everything; I end by finding . that it is
independent of some definite things. That is, I begin
by assuming a vague uniformity, and I end by assuming
a clear and definite uniformity. I always use this assump
tion to infer from some one fact a .great number of other
facts ; but as my education proceeds, I get to know what
sort of things may be inferred and what may not. An
observer of scientific mind takes note of just those things
from which inferences may be drawn, and passes by the
rest. If an astronomer, observing the sun, were to record
the fact that at the moment when a sun-spot began to
shrink there was a rap at his front door, we should know
that he was not up to his work. But if he records that
sun-spots are thickest every eleven years, and that this
is. also the period of extra cloudiness in Jupiter, the
observation may or may not be confirmed, and it may or
may not lead to inferences of importance; but still it is
the kind of thing from which inferences may be drawn.
There is always a certain instinct among instructed people
which tells them in this way what kinds of inferences
my be drawn; and this is. the unconscious effect of the
definite uniformity which they have been led to assume
in nature. It may subsequently be organised into a law
or general truth, and no doubt becomes a surer guide by.
that process. Then it goes to form the more precise
instinct of the next generation.
What we have said about this first kind of inference,
which goes from phenomena to phenomena, is shortly this.
It proceeds upon an assumption of uniformity in nature ;
and this assumption is not fixed and made once for all,
but is. a changing and growing thing, becoming more
definite as we go on.
If I were told to pick out some one character which
especially colours this guiding conception of uniformity
in our present stage of science, I should certainly reply,
Atomism. The form of this with which we are most
familiar is the molecular theory of bodies; which repre
sents all bodies as made up of small elements of uniform ,
character, each practically having relations only with the,
adjacent ones, and these relations the same all through
—namely, some simple mechanical action upon each
�i6
Right and Throng.
other’s motions. But this is only a particular case. A
palace, a cottage, the tunnel of the underground railway,
and a factory chimney, are all built of bricks ; the bricks
are alike in all these cases, each brick is practically
related only to the adjacent ones, and the relation is
throughout the same, namely, two flat sides are stuck
together with mortar. There is an atomism in the sci
ences of number, of quantity, of’space; the theorems of
geometry are groupings of individual points, each related
only to the adjacent ones by certain definite laws. But
what concerns us chiefly at present is the atomism
of human physiology. Just as every solid is built up of
molecules, so the nervous system is built up of nerve
threads and nerve-corpuscles. We owe to Mr. Lewes our
very best thanks for the stress which he has laid on the
doctrine that nerve-fibre is uniform in structure and func
tion, and for the word neurility, which expresses its com
mon properties. And similar gratitude is due to Dr.
Hughlings Jackson for his long defence of the proposition
that the element of nervous structure and function is a
sensori-motor process. In structure, this is two fibres
or bundles of fibres going to the same grey corpuscle ; in
function it is a message travelling up one fibre or bundle
to the corpuscle, and then down the other fibre or bundle.
*
Out of this, as a brick, the house of our life is built. All
these simple elementary processes are alike, and each is
practically related only to the adjacent ones; the relation
being in all cases of the same kind, viz., the passage from
a simple to a complex message, or vice versa.
The result of atomism in any form, dealing with any
subject, is that the principle of uniformity is hunted
down into the elements of things ; it is resolved into the
uniformity of these elements or atoms, and of the rela
tions of those which are next to each other. By an ele
ment or an atom we do not here mean something
absolutely simple or indivisible, for a molecule, a brick,
and a nerve process are all very complex things. We
only mean that, for the purpose in hand, the properties
of the still more complex thing which is made of them
have nothing to do with the complexities or the differ* Mr. Herbert Spencer bad assigned a slightly different element. Prin
ciples of Psychology, vol. 1, p. 28.
�Right and Wrong.
17
ences of these elements. The solid made of molecules,
the house made of bricks, the nervous system made of
sensori-motor processes, are nothing more than collec
tions of these practically uniform elements, having cer
tain relations of nextness, and behaviour uniform y
depending on that nextness.
,
The inference of phenomena from phenomena, then, is
based upon an assumption of uniformity, which m the
present stage of science may be called an atomic uni-
The^other mode of inference which belongs to the
scientific method is that which is used in what are called
mental and moral sciences ; and it enables us to go from
phenomena to the facts which underlie phenomena, and
which are themselves not phenomena at all. it 1 pmch
your arm, and you draw it away and make a face, I infer
that you have felt pain. I infer this by assuming that
you have a consciousness similar to my own, and related
to your perception of your body as my consciousness is
related to my perception of my body. Now is this
the same assumption as before, a mere assumption o
the uniformity of nature ? It certainly seems like it at
first • but if we think about it we shall find that there is
a very profound difference between them. In physical
inference I go from phenomena to phenomena ; that is,
from the knowledge of certain appearances or represen
tations actually present to my mind I infer certain other
appearances that might be present to my mind. I rom
the weight of a stone in the morning—that is, from my
feeling of its weight, or my perception of the process of
weighing it, I infer that the stone will be heavy mthe
afternoon—that is, I infer the possibility of similar feel
ings and perceptions in me at another time. The whole
process relates to me and my perceptions, to things con
tained in my mind. But when I infer that you are
conscious from what you say or do, I pass from that
which is my feeling or perception, which is in my mind
and part of me, to that which is not my feeling at all
which is outside me altogether, namely your feelings and
perceptions. Now there is no possible physical inference,
no inference of phenomena from phenomena, that will
help me over that gulf. I am obliged to admit that this
�18
Right and Wrong.
second kind of inference depends upon another assump
tion, not included in the assumption of the uniformity of
phenomena.
How does a dream differ from waking life ? In a
fairly coherent dream everything seems quite real, and
it is rare, I think, with most people to know in a dream
that they are dreaming. Now, if a dream is sufficiently
vivid and coherent, all physical inferences are just as
valid in it as they are in waking life. In a hazy or im
perfect dream, it is true, things melt into one another
unexpectedly and unaccountably ; we fly, remove moun
tains, and stop runaway horses with a finger. But there’
is nothing in the mere nature of a dream to hinder it
from being an exact copy of waking experience. If I find
a stone heavy in one part of my dream, and infer that it
is heavy at some subsequent part, the inference will be
verified if the dream is coherent enough; I shall go to
the stone, lift it up, and find it as heavy as before. And
the same thing is true of all inferences of phenomena
from phenomena. For physical purposes a dream is just
as good as real life; the only difference is in vividness
and coherence.
What, then, hinders us from Saying that life is all-a
dream ? If the phenomena we dream of are just as good
and real phenomena as those we see and feel when we
are awake, what right have we to say that the material
universe has any more existence apart from our minds than
the things we see and feel in our dreams ? The answer
which Berkeley gave to that question was, No right at
all. The physical universe which I see and feel and
infer, is just my dream and nothing else; that which you
see is your dream ; only it so happens that all our dreams
agree in many respects. This doctrine of Berkeley’s has
now been so far confirmed by the physiology of the
senses, that it is no longer a metaphysical speculation
*
but a scientifically established fact.
But there is a difference between dreams and waking
life, which is of far too great importance for any of us to
be in danger of neglecting it. When I see a man in my
-dream, there is just as good'a body as if I were awake;
muscles, nerves, circulation, capability of adapting means
to ends. If only the dream is coherent enough, no
�Right and Wrong.
*9
physical test can establish that it is a dream. In both
cases I see and feel the same thing. In both cases I
assume the existence of more than I can see and feel,
namely the consciousness of this other man. Bnt now
here is a great difference, and the only difference: in a
dream this assumption is wrong ; in waking life, it is
right. The man I see in my dream is a mere machine; a
bundle of phenomena with no underlying reality ; there
is no consciousness involved except my consciousness,,
no feeling in the case except my feelings. The man I
see in waking life is more than a bundle of phenomena ;
his body and its actions are phenomena, but these pheno
mena are merely the symbols and representatives in my
mind of a reality which is outside my mind, namely, the
consciousness of the man himself which is represented by
the working of his brain, and the simpler quasi-mental
facts, not woven into his consciousness, which are
represented by the working of the rest of his body.
What makes life not to be a dream is the existence of
those facts which we arrive at by our second process
of inference ; the consciousness of men and the higher
animals, the sub-consciousness of lower organisms, and
the quasi-mental facts which go along with the motions
of inanimate matter. In a book which is very largely
and deservedly known by heart, ‘Through the Looking
glass,’ there is a very instructive discussion upon this
point, Alice has been taken to see the Bed King as he
lies snoring; and Tweedledee asks, “ Do you know what
he is dreaming about?” “Nobody can guess that,”
replies Alice. “ Why, about you,” he says triumphantly.
“ And if he stopped dreaming about you, where do you
suppose you’d be?” “Where I am now, of course,”
said Alice. “Not you,” said Tweedledee, “you’d be
nowhere. You are only a sort of thing in his dream.”
“If that there King was to wake,” added Tweedledum,
“ you’d go out, bang! just like a candle.” Alice was
quite right in regarding these remarks as unphilosophical.
The fact that she could see, think, and feel was proof
positive that she was not a sort of thing in anybody’s
dream. This is the meaning of that saying, Cogito ergo
sum, of Descartes. By him, and by Spinoza after him,
the verb cogito and the substantive cogitatio were used to
�20
Right and Wrong.
denote consciousness in general, any kind of feelinoeven what we now call subconsciousness. The saying
means that feeling exists in and for itself, not as a
quality or modification or state or manifestation of any
thing else.
We are obliged in every hour of our lives to act upon
beliefs which have been arrived at by inferences of these
two kinds ; inferences based on the assumption of uni
formity in nature, and inferences which add to this the
assumption of feelings which are not our own. By orga
nising the “common sense ” which embodies the first
class of inferences, we build up the physical sciences;
that is to say, all those sciences which deal with the phy
sical, material, or phenomenal universe, whether animate
or inanimate. And so by organising the common
sense which embodies the second class of inferences, we
build up various sciences of mind. The description and
classification of feelings, the facts of their association
with each other, and of their simultaneity with pheno
mena of nerve-action, all this belongs to psychology,
which may be historical and comparative. The doctrine
of certain special classes of feeling's is organized into
the special sciences of those feelings; thus the facts
about the feelings which we are now considering, about
the feelings of moral approbation and reprobation, are
organized into the science of ethics, and the facts about
the feeling of beauty or ugliness are organized into the
science of aesthetics, or, as it is sometimes called, the
philosophy of art. For all of these the uniformity of
nature has to be assumed as a basis of inference; but
over and above that it is necessary to assume that other
men are conscious in the same way that I am. Now in
these sciences of mind, just as in the physical sciences,
the uniformity which is assumed in the inferred mental
facts is a growing thing which becomes more definite as
we go on, and each successive generation of observers
knows better what to observe and what sort of inferences
may be drawn from observed things. But, moreover, it
is as true of the mental sciences as of the physical ones,
that the uniformity is in the present stage of science an
atomic uniformity. We have learned to regard our
consciousness as made up of elements practically alike,
�Right and Wrong.
21
having relations of succession in time and of contiguity
at each instant, which relations are in all cases practi
cally the same. The element of consciousness is the
transference of an impression into the beginning of
action. Our mental life is a structure made out of such
elements just as the working of our nervous system is
made out of sensorimotor processes. And accordingly
the interaction of the two branches of science leads us
to regard the mental facts as the realities or things-inthemselves, of which the material phenomena are mere
pictures or symbols. The final result seems to be that
atomism is carried beyond phenomena into the realities
which phenomena represent; and that the observed uni
formities of nature, in so far as they can be expressed
in the language of atomism, are actual uniformities of
things in themselves.
So much for the two things which I have promised to
bring together; the facts of our moral feelings, and
the scientific method. It may appear that the latter
has been expounded at more length than was necessary
for the treatment of this particular subject; but the
justification for this length is to be found in certain
common objections to the claims of science to be the
sole judge of mental and moral questions. Some of the
chief of these objections I will now mention.
It is sometimes said that science can only deal
with what is, but that art and morals deal with what
ought to be. The saying is perfectly true, but it is
quite consistent with what is equally true, that the
facts of art and morals are fit subject-matter of science.
I may describe all that I have in my house, and I may
state everything that I want in my house ; these are two
very different things, but they are equally statements of
facts. One is a statement about phenomena, about the
objects which are actually in my possession ; the other
is a statement about my feelings, about my wants and
desires. There are facts, to be got at by common sense,
about the kind of thing that a man of a certain character
and occupation will like to have in his house, and these
facts may be organized into general statements on the
assumption of uniformity in nature. Now the organized
results of common sense dealing with facts are just
�22
Right and Wrong.
science and nothing else. And. in the same way I may
say what men do at the present day, “ how we live now,”
or I may say what we ought to do, namely, what course
of conduct, if adopted, we should morally approve ; and
no doubt these would be two- very different things.
But each of them would be a- statement of facts. One
would belong to the sociology of our time; in so far
as men’s deeds could not be adequately described to
us without some account of their feelings and inten
tions, it would involve facts belonging to psychology as
well as facts belonging to the physical sciences. But
the other would be an account of a particular class of
our feelings^ namely, those which we feel towards an
action when it is regarded as right or wrong. These
facts may be organized by common sense on the assump
tion of uniformity in nature just as well as any other
facts. And we shall see farther on, that not only in this
sense, but in a deeper and more abstract sense, “ what
ought to be done ” is a question for scientific inquiry.
The same objection is sometimes put into another
form. It is said that laws of chemistry, for example,
are general statements about what happens when bodies
are treated in a certain way, and that such laws are fit
matter for science; but that moral laws are different,
because they tell us to do certain things, and we may or
may not obey therm The mood of the one is indicative,
of the other imperative. Now it is quite true that the
word
in the expression “ law of nature,” and in the
expressions “ law of morals,” “law of the land,” has two
totally different meanings, which no educated person
will confound; and I am not aware that any one has
rested the claim of science to judge moral questions on
what is no better than a stale and unprofitable pun.
But two different things may be equally matters of
scientific investigation, even when their names are alike
in sound, A telegraph post is not the same thing as a
post in the War Office, and yet the same intelligence
may be used to investigate the conditions of the one and
the other. That such and such things are right or
wrong, that such and such laws are laws of morals or
laws; of the land, these are facts, just, as the laws of
chemistry are facts; and all facts belong to science, and
are her portion for ever.
�Again, it is sometimes Said that moral questions have
been authoritatively settled by other methods; that we
ought to accept this decision, and not to question it by
any method of scientific inquiry; and that reason should
give way to revelation On such matters. I hope before
I have done to show just cause why we Should pronounce
*
on such teaching aS this no light sentence of moral con
demnation : first, because it is our duty to form those
beliefs which are to guide our actions by the two
scientific modes of inference, and by these alone; and,
secondly, because the proposed mode of settling ethical
questions by authority is contrary to the very nature of
right and wrong.
Leaving this, then, for the present, I pass on to the
most formidable objection that has been made to a
scientific treatment of ethics. The objection is that the
scientific method is not applicable to human action,
because the rule of uniformity does not hold good.
Whenever a man exercises his will, and makes a volun
tary choice of one out of various possible courses, an
event occurs whose relation to contiguous events cannot
be included in a general statement applicable to all
similar cases. There is something wholly capricious and
disorderly, belonging to that moment only; and we have
no right to conclude that if the circumstances were ex
actly repeated, and the man himself absolutely unaltered,
he would choose the same course.
It is clear that if the doctrine here stated is true, the
ground is really cat from under our feet, and we cannot
deal with human action by the scientific method. I
shall endeavour to show, moreover, that in this case,
although we might still have a feeling of moral appro
bation or reprobation towards actions, yet we could not
reasonably praise or blame men for their deeds, nor
regard them as morally responsible. So that, if my
contention is just, to deprive us of the scientific method
is practically to deprive us of morals altogether. On
both grounds, therefore, it is of the greatest importance
that we should define our position in regard to this con
troversy; if, indeed, that can be called a controversy in
which the practical belief of all mankind and the consent
of nearly all serious writers' are on one side.
�24
Right and Wrong.
Let us in the first place consider a little more closely
the connection between conscience and responsibility.
Words in common use, such as these two, have their
meanings practically fixed before difficult controversies
arise; but after the controversy has arisen, each party
gives that slight tinge to the meaning which best suits
its own view of the question. Thus it appears to each
that the common language obviously supports that view,
that this is the natural and primary view of the matter,
and that the opponents are using words in a new mean
ing and wresting them from their proper sense. Now
this is just my position. I have endeavoured so far to
use all words in their common every-day sense, only
making this as precise as I can; and, with two excep
tions, of which due warning will be given, I shall do my
best to continue this practice in future. I seem to my
self to be talking the most obvious platitudes; but it
must be remembered that those who take the opposite
view will think I am perverting the English language.
There is a common meaning of the word “ responsible,”
which though not the same as that of the phrase “ mo
rally responsible,” may throw some light upon it. If
we say of a book, “A is responsible for the preface and
the first half, and B is responsible for the rest,” we mean
that A wrote the preface and the first half. If two
people go into a shop and choose a blue silk dress to
gether, it might be said that A was responsible for its
being silk and B for its being blue. Before they chose,
the dress was undetermined both in colour and in material.
A’s choice fixed the material, and then it was undeter
mined only in colour. B’s choice fixed the colour ; and
if we suppose that there were no more variable condi
tions (only one blue silk dress in the shop), the dress was
then completely determined. In this sense of the word
we say that a man is responsible for that part of an event
which was undetermined when he was left out of account,
and which became determined when he was taken account
of. Suppose two narrow streets, one lying north and
south, one east and west, and crossing one another. A
man is put down where they cross, and has to walk.
Then he must walk either north, south, east, or west,
and he is not responsible for that; what he is responsi-
�Right and Wrong.
25
hie for is the choice of one of these four directions.
May we not say in the present sense of the word that
the external circumstances are responsible for the restric
tion on his choice? we should mean only that the fact
of his going in one or other of the four directions was
due to external circumstances, and not to him. Again,
suppose I have a number of punches of various shapes,
some square, some oblong, some oval, some round, and
that I am going to punch a hole in a piece of paper.
Where I shall punch the hole may be fixed by any kind
of circumstances ; but the shape of the hole depends on
the punch I take. May we say that the punch is lesponsible for the shape of the hole, but not for the posi
tion of it ?
It may be said that this is not the whole of the mean
ing of the word “ responsible,” even in its loosest sense ;
that it ought never to be used except of a conscious
agent. Still this is part of its meaning; if we regard
an event as determined by a variety of circumstances, a
man’s choice being among them, we say that he is
responsible for just that choice which is left him by the
other circumstances.
When we ask the practical question, “ Who is respon
sible for so-and-so ?” we want to find out who is to be
got at in order that so-and-so may be altered. If I want
to change the shape of the hole I make in my paper, I
must change my punch; but this will be of no use if I
want to change the position of the hole. If I want the
colour of the dress changed from blue to green, it is B,
and not A, that I must persuade.
We mean something more than this when we say that
a man is morally responsible for an action. It seems to
me that moral responsibility and conscience go together,
both in regard to the man and in regard to the action.
In order that a man may be morally responsible for an
action, the man must have a conscience, and the action
must be one in regard to which conscience is capable of
acting as a motive, that is, the action must be capable of
being right or wrong. If a child were left on a desert
island and grew up wholly without a conscience, and
then were brought among men, he would not be morally
responsible for his actions until he had acquired a con
�2.6
Right and Wrong.
science by education. He would of course be responsible
m the sense just explained, for that part of them which
was left undetermined by external circumstances, and if
we wanted to alter his actions in these respects we
should have to do it by altering him. But it would be
useless and unreasonable to attempt to do this by means
of praise or blame, the expression of moral approbation
or disapprobation, until he had acquired a conscience
which could be worked upon by such means.
It seems, then, that in order that a man may be
morally responsible for an action, three things are ne
cessary :—
1. He might have done something else; that is to sayz
the action was not wholly determined by external cir
cumstances, and he is responsible only for the choice
which was left him.
2. He had a conscience.
3. The action was one in regard to the doing or not
doing of which conscience might be a sufficient motive.
These three things are necessary, but it does not fol
low that they are sufficient. It is very commonly said
that the action must be a voluntary one. It will be
found, I think, that this is contained in my third con
dition, and also that the form of statement I have
adopted exhibits more clearly the reason why the con
dition is necessary. We may say that an action is in
voluntary either when it is instinctive, or when one
motive is so strong that there is no voluntary choice
between motives. An involuntary cough produced by
irritation of the glottis is no proper subject for blame or
praise. A man is not responsible for it because it is
done by a part of his body without consulting him.
What is meant by him in thia case will require further
investigation. Again, when a dipsomaniac has so great
and overmastering an inclination to drink that we cannot
conceive of conscience being strong enough to conquer
it, he is not responsible for that act, though he may
be responsible for having got himself into the state..
But if it is conceivable that a very strong conscience
fully brought to bear might succeed in conquering the
inclination, we may take a lenient view of the fall and
say there was a very strong temptation, but we shall
�Right and hRrong.
'^T
still regard it as a fall, and say that the man is respon
sible and a wrong has been done.
But since it is just in this distinction between volun
tary and involuntary action that the whole crux ot the
matter lies, let us examine more closely into it. 1 say
that when I cough or sneeze involuntarily, it is ready
not I that cough or sneeze, but a part of iny body which
acts without consulting me. This action is determined
for me by the circumstances, and. is not part of the choice
that is left to me, so that I am not responsible for it.
The question comes then to determining how much is to
be called circumstances, and how much is to be called
m Now I want to describe what happens when I volun
tarily do anything, and there are two courses open to
me. I may describe the things m themselves, my feel
ings and the general course of my consciousness, trust
ing to the analogy between my consciousness and yours
to make me understood ; or I may describe these things
as nature describes them to your senses, namely, in terms
of the phenomena of my nervous system, appealing to
your memory of phenomena and your knowledge of phy
sical action. I shall do both, because in some respects
our knowledge is more, complete from the one source,
and in some respects from the other. When I look back
and reflect upon a voluntary action, I seem to find that
it differs from an involuntary action in the fact that a
certain portion of my character has been consulted.
There is always a suggestion of some sort, either the end
of a train of thought or a new sensation ; and there is an
action ensuing, either the movement of a muscle or set
of muscles, or the fixing of attention upon something.
But between these two there is a consultation, as it were,
of my past history. The suggestion is viewed in the
light of everything bearing on it that I think of at the
time, and in virtue of this light it moves me to act m
one or more ways. Bet us first suppose that no hesita
tion is involved, that only one way of acting is sugges
ted, and I yield to this impulse and act in the particu
lar way. This is the simplest kind of voluntary action.
It differs from involuntary or instinctive action in the
fact that with the latter there is no such conscious con-
�28
Right and Wrong.
saltation of past history. If we describe these facts in
terms of the phenomena which picture them to other
minds, we shall say that in involuntary action a message
passes straight through from the sensory to the motor
centre, and so on to the muscles, without consulting the
cerebrum; while in voluntary action the message is
passed on from the sensory centre to the cerebrum, there
translated into appropriate motor stimuli, carried down
to the motor centre, and so on to the muscles. There
may be other differences, but at least there is this differ
ence. Now, on the physical side, that which determines
what groups of cerebral fibres shall be set at work by
i.en^Ven rnessaSe’ and what groups of motor stimuli
shall be set at work by these, is the mechanism of my
brain at the time; and on the mental side, that which
determines what memories shall be called up by the
given sensation, and what motives these memories shall
bring into action, is my mental character. We may
say, then, in this simplest case of voluntary action, that
w en the suggestion is given it is the character of me
which determines the character of the ensuing action ;
and consequently that I am responsible for choosing that
particular course out of those which were left open to
me by the external circumstances.
This is when I yield to the impulse. But suppose I
do not; suppose that the original suggestion, viewed in
the light of memory, sets various motives in action, each
motive belonging to a certain class of things which I
remember. Then I choose which of these motives shall
prevail. Those who carefully watch themselves find out
that a particular motive is made to prevail by the fixing
of the attention upon that class of remembered things
which calls up the motive. The physical side of this is
the sending of blood to a certain set of nerves—namely,
those whose action corresponds to the memories which
are to be attended to. The sending of blood is accom
plished by the pinching of arteries ; and there are special
nerves, called vaso-motor nerves, whose business it is to
carry messages to the walls of the arteries and get them
pinched. Now this act of directing the attention may
be voluntary or involuntary, just like any other act.
en tn© transformed and reinforced nerve-message
�Right and Wrong.
29
gets to the vaso-motor centre, some part of it may be so
predominant that a message goes straight off to the arte
ries, and sends a quantity of blood to the nerves supply
ing that part; or the call for blood may be sent back for
revision by the cerebrum, which is thus again consulted.
To say the same thing in terms of my feelings, a particular
class of memories roused by the original suggestion may
seize upon my attention before I have time to choose
what I will attend to; or the appeal may be carried to
a deeper part of my character, dealing with wider and
more abstract conceptions, which views the conflicting
motives in the light of a past experience of motives, and
by that light is drawn to one or the other of them.
We thus get to a sort of motive of the second order or
motive of motives. Is there any reason why we should
not go on to a motive of the third order, and the fourth,
and so on ? None whatever that I know of, except that
no one has ever observed such a thing. There seems
plenty of room for the requisite mechanism on the phy
sical side; and no one can say, on the mental side, how
complex is the working of his consciousness. But we
must carefully distinguish between the intellectual deli
beration about motives, which applies to the future and
the past, and the practical choice of motives in the
moment of will. The former may be a train of any
length and complexity ; we have no reason to believe
that the latter is more than engine and tender.
We are now in a position to classify actions in respect
of the kind of responsibility which belongs to them :
namely, we have—
1. Involuntary or instinctive actions.
2. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives
is involuntary.
3. Voluntary actions in which the choice of motives is
voluntary.
In each of these cases what is responsible is that part
of my character which determines what the action shall
be. For instinctive actions we do not say that I am
responsible, because the choice is made before I know
anything about it. For voluntary actions I am respon
sible, because I make the choice; that is, the character
of me is what determines the character of the action.
�jo
Right and Wvwig„
In me, then, for this purpose, is included the aggregate
of links of association which determines what memories
shall be called up by a given suggestion, and what mo
tives shall be set at work by these memories. But we
distinguish this mass of passions and pleasures, desire
and knowledge and pain, which makes up most of my
character at the moment, from that inner and deeper
motive-choosing self which is called Reason, and the
Will, and the Ego; which is only responsible when
motives are voluntarily chosen by directing attention to
them. It is responsible only forthe choice of one motive
out of those presented to it, not for the nature of the
motives which arc presented.
But again, I may reasonably be blamed for what I did
yesterday, or a week ago, or last year. This is because
I am permanent; in so far as from my actions of that
date an inference may be drawn about my character
now, it is reasonable that I should be treated as praise
worthy or blameable. And within certain limits I am
for the same reason responsible for what I am now,
because within certain limits I have made myself. Even
instinctive actions are dependent, in many cases, upon
habits which may be altered by proper attention and
care; and still more the nature of the connections
between sensation and action, the associations of memory
and motive, may be voluntarily modified if I choose to
try. The habit of choosing among motives is one which
may be acquired and strengthened by practice, and the
strength of particular motives, by continually directing
attention to them, may be almost indefinitely increased
or diminished. Thus, if by me is meant not the instan
taneous me of this moment, but the aggregate me of my
past life, or even of the last year, the range of my
responsibility is very largely increased. I am responsible
for a very large portion of the circumstances which are
now external to me ; that is to say, I am responsible for
certain of the restrictions on my own freedom. As the
eagle was shot with an arrow that flew on its own
feather, so I find myself bound with fetters of my proper
forging.
Let us now endeavour to conceive an action which is
not determined in any way by the character of the agent.
�Right and Wrong,
3<
If we ask, 11 What makes it to be that action and noother ? ” we are told, “ The man’s Ego.” The wordsare here used, it seems to me, in some non-natural sense,
if in any sense at all. One thing makes another to be
what it is when the characters of the two things are
connected together by some general statement or rule.
But we have to suppose that the character of the action
is not connected with the character of the Ego by any
general statement or rule. With the same Ego and the
same circumstances of all kinds, anything within the
limits imposed by the circumstances may happen at any
moment. I find myself unable to conceive any distinct
sense in which responsibility could apply in this case
nor do I see at all how it would be reasonable to use
praise or blame. If the action does not depend on the
character, what is the use of trying to alter the character ?
Suppose, however, that this indeterminateness is only
partial; that the character does add some restrictions tothose already imposed by circumstances, but leaves the
choice between certain actions undetermined to besettled by chance or the transcendental Ego. Is it not
clear that the man would be responsible for precisely
that part of the character of the action which was deter
mined by his character, and not for what was left un
determined by it? For it is just that part which was
determined by his character which it is reasonable totry to alter by altering him.
We who believe in uniformity are not the only peopleunable to conceive responsibility without it. These are
the words of Sir W. Hamilton, as quoted by Mr. J. S.
Mill*
“Nay, were we even to admit as true, what we cannot think
as possible, still the doctrine of a motiveless volition would beonly casualism; and the free acts of an indifferent are, morally
and rationally, as worthless as the pre-ordered passions of a deter
mined will.”
“That, though inconceivable, a motiveless volition would, if
conceived, be conceived as morally worthless, only shows our
impotence more clearly. ”
“ Is the person an original undetermined cause of the determina
tion of his will? If he be not, then he is not a free agent, and the
scheme of necessity is admitted. If he be, in the first place, it is
impossible to conceive the possibility of this ; and in the second, if
* Examination, p. 556.
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Right and IVrong.
the fact, though inconceivable, be allowed, it is impossible to see
how a cause, undetermined by any motive, can be a rational,
moral, and accountable cause. ”
It is true that Hamilton also says that the scheme of
necessity is inconceivable, because it leads to an infinite
non-commencement; and that “the possibility of morality
depends on the possibility of liberty; for if a man be not
a free agent, he is not the author of his actions, and
has, therefore, no responsibility—no moral personality
at all.”
I know nothing about necessity; I only believe that
nature is practically uniform even in human action. I
know nothing about an infinitely distant past; I only
know that I ought to base on uniformity those infer
ences which are to guide my actions. But that man is
a free agent appears to me obvious, and that in the natu
ral sense of the words. We need ask for no better defi
nition than Kant’s :—•
“ Will is that kind of causality attributed to living agents, in
so far as they are possessed of reason; and freedom is such a pro
perty of that causality as enables them to originate events inde
pendently of foreign determining causes ; as, on the other hand
(mechanical), necessity is that property of the causality of irra
tionals, whereby their activity is excited and determined by the
influence of foreign causes.”*
I believe that I am a free agent when my actions are
independent of the control of circumstances outside mej
and it seems a misuse of language to call me a free
agent if my actions are determined by a transcendental
Ego who is independent of the circumstances inside me
—that is to say, of my character. The expression “ free
will” has unfortunately been imported into mental
science from a theological controversy rather different
from the one we are now considering. It is surely too
much to expect that good and serviceable English words
should be sacrificed to a phantom.
In an admirable book, ‘ The Methods of Ethics,’ Mr.
Henry Sidgwick has stated, with supreme fairness and
impartiality, both sides of this question. After setting
forth the “almost overwhelming cumulative proof” of
uniformity in human action, he says that it seems “ more
* ‘ Metaphysic of Ethics, ’ chap. iii.
�Right and Wrong.
33
than balanced by a single argument on the other side:
the immediate affirmation of consciousness m the moment
of deliberate volition.” “ No amount of experience of
the sway of motives ever tends to make me distrust my
intuitive consciousness that in resolving, after delibera
tion, I exercise free choice as to which of the motives
acting upon me shall prevail.”
. , ,
, <t
The only answer to this argument is that it is not on
the other side.” There is no doubt about the deliver
ance of consciousness ; and even if our powers of self
observation had not been acute enough to discover it,
the existence of some choice between motives would be
proved by the existence of vaso-motor. nerves. But
perhaps the most instructive way of meeting arguments
of this kind is to inquire what consciousness ought to
say in order that its deliverances may be of any use
in the controversy. It is affirmed, on the side of uni
formity, that the feelings in my consciousness m the
moment of voluntary choice have been preceded by
facts out of my consciousness which are related to them
in a uniform manner, so that if the previous facts had
been accurately known the voluntary choice might have
been predicted. On the other side this is denied. To
be of any use in the controversy, then, the immediate
deliverance of my consciousness must be competent to
assure me of the non-existence of something which by
hypothesis is not in my consciousness. Given an abso
lutely dark room, can my sense of sight assure me that
there is no one but myself in it ? Can my sense of
hearing assure me that nothing inaudible is going.on?
As little can the immediate deliverance of my conscious
ness assure me that the uniformity of nature does not
apply to human actions.
It is perhaps necessary, in connection with this ques
tion, to refer to that singular Materialism of high
authority and recent date which makes consciousness a
physical agent, “ correlates ” it with Light and Nerve
force, and so reduces it to an objective phenomenon.
This doctrine is founded on a common and very useful
mode of speech, in which we say, for example, that a
good fire is a source of pleasure on a cold day, and that
a man’s feeling of chill may make him run to it. But
�34
Right and Wrong.
so also we say that the sun rises and seta every morn and
night, although the man in the moon sees clearly that
this is due to the rotation of the earth. One cannot be
pedantic all day. But if we choose for once to be
pedantic, the matter is after all very simple. Suppose
that I am made to run by a feeling of chill. When I
begin to move my leg, I may observe if I like a double
series of facts. I have the feeling of effort, the sensa
tion of motion in my leg; I feel the pressure of my foot
-on the ground. Along with this I may see with my
eyes, or feel with my hands, the motion of my leg as a
material object. The first series of facts belongs to me
alone; the second may be equally observed by anybody
-else. The mental series began first; I willed to move
my leg before I saw it move. But when I know more
about the matter, I can trace the material series further
back,, and find nerve messages going to the muscles of
my leg to make it move. But I had a feeling of chill
before I chose to move my leg. Accordingly, I can find
nerve messages, excited by the contraction due to the
Tow temperature, going to my brain from the chilled
skin. Assuming the uniformity of nature, I carry
forward and backward both the mental and the material
series. A uniformity is observed in each, and a paral
lelism is observed between them, whenever observations
can be made. But sometimes one series is known
better, and sometimes the other; so that in telling a
story we quite naturally speak sometimes of mental
facts and sometimes' of material facts. A feeling of chill
made a man run; strictly speaking, the nervous disturb
ance which coexisted with that feeling of chill made him
run, if we want to talk about material facts; or the
feeling of chill produced the form of sub-consciousness •
which coexists with the motion of legs, if we want to
talk about mental facts. But we know nothing about
the special nervous disturbance which coexists with a
feeling of chill, because it has not yet been localised in
the brain ; and we know nothing about the form of sub
consciousness which coexists with the motion of legs;
although there is very good reason for believing in the
existence of both. So we talk about the feeling of chill
and the running, because in one case we know the
�Right and Wrong.
3.5
mental side, and in the other the material side. A man
nanght show me a picture of the battle of Gravelotte, and
say, “ You can’t see the battle, because it is all over,
but there is a picture of it.” And then he might put a
chassepot into my hand, and say, “We could not repre
sent the whole construction of a ehassepot in the picture,
but you. can examine this one, and find it out.” If I
now insisted on mixing up the two modes of communi
cation of knowledge, if I expected that the chassepots in
the picture would go off, and said that the one in my
hand was painted on heavy canvas, I should be acting
exactly in the spirit of the new materialism. For the
material facts are a representation or symbol of the
mental facts, just as a picture is a representation or
symbol of a. battle. And my own mind is a reality from
which I can judge by analogy of the realities represen
ted by other men’s brains, just as the chassepot in my
hand is a reality from which I can judge by analogy of
the chassepots represented in the picture. When,
therefore, we ask, “What is the physical link between
the ingoing message from chilled skin and the outgoing
message which moves the leg? ” and the answer is, “A
man’s Will,” we have as much right to be amused as if
we had asked our friend with the picture what pigment
was used in painting the cannon in the foreground, and
received the answer, “ Wrought iron.” . It will be found
excellent practice in the mental operations required by
this doctrine to imagine a train, the fore part of which is
an engine and three carriages linked with iron couplings,
and the hind part three other carriages linked with iron
couplings ; the bond between the two parts being made
out of the sentiments of amity subsisting between the
stoker and the guard.
To sum up ; the: uniformity of nature in human actions
has been denied on the ground that it takes away re
sponsibility, that it is contradicted by the testimony of
consciousness, and that there is a physical correlation
between mind and matter. We have replied that the
uniformity of nature is necessary to responsibility, that
it is affirmed by the testimony of consciousness when
ever consciousness is competent to testify, and that
matter is the phenomenon or symbol of which mind or
�36
Right and Wrong.
quasi-mind is the symbolized and represented thing. We
are now free to continue our inquiries on the supposition
that nature is uniform.
We began by describing the moral sense of an English
man. No doubt the description would serve very well for
the more civilised nations of Europe; most closely for
Germans and Dutch. But the fact that we can speak in
this way discloses that there is more than one moral sense,
and that what I feel to be right another man may feel
to be wrong. Thus we cannot help asking whether there
is any reason for preferring one moral sense to another;
whether the question, “What is right to do ?” has in any
one set of circumstances a single answer which can be
definitely known.
Now clearly in the first rough sense of the word this is
not true. What is right for me to do now, seeing that
I am here with a certain character, and a certain moral
sense as part of it, is just what I feel to be right. The
individual conscience is, in the moment of volition, the
only possible judge of what is right; there is no con
flicting claim. But if we are deliberating about the
future, we know that we can modify our conscience
gradually by associating with certain people, reading
certain books, and paying attention to certain ideas and
feelings ; and we may ask ourselves, “ How shall we
modify our conscience, if at all? what kind of conscience
shall we try to get ? what is the best conscience ?” We
may ask similar questions about our sense of taste. There
is no doubt at present that the nicest things to me are the
things I like; but I know that I can train myself to like
some things and dislike others, and that things which are
very nasty at one time may come to be great delicacies
at another. I may ask, “ How shall I train myself ?
What is the best taste ?” And this leads very naturally
to putting the question in another form, namely, “ What
is taste good for? What is the purpose or function of
taste?” We should probably find as the answer to that
question that the purpose or function of taste is to dis
criminate wholesome food from unwholesome; that it is a
matter of stomach and digestion. It will follow from
this that the best taste is that which prefers wholesome
food, and that by cultivating a preference for wholesome and
�Right and Wrong.
37
nutritious things I shall be training my palate in the way
it should go. In just the same way our question about
the best conscience will resolve itself into a question about
the purpose or function of the conscience—why we have
got it, and what it is good for.
Now to my mind the simplest and clearest and most
profound philosophy that was ever written upon this sub
ject is to be found in the 2nd and 3rd chapters of Mr.
Darwin’s ‘ Descent of Man.’ In these chapters it appears
that just as most physical characteristics of organisms have
been evolved and preserved because they were useful to the
individual in the struggle for existence against other indi
viduals and other species, so this particular feeling has been
evolved and preserved because it is useful to the tribe or
community in the struggle for existence against othei’
tribes, and against the environment as a whole. The func
tion of conscience is the preservation of the tribe as a tribe.
And we shall rightly train our consciences if we learn to
approve those actions which tend to the advantage of the
community in the struggle for existence.
There are here some words, however, which require care
ful definition. And first the word purpose. A thing serves
a purpose when it is adapted to some end ; thus a corkscrew
is adapted to the end of extracting corks from bottles, and
our lungs are adapted to the end of respiration. We may
say that the extraction of corks is the purpose of the cork
screw, and that respiration is the purpose of the lungs. But
here we shall have used the word in two different senses.
A man made the corkscrew with a purpose in his mind,
and he knew and intended that it should be used for pulling
out corks. But nobody made our lungs with a purpose in
his mind, and intended that they should be used for
breathing. The respiratory apparatus was adapted to its
purpose by natural selection—namely, by the gradual pre
servation of better and better adaptations, and the killing
off of the worse and imperfect adaptations. In using the
word purpose for the result of this unconscious process of
adaptation by survival of the fittest, I know that I am
somewhat extending its ordinary sense, which implies con
sciousness. But it seems to me that on the score of conve
nience there is a great deal to be said for this extension of
meaning. We want a word to express the adaptation of
D
�38
Right and JVrong.
means to an end, whether involving consciousness or not;
the word purpose will do very well, and the adjective pur
posive has already been used in this sense. But if the use
is admitted, we must distinguish two kinds of purpose.
There is the unconscious purpose which is attained by
natural selection, in which no consciousness need be con
cerned ; and there is the conscious purpose of an intelligence
which designs a thing that it may serve to do something
which he desires to be done. The distinguishing mark of
this second kind, design or conscious purpose, is that in the
consciousness of the agent there is an image or symbol of
the end which he desires, and this precedes and determines
the use of the means. Thus the man who first invented a
corkscrew must have previously known that corks were in
bottles, and have desired to get them out. We may
describe this if we like in terms of matter, and say that a
purpose of the second kind implies a complex nervous
system, in which there can be formed an image or symbol
of the end, and that this symbol determines the use of the
means. The nervous image or symbol of anything is that
mode of working of part of my brain which goes on simul
taneously and is correlated with my thinking of the thing.
Aristotle defines an organism as that in which the
part exists for the sake of the whole. It is not that
the existence of the part depends on the existence of
the whole, for every whole exists only as an aggregate
of parts related in a certain way; but that the shape
and nature of the part are determined by the wants of
the whole. Thus the shape and nature of my foot are
what they are, not for the sake of my foot itself, but
for the sake of my whole body, and because it wants
to move about. That which the part has to do for the
whole is called its function. Thus the function of my foot
is to support me, and assist in locomotion. Not ail the
nature of the part is necessarily for the sake of the whole;
the comparative callosity of the skin of my sole is for the
protection of my foot itself.
Society is an organism, and man in society is part of an
organism according to this definition, in so far as some
portion of the nature of man is what it is for the sake of
the whole—society. Now conscience is such a portion of
the nature of man, and its function is the preservation of
�Right and Wrong.
39
society in the struggle for existence. We may be able to
define this function more closely when we know more about
the way in which conscience tends to preserve society.
Next let us endeavour to make precise the meaning of
the words community and society. It is clear that at dif
ferent times men may be divided into groups of greater or
less extent—tribes, clans, families, nations, towns. If a
certain number of clans are struggling for existence, that
portion of the conscience will be developed which tends to
the preservation of the clan; so, if towns or families are
struggling, we shall get a moral sense adapted to the ad
vantage of the town or the family. In this way different
portions of the moral sense may be developed at different
stages of progress. Now it is clear that for the purpose of
the conscience, the word community at any time will mean
a group of that size and nature which is being selected or
not selected for survival as a whole. Selection may be
going on at the same time among many different kinds of
groups. And ultimately the moral sense will be composed
of various portions relating to various groups, the function
or purpose of each portion being the advantage of that
group to which it relates in the struggle for existence.
Thus we have a sense of family duty, of municipal duty, of
national duty, and of duties towards all mankind.
It is to be noticed that part of the nature of a smaller
group may be what it is for the sake of a larger group to
which it belongs; and then we may speak of the function
of the smaller group. Thus it appears probable that the
family, in the form in which it now exists among us, is
’determined by the good of the nation ; and we may say
that the function of the family is to promote the advan
tage of the nation or larger society in some certain ways.
But I do not think it would be right to follow Auguste
Comte in speaking of the function of humanity; because
humanity is obviously not a part of any larger organism
for whose sake it is what it is.
Now that we have cleared up the meanings of some of
our words, we are still a great way from the definite solu
tion of our question, “ What is the best conscience ? or
what ought I to think right ? ” For we do not yet know
what is for the advantage of the community in the struggle
for existence. If we choose to learn by the analogy of an
�4°
Right and Wrong.
individual organism, we may see that no permanent or
final answer can be given, because the organism grows in
consequence of the struggle, and develops new wants while
it is satisfying the old ones. But at any given time it has
quite enough to do to keep alive and to avoid dangers and
diseases. So we may expect that the wants and even the
necessities of the social organism will grow with its growth
and that it is impossible to predict what may tend in the
distant future to its advantage in the struggle for existence.
But still, in this vague and general statement of the func
tions of conscience, we shall find that we have already
established a great deal.
In the first place, right is an affair of the community,
and must not be referred to anything else. To go back to
our analogy of taste ; if I tried to persuade you that the
best palate was that which preferred things pretty to look
at, you might condemn me a priori without any experience,
by merely knowing that taste is an affair of stomach and
digestion—that its function is to select wholesome food.
And so, if any one tries to persuade us that the best con
science is that which thinks it right to obey the will of
some individual, as a deity or a monarch, he is condemned
a priori in the very nature of right and wrong. In order
that the worship of a deity may be consistent with natural
ethics, he must be regarded as the friend and helper of
humanity, and his character must be judged from his
actions by a moral standard which is independent of him.
And this, it must be admitted, is the position which has
been taken by most English divines, as long as they were
Englishmen first and divines afterwards. The worship of a
deity who is represented as unfair or unfriendly to any
portion of the community is a wrong thing, howevcr great
may be the threats and promises by which it is commended.
And still worse, the reference of right and wrong to his
arbitrary will as a standard, the diversion of the allegiance
of the moral sense from the community to him, is the most
insidious and fatal of social diseases. It was against this
that the Teutonic conscience protested in the Reformation.
Again, in monarchical countries, in order that allegiance to
the sovereign may be consistent with natural ethics, he
must be regarded as the servant and symbol of the national
unity, capable of rebellion and punishable for it. And this
�Right and Wrong.
41
has been the theory of the English constitution from time
immemorial.
The first principle of natural ethics, then, is the sole and
supreme allegiance of conscience to the community. I
venture to call this piety, in accordance with the older
meaning of the word. Even if it should turn out impossible
to sever it from the unfortunate associations which have
clung to its later meaning, still it seems worth while
to try.
An immediate deduction from our principle is that there
are no self-regarding virtues properly so called ; those quali
ties which tend to the advantage and preservation of the
individual being only morally right in so far as they make
him a more useful citizen. And this conclusion is in some
cases of great practical importance. The virtue of purity,
for example, attains in this way a fairly exact definition :
purity in a man is that course of conduct which makes him
to be a good husband and father, in a woman that which
makes her to be a good wife and mother, or which helps
other people so to prepare and keep themselves. It is easy
to see how many false ideas and pernicious precepts are
swept away by even so simple a definition as that.
Next, we may fairly define our position in regard to that
moral system which has deservedly found favour with the
great mass of our countrymen. In the common statement
of utilitarianism, the end of right action is defined to be
the greatest happiness of the greatest number. It seems
to me that the reason and the ample justification of the
success of this system is that it explicitly sets forth the
community as the object of moral allegiance. But our
determination of the purpose of the conscience will oblige
us to make a change in the statement of it. Happiness is
not the end of right action. My happiness is of no use to
the community except in so far as it makes me a more
efficient citizen ; that is to say, it is rightly desired as a
means and not as an end. The end may be described as
the greatest efficiency of all citizens as such. No doubt
happiness will in the long run accrue to the community as
a consequence of right conduct; but the right is deter
mined independently of the happiness, and, as Plato says,
it is better to suffer wrong than to do wrong.
*
* The word altruism seems to me unfortunate, because the community,
(my neighbour) is to be regarded not as other, but as myself. I have endea
voured to defend this view elsewhere.
�42
Right and Wrong.
In conclusion, I would add some words on the relation
of Veracity to the first principle of Piety. It is clear that
veracity is founded on faith in man; you tell a man the
truth when you can trust him with it and are not afraid.
This perhaps is made more evident by considering the case
of exception allowed by all moralists—namely, that if a
man asks you the way with a view to committing a murder,
it is right to tell a lie and misdirect him. The reason why
he must not have the truth told him is that he would make
a bad use of it, he cannot be trusted with it. About these
cases of exception an important remark must be made in
passing. When we hear that a man has told a lie under
such circumstances, we are indeed ready to admit that for
once it was right, mensonge admirable; but we always have
a sort of feeling that it must not occur again. And the
same thing applies to cases of conflicting obligations, when
for example the family conscience and the national con
science disagree. In such cases no general rule can be laid
down ; we have to choose the less of two evils; but this is
not right altogether in the same sense as it is right to speak
the truth. There is something wrong in the circumstances
that we should have to choose an evil at all. The actual
course to be pursued will vary with the progress of society;
that evil which at first was greater will become less, and in
a perfect society the conflict will be resolved into harmony.
But meanwhile these cases of exception must be carefully
kept distinct from the straightforward cases of right and
wrong, and they always imply an obligation to mend the
circumstances if we can.
Veracity to an individual is not only enjoined by piety
in virtue of the obvious advantage which attends a straight
forward and mutually trusting community as compared
with others, but also because deception is in all cases a per
sonal injury. Still more is this true of veracity to the
community itself. The conception of the universe or aggre
gate of beliefs which forms the link between sensation and
action for each individual is a public and not a private
matter; it is formed by society and for society. Of what
enormous importance it is to the community that this should
be a true conception I need not attempt to describe. Now
to the attainment of this true conception two things are
necessary.
�Right and Wrong.
43
First, if we study the history of those methods by which
true beliefs and false beliefs have been attained,we shall
see that it is our duty to guide our beliefs by inference
from experience on the assumption of uniformity of nature
and consciousness in other men, and by this only. ppty
upon this moral basis can the foundations of the empirical
method be justified.
Secondly, veracity to the community depends upon faith
in man. Surely I ought to be talking platitudes when I
say that it is not English to tell a man a lie, or to suggest
a lie by your silence or your actions, because you are afraid
that he is not prepared for the truth, because you don t
quite know what he will do when he knows it, because
perhaps after all this lie is a better thing for him than the
truth would be; this same man being all the time an
honest fellow-citizen whom you have every reason to trust.
Surely I have heard that this craven crookedness is the
object of our national detestation. And yet it is constantly
whispered that it would be dangerous to divulge certain
truths to the masses. “ I know the whole thing is untrue :
but then it is so useful for the people; you don t know
what harm you might do by shaking their faith in it.
Crooked ways are none the less crooked because they are
meant to deceive great masses of people instead of indivi
duals. If a thing is true, let us all believe it, rich and
poor, men, women, and children. If a thing is untrue, let
us all disbelieve it, rich and poor, men, women, and children.
Truth is a thing to be shouted from the housetops, not to
be whispered over rose-water after dinner when the ladies
are gone away.
Even in those whom I would most reverence, who would
shrink with horror from such actual deception as I have
just mentioned, I find traces of a want of faith in man.
Even that noble thinker, to whom we of this generation
owe more than I can tell, seemed to say in one of his post
humous essays that in regard to questions of great public
importance we might encourage a hope in excess of the
evidence (which would infallibly grow into a belief and
defy evidence) if we found that life was made easier by it.
As if we should not lose infinitely more by nourishing a
tendency to falsehood than we could gain by the delusion
of a pleasing fancy. Life must first of all be made straight
�44
Right and Wrong.
and true ; it may get easier through the help this brings to
the commonwealth. And the great historian of mate*
rialism says that the amount of false belief necessary to
morality in a given society is a matter of taste. I cannot
believe that any falsehood whatever is necessary to mo
rality. It cannot be true of my race and yours that to
keep ourselves from becoming scoundrels we must needs
believe a lie. The sense of right grew up among healthy
men and was fixed by the practice of comradeship. It has
never had help from phantoms and falsehoods, and it never
can want any. By faith in man and piety towards man we
have taught each other the right hitherto ; with faith in
man and piety towards man we shall never more depart
from it.
* Lange, ‘ Geschichte des Materialismus.’
PRINTED BY C. W. liEYNELL, LITTLE rULTENET STREET, HAYMARKET.
�
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Right and wrong : the scientific origin of their distinction : a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, St. George's Hall, Langham Place, on Sunday afternoon, 7th November, 1876
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Text
NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
THE
BEARING
ON
OF
MORALS
RELIGION.
$ Tnta
DELIVERED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY
LECTURE
SOCIETY,
ST. GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
ON
.SUNDAY AFTERNOON, 4th 'MARCH, 1877.
BY
Professor W. K. CLIFFORD, F.R.S.
Reprinted from the ‘ Fortnightly Review,' by kind permission of the Editor.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1877.
Price Threepence.
��THE BEARING OF MORALS
ON RELIGION.
HE word religion is used in many different mea^
ings and there have been not a few- controversy
the main difference between the contending
parties was only this, that they understood by religion
two different things. I will therefore begin by settog
forth as clearly aB I can one or two of the mea g
which the word appears to have in P°Pa y SP
Kr8t’ Sse “TyheX“tha o^e°Vh“ehgion ■”
“?nTisPseX’ce5‘ The religion of Buddha teaches that
the soul is not a distinct substance.
Opinions differ
upon the question what doctrines may properly be callei
religious ^some people holding that there can be no r^
ligion without belief in a god and in a future life jso^ hat
n their judgment the body of doctrines must necessarily
include these two : while others would insist upon other
special dogmas being included, before they could consent
to call thelystem by this name. But the number of such
Deonle is daily diminishing, by reason of. the spread an
thePincrease of our knowledge about distant countries
and races. To me, indeed, it would seem rash to asse
of any doctrine or its contrary that it might not for
part of a religion. But, fortunately, it is not necessary
to any part of the discussion on which I propose to ente ,
that this question should be settled.
.
Secondly, religion may mean a ceremonial or cuLt, m
volving an organized priesthood and a machinery of
T
�6
The Bearing of Morals
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 Christianity. A nation is said to have em
braced a religion 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 management of public affairs.
So the northern nations of Europe are said to have em
braced the Catholic religion at an early date. The rea
son why it seems to me convenient to take these two
meanings together is, that they 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 professional acts of the priest
hood.
Thirdly, religion may mean a body of precepts or code
of rules, intended to guide human conduct, as in this
sentence of the authorised version of the New Testa
ment : “ Pure religion and undefiled before God and the
Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their
affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world.”
(James i. 27). It is sometimes difficult to draw the line
bet ween this meaning and the last, for it is a mark of the
great majority of religions that they confound ceremonial
observances 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 prohi
bition 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 be
tween moral and positive commands, and to class all those
�.on Religion.
7
precepts which are not of universal moral obligation
under the head of ceremonial. And, in fact, when we
come to examine the matter from the point of view of
morality, the distinction is of course of the utmost im
portance. But from the point of view of religion there
are difficulties in making it. ' In the first place, the dis
tinction 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 materialism and
murder. Less than a hundred years ago sacrilege was
punishable by burning in France, and murder by simple
decapitation. In the next place, ifwe pick out a religion
at haphazard, 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 cere
monial character. We may find precepts unconnected
with any ceremonial, and yet positively immoral; and
ceremonials may be immoral in themselves, or construc
tively immoral, 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 meaning will be
included all that practically guides the life of a layman,
in so far as this guidance is supplied to him by his re
ligion.
..
Fourthly, and lastly, there is a meaning of the word.
religion which has been coming more and more promi
nently 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 definition, because I wish to deal with the concrete
in the first place, and only to pass on to the abstract m
�8
The Bearing of Morals
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, morality touched with emotion. It is thehighest morality touched with the purest emotion, an
emotion directed towards the most worthy of objects.”
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 Mormons,
and of the old cat-worshipping Egyptian. 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 considerations not only morality
touched with emotion, but also immorality touched with
emotion. In fact, what is really touched with emotion
in any case is that body of precepts for the guidance of a
layman’s life which we have taken to be the third mean
ing of religion. In that collection of precepts there may
be some agreeable to morality, and some repugnant to it,
and some indifferent, but being all enjoined by the reli
gion they will all be touched by the same religious emo
tion. Shall we then say that religion means a feeling,
an emotion, an habitual attitude of mind towards some
object or objects, or towards 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 habitual attitude of mind, of a religious character,
does always 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 application—they do not want to listen to “cauld
morality.” And it seems as if the religious feeling of the
Greeks, and partly also of our own ancestors, was so far
�on Religion.
9
divorced from morality that it affected it only, as it were,
by a side-wind, through the influence of the character
and example of the gods. So that it. seems only likely
to create confusion if we mix up morality with this fourth
meaning of religion. Sometimes religion means a code
of precepts, and sometimes it means a devotional habit ot
mind ; the two things are sometimes connected, but also
they are sometimes quite distinct. But that the connec
tion of these two things is more and more insisted 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 a closer definition.
But I am not at all prepared to say what attitude of mind
may properly be called religious, and what may not.
Some will hold that religion must have a person for its
object; but Buddha was filled with religious feeling, and
yet he had no personal object. Spinoza,.the god-intoxi
cated man, had no personal object for his devotion. It
might be possible to frame a definition which would
fairly include all cases, but it would require the expendi
ture of vast ingenuity and research, and would not,
I am inclined to think, be of much use when it was ob
tained.
Nor is the difficulty to be got over by taking any de
finite and well-organized sect, whose principles are settled
in black and white ; for example, the Boman Catholic
Church, whose seamless unity has just been exhibited
and protected by an (Ecumenical 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 public sentiment willj. bear ?Eor
assuredly common-sense morality will passjvery different
judgments on these two distinct religions, although it
�IO
The Bearing of Morals
appears that experts have found room for both of them'
within the limits of the Vatican definitions.
Moreover, there is very great good to be got by widen
ing 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 circum
stances, have believed in doctrines that were false, have
supported priesthoods 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 doc
trines, 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 re
gard 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 t^vo 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 and recognised the duty of intellectual honesty, of
carefully testing every belief before he received 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-
�on Religion.
11
remember that one of these sayings is in the well-known
forged passage at the end of the second gospel, and that
the other occurs only in the late and legendary fourth
gospel; both being described as spoken under utterly
impossible circumstances. 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 intellectual 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 wrongness of belief in a doctrine de
pends only upon the nature of the evidence for it, and
not upon what the doctrine is. But there is a very im
portant way in which religious doctrine may lead to
morality or immorality, and in which, therefore, morality
has a bearing upon doctrine. It is when that doctrine
declares the character and actions of the gods who are
regarded as objects of reverence 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 unscrupulous man
ner, 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
Rep. ii. 378. Tr. Davies and Vaughan.
�12
The Bearing of Morals
embroidery, the battles of the giants, and numerous other feuds of
all sorts, in which 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
children from the first, by old men and old women, and all elderly
persons; and such is the strain in which our poets must be com
pelled to write. But stories like the chaining of Here by her son,
and the flinging of Hephaistos out of heaven for trying to take his
mother’s part when his father was beating her, and all those battles
of the gods which are to be found in Homer, must be refused ad
mittance 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, per
haps, 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 promotion of virtue. ”
And Seneca says the same thing, with still more rea
son 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 licence and excuse for the corrupt act
under the divine protection ?” And again, of the cha
racter 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 uncommon to find “ the intending
sinner addressing to the deified vice which he contem
plated a prayer for the success of his design ; the adul
teress imploring of Venus the favours 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 worshipped
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;
* North British Review, 1867, p. 284.
�cn Religion.
ij
the social forces worked steadily on wherever there was
peace and a settled government and municipal freedom ;
and the wicked stories of theologians were somehow ex
plained 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 Hephaistos out of heaven
for trying to help his mother, Plato says that this fiction
must be suppressed by law. We cannot follow him
there, for since his time we have had too much of trying
to suppress false doctrines by law. Plato thinks it quite
obviously clear that God cannot produce evil, and he
would stop everybody’s mouth who ventured to say that
he can. But in regard to the doctrine itself, we can
only 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 to prove that Zeus kicked Hephaistos out
of heaven. That a doctrine may lead to immoral conse
quences is no reason for disbelieving it. But whether'
the doctrine were true or false, one thing does clearly
follow from its moral character: namely this, that if
Zeus behaved as he is said to have behaved he ought not'
to be worshipped. To those who complain of his violence
and injustice, it is no answer to say that the divine attri
butes are far above human comprehension, that the wavs
of Zeus are not our ways, neither are his thoughts our
thoughts. If he is to be worshipped, he must do some
thing 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 what bad
men do. So soon as they are thus represented, 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 worship of a character so repre
sented. If there really is good evidence that Zeus kicked
�14
The Bearing of Morals
Hephaistos out of heaven, and seduced Alkmene by a
mean 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, morality has
a very carious indirect effect on the religious doctrine
itself. As soon as the offerings become less frequent, the
evidence for the doctrine begins to fade away; the pro
cess of theological interpretation gradually brings out
the true inner meaning of it, that Zeus did not kick
Hephaistos out of heaven, and did not seduce Alk
mene.
Is this a merely theoretical discussion about far-away
things ? Let us come back for a moment to our own
time and country, and think whether there can be any
lesson for us in this refusal of common-sense morality to
worship a deity whose actions are a magnified copy of
what bad men do. There are three doctrines which find
very wide acceptance among our countrymen at the pre
sent day: the doctrines of original sin,vof a vicarious
sacrifice, and of eternal punishments. We are not con
cerned with any refined evaporations of these doctrines
which are exhaled by courtly theologians, but with the
naked statements which are put into the minds of chil
dren and of ignorant people, which are taught broadcast
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 impression 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 between
the bars upon the burning coals, there to writhe for
ever. The masses do not get the elegant 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
�on Religion.
15
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
anything else. This must be said to all kinds and con
ditions of men : that if God holds all mankind guilty for
the sin of Adam, if he has visited upon the innocent the
punishment of the guilty, if he is to torture any single
soul for ever, then it is wrong to worship him.
But there is something to be said also to those who
think that religious beliefs are not indeed true, but are
useful for the masses ; who deprecate any open and public
argument against them, and think that all sceptical 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 : “T7e ought to esteem vt
of the greatest importance that the fictions which children
first hear should be adapted in the most perfect 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
fictions, is it not better, at least, that they should believe
those which are adapted to the promotion of virtue ?
Now the stories which you send your servants and chil
dren to hear are adapted to the promotion of vice. So
far as the remedy is in your own hands, you are bound
to apply it; stop your voluntary subscriptions and the
moral support of your presence from any place where the
criminal doctrines are taught. ¥ou 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 con
tinual 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
�16
The Bearing of Morals
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 principle
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 endeavour to find out and to see
for ourselves what is right and what is wrong, it must
be nothing short of a moral suicide to delegate our con
science to another man. It is true that when we are in
difficulties, and do not altogether see our way, we quite
rio-htly seek counsel and advice of some friend who has
more experience, more wisdom begot by it, more devo
tion to the right than ourselves, and who, not being in
volved in the difficulties which encompass us, may more
easily see the way out of them. But such counsel does
not and ought not to take the place of our private judg
ment ; 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 in
fluence's 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 sub
ject. But that claim is one which, as it seems to me,
ought to condemn the priesthood making it in the eyes
of every conscientious man. We must take care to keep
�on Religion.
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 dutiesof 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 thehealthy conscience of all men at a given time ; but which,
nevertheless, taught this as an infallible 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 is a common perception by men
of what is good for man. It arises, not in one man’smind by a flash of genius or a transport of ecstasy, but
in all men’s minds, as the fruit of their necessary inter
course and united labour for a common object. When
an infallible authority is set up, the voice of this natural
human conscience must be hushed and schooled, and
made to speak the words of a formula. Obedience be
comes 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 a nation. The natural conse
quence is that it fades gradually out and ends by disap
pearing altogether. 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 popu
lations 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 effects 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
�18
The Bearing of Morals
absolutely under priestly control. Men must live together
and work for common objects even in priest-ridden
■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 gra
dually to reinforce 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. The goodness of men shows itself in time
more powerful than the wickedness of some of their re
ligions.
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
—“Is 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 intrinsic
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, be
tween a priest, who lays claim to a magical character
and powers, and a clergyman, in the English sense, as
it was understood in Hume’s day, whose office was to
remind people of their duties every Sunday, and
to represent a certain standard of culture in remote
country districts. It will, perhaps, conduce to clear-
�on Religion.
19
ness if we use the word priest exclusively in the first
sense.
There is another confusion which we must endeavour
to avoid, if we would really get at the truth of this
matter. When one ventures to doubt whether the
Catholic clergy has really been an unmixed blessing to
Europe, one is generally 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, for there is
a sense in which the Sermon on the Mount and the
Catholic clergy have something to do with each other.
The Sermon on the Mount is admitted on all hands to
be the best and most precious thing that Christianity
has offered to the world ; and it cannot be doubted that
the Catholic clergy of East and West were the only
spokesmen of Christianity until the Reformation, and
are the spokesmen of the vast majority of Christians at
this moment. But it must surely be unnecessary to say,
in a Protestant country, that the Catholic Church and
the Gospel are two very different things. The moral
teaching of Christ, as partly preserved in the three first
gospels, or—which is the same thing—the moral teach
ing of the great Rabbi Hillel, as partly preserved in the
Pirke Aboth, 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 supreme 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 com
batant—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 is for me ?
�20
The Bearing of Morals
And if I am only for myself, where is the use of me ?
And if not noiv, when ?" It would be hard to find a morestriking contrast than exists between the sturdy unsel
fish independence of this saying, and the abject and
selfish servility of the priest-ridden claimant of the skies.
It was this heroic people that produced the morality of
the Sermon on the Mount. But it was not they who
produced the priests and the dogmas of Catholicism.
Shaven crowns, linen vestments, and the claim to priestly
rule over consciences, these were dwellers on the banks
of the Nile. The gospel indeed came out of Judaea, bub
the Church and her dogmas came out of Egypt. 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 Nazianzum remarks with wonder that Egypt,
having so lately worshipped 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
sunk lower. The empire, which in the time of Augustus
had dreaded, and with reason, the corrupting influenceof Egyptian superstitions, was now eaten up by them,
and rapidly rotting away.
Then, when we ask what has been the influence of the
Catholic clergy upon European nations, we are not in
quiring about the results of accepting the morality of the
Sermon on the Mount; we are inquiring into the effect
of attaching 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 authority, which enables us
to profit by the experience of other men. The great
civilised countries on the continent of Europe at the
present day—France, Germany, Austria, and Italy—
* See Sharpe, ‘ Egyptian Mythology and Egj ptian Christianity,’ p. 114.
�on Religion.
21
have had an extensive experience of the Catholic ^ergy
for a great number of centuries, and. they are forced by
strong practical reasons to form a. judgment, upon the
•character and tendencies of an institution which is sutficiently powerful to command the attention of all w o
are interested in public affairs. We might add the ex
perience of our forefathers three centuries ago, and ot
Ireland at this moment; but home politics are apt to be
looked upon with other eyes than those of reason. Let
us hear, then, the judgment of the civilised people o
Europe on this question.
It is a matter of notoriety that an aider and abettor ot
clerical pretensions is regarded in France as an enemy
of France and of Frenchmen ; 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 revolutionary en
thusiasts who have cast away all the beliefs of their
childhood and all bonds connecting them with the past,
but by a great and increasing majority of sober and con
scientious 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 before them, and by a
sense of the continuity of national life. The profound
conviction and determination of the people in all these
countries, that the clergy must be restricted to a purely
ceremonial province, and must not be allowed to inter
fere, as clergy, in public affairs—this conviction and de
termination, I say, are not the effect of a rejection of the
Catholic dogmas. Such rejection has not in fact been
made in Catholic countries by the great, majority. It
involves many difficult speculative questions, the pro
found 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 cen
�22
The Bearing of Morals
tral doctrines of their religions, are far more really and
practically shocked and pained by the moral consequences
of clerical ascendancy. 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, by daily and hourly expe
rience ; and to its character they are competent wit
nesses. JSo man can express his convictions more
forcibly than by acting upon them in a great and solemn
matter of national importance. In all these countries
the conviction of the serious and sober majority of the
people is embodied, and is being daily embodied, in
special legislation, openly and avowedly intended to
guard against clerical aggression." The more closely the
legislature of these countries reflects the popular will,
the more clear and pronounced does this tendency be
come. It may be thwarted or evaded for the moment
by constitutional devices and parliamentary tricks, but
sooner 01 later the nation will be thoroughly represented
in all of them ; and as to what is then to be expected 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 characters of our nation in
past times. We have spoken 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 neighbour’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 struc
ture 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
�on Religion.
2$
which bring different nations together—all these they
see to be menaced with a great and real and even press
ing 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, perhaps, ourselves not free
from such a domestic danger; but no one can doubt that
the danger would speedily arise if all Europe at our side
should become again barbaric, not with the weakness
and docility of a barbarism which has never known better,
but with the strength of a past civilisation perverted to
the service of evil.
Those who know best, then, about the Catholic priest
hood 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 condition of
things is quite new, and has in fact been created by the
Vatican Council. In the Middle Ages> they say, the
Church did incalculable service ; or even if you do not
allow that, yet the ancient Egyptian priesthood invented
many useful arts; or if you have read anything which is
not to their credit, there were the Babylonians and
Assyrians who had priests, thousands of years ago ; and
in fact, the more you go back into prehistoric ages, and
the further you go away into 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 neighbouring countries, where the facts can actually
be got at, the more complete is the evidence against the
priesthoods of these times and places. But the whole
argument is founded upon what is at least a doubtful
view of human nature and of society. Just as an early
school of geologists were accustomed to explain the pre
sent state of the earth’s surface by supposing that in
�24
The Bearing of Morals
primitive ages the processes of geologic change were far
more violent and rapid than they are now—so cata
strophic, indeed, as to constitute a thoroughly different
state of things—so there is a school of historians who
think that the intimate structure of human nature, its
capabilities of learning and of adapting itself to society,
have so far altered within the historic period as to make
the present processes of social change totally different in
character from those even of the moderately distant past.
They think that institutions and conditions which are
plainly harmful to us now have at other times and places
■done good and serviceable work. War, pestilence, priest
craft, and slavery have been represented as positive
boons to an early state of society. They are not
blessings to us, it is true; but then times have altered
very much.
On the other hand, a later school of geologists have
■seen reason to think that the processes of change have
never, since the earth finally solidified, been very diffe
rent from what they áre now. More rapid, indeed, they
must have been in early times, for many reasons; but
not so very much more rapid as to constitute an entirely
different state of things. And it does seem to me in
like manner that a wider and more rational view of his
tory will recognise more and more of the permanent and
less and less of the changeable 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 present cen
tury, before Englishmen made any railways there : I
suppose the main difference is that the Egyptians washed
themselves. It seems more analogous to what we find
�on Religion.
2$
in other fields of inquiry, to suppose that there, are cer
tain great broad principles of human life ■which have
been true all along; that certain conditions have always
been favourable to the health of society, and certain
other conditions always hurtful.
Now, although I have many times asked for it, from
those who said that somewhere and at some time man
kind 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 depositories 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
Agesnearly all learned men were obliged to become priests
and monks. “ Then again, the bishops have sometimes
acted as tribunes of the people, to protect them against
the tyranny of kings.” No doubt, when Pope and Caesar
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 prevented 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 en
slave the people, and have quarrelled with each other;,
certainly we are very much obliged to them for quarrel
ling, but a condition of still greater happiness and security
would be 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 placesthe enemy of all men—Sacerdos semper, ubique, et omni
bus 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
Amberley is quite right insayingthat the blame rests more
�06
The Bearing of Morals
.with the laity than with the priesthood; that it has in
sisted on magic and mysteries, and has forced the priest
hood 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 existing, 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 disease which gave it birth. One of
these ways is so marked and of such practical import
ance that we are bound to consider it here; I mean the
education of children. If there is one lesson which his
tory forces upon us in every page, it is this : keep your
children away from 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 apparently harmless
religions may do incalculable mischief if they get educa
tion into their hands. To the early Mohammedans the
mosque was the one public building in every place where
public business could be transacted ; and so it was natu
rally the place of primary education, which they held to
be a matter of supreme importance. By-and-bye, as the
clergy grew up, the mosque was gradually usurped by
them, and primary education fell into their hands. Then
ensued a “ revival of religion
religion became a fana
ticism : books were burnt 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 labours of students of the early history of institu
tions—notably Sir Henry Maine and M. Laveleye—have
disclosed to us an element of society which appears to
have existed in all times and places, and which is the
basis of our own social structure. The village commu
nity, or commune, or township, found in tribes of the
most vaiied race and time, has so modified itself as to
get adapted in one place or another to all the different
�on Religion.
27
•conditions of human existence. 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 beings—thinking
and talking in general conceptions about the facts that
make up our life, feeling a necessity to act, not for our
selves, but for Ourself, for the larger life of Man in which
wre are elements ; such moral and rational beings, I say,
Man has made us. By Man I mean men organized into
a society, which fights for its life, not only as a mere col
lection of men who must separately be kept alive, but as
a society. It must fight, not only against external ene
mies, 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. Conscience—the 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 Our
self, not ourselves, that makes for righteousness.
The codes of morality, then, which are adopted into
various religions, and afterwards taught as parts of reli
gious systems, are derived from secular sources. The
most ancient version of the Ten Commandments, what
ever 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 Chaldsea. 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 history. Some
times they invert its precepts—telling men to be sub■ missive under oppression because the powers that be are
ordained of God ; telling them to believe where they have
not seen, 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 betray their country
�28
The Bearing of Morals
for the sake of their church; But there is one great dis
tinction to which I wish, in conclusion, to call special
attention—a distinction 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 experience; 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 of a god. But the explanation takes two dif
ferent forms: the god may speak in us for Man’s
sake, or for his own sake.
If he speaks for his
own sake—and this is what generally happens when
he has priests who lay claim to a magical charac
ter 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 for
his soul’s health. When men respect human life for the
sake of Man, tranquillity, order, and progress go hand in
hand ; but those who only respected human life because
God had forbidden murder, have set their mark upon
Europe in fifteen centuries of blood and fire.
These are only two examples of a general rule. Wher
ever the allegiance of men has been diverted from Man
to some divinity who speaks 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 upon
wrong grounds, and they were not obeyed. But right
precepts are not always enforced ; the fact that the foun
tains of morality have been poisoned makes it easy to
substitute wrong precepts for right ones.
To this same treason against humanity belongs the
claim of the priesthood to take away the guilt of a sinner
after confession has been made to it. The Catholic priest
�on Religion.
professes to act as an ambassador for his God, and to
absolve the guilty man by conveying to him the forgive
ness of heaven. If his credentials were ever so sure, it
he were indeed the ambassador of a superhuman power,
the claim would be treasonable. Can the favour of the
Czar make guiltless the murderer of old men and women
and children in Circassian 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 committing new ones
which he does like. Many a remorseful despot has
atoned for the levities of his youth by the persecution of
heretics in his old age. That frightful crime, the adul
teration of food, could not possibly be so common
amongst 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, as quite naturally set
right by a punctual attendance at church on Sundays.
When a Ritualist breaks his fast before celebrating the
Holy Communion, his deity can forgive him, if he likes,
for the matter concerns nobody else; but no deity can
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 reli
gions, because they seek their springs of action ultra
monies, outside of the common experience and daily life
of man. And I remark about them that they are espe
cially 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 do not get the things
done.
But there are forms of religious emotion which do not
thus undermine the conscience. Par be it from me to
�3©
The Bearing of Morals on Religion.
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 something which may
justify that thought. In such a moment of utter sin
cerity, when a man has bared his own soul before the
immensities and the eternities, a presence, in which his
own poor personality is shrivelled 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 thispresence; 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—tencLentesque
manus ripcB ulterioris amore. For, after all, such a helper ,
of men, outside of humanity, the truth will not allow us
to see. The dim and shadowy outlines of the super
human 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 inmost depth of every soul, 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 !”
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The bearing of morals on religion : a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, St George's Hall, Langham Place, on Sunday afternoon, 4th March, 1877
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NATIONAL SECULAR SOCIETY
THE
FIRST & THE LAST CATASTROPHE ;
A CRITICISM
ON SOME RECENT SPECULATIONS ABOUT THE
DURATION OF THE UNIVERSE.
DELIVERED BEFORE THE
SUNDAY LECTURE
SOCIETY,
ON
SUNDAY
AFTERNOON,
12 th
APRIL,
1874.
BY
Professor W. K. CLIFFORD, F.R.S.
Reprinted from the ‘ Fortnightly Review,' by hind permission of the Editor.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY THE SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY.
1875.
Price Threepence.
�SYLLABUS.
Professor Clerk Maxwell, in his lecture on
“ Molecules,” delivered to the British Association at
Bradford, argued from the absolute similarity of
certain molecules in the Sun and Stars and upon
the earth’s surface, that they can neither have been
evolved by any natural process nor have existed
from all eternity. In the first part of the lecture it
will be argued that we have no evidence of such
absolute exactness as would warrant the first con
clusion, and that a theory of the evolution of matter
may yet be looked upon as a possibility.
Sir William Thomson has remarked that if,
assuming Fourier’s laws of the conduction of heat,
we endeavoui’ to calculate the past history of any
portion of matter, this calculation is only successful
for a limited time, and that at a certain date this
portion of matter must have been in a state which
cannot have resulted by the conduction of heat from
any previous state. Some writers (Mr. Murphy,
'Scientific Bases of Faith;’ Professor Jevons,
' Principles of Science,’ p. 438) have inferred from
this that we have evidence either of a beginning of
the universe or of a change in the laws of nature at
a distant date. The Second Part of the Lecture will
be devoted to showing that this inference is not a
valid one, and that we have no such evidence of a
beginning of the present order of things.
Finally, it will be pointed out that the field of
healthy human interest is limited to so much of the
past as can serve as guide to our actions, and so
much of the future as may be appreciably affected
by them.
�THE
FIRST & THE LAST CATASTROPHE;
A CRITICISM
ON SOME RECENT SPECULATIONS ABOUT THE
DURATION OF THE UNIVERSE.
PROPOSE in this lecture to consider speculations of
quite recent days about the beginning and the end of
the world. The world is a very interesting thing, and I
suppose that from the earliest times that men began to form
any coherent idea of it at all, they began to guess in some
way or other how it was that it all began, and how it was
all going to end. But there is one peculiarity about these
speculations which I wish now to consider, that makes them
quite different from the early guesses of which we read in
many ancient books. These modern speculations are
attempts to find out how things began, and how they are
to end, by consideration of the way in which they are
going on now. And it is just that character of these
speculations that gives them their interest for you and for
me; for we have only to consider these questions from the
scientific point of view. By the scientific point of view,
I mean one which attempts to apply past experience to new
circumstances according to an observed order of nature.
So that we shall only consider the way in which things
began, and the way in which they are to end, in so far as
we seem able to draw inferences about those questions
from facts which we know about the way in which things
are going on now. And, in fact, the great interest of the
subject to me lies in the amount of illustration which it
offers of the degree of knowledge which we have now
attained of the way in which the universe is going on.
I
�4
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
The first of these speculations is one set forth by Pro
fessor Clerk Maxwell, in a lecture on Molecules, delivered
before the British Association at Bradford. By a coinci
dence, which to me is a happy one, at this moment Pro
fessor Maxwell is lecturing to the Chemical Society of
London upon the evidences of the molecular constitution
of matter.
*
Now, this argument of his, which he put
before the British Association at Bradford, depends entirely
upon the modern theory of the molecular constitution of
matter. I think this the more important, because a great
number of people appear to have been led to the conclusion
that this theory is very similar to the guesses which we
find in ancient writers—Democritus and Lucretius. It so
happens that these ancient writers did hold a view of the
constitution of things which in many striking respects
agrees with the view which we hold in modern times.
This parallelism has been brought recently before the
public by Professor Tyndall in his excellent address at
Belfast. And it is perhaps on account of the parallelism,
which he pointed out at that place, between the theories
held amongst the ancients and the theory now held amongst
the moderns, that many people who are acquainted with
classic literature have thought that a knowledge of the
views of Democritus and Lucretius would enable them to
understand and criticise the modern theory of matter.
That, however, is a mistake. The difference between the
two is mainly this : the atomic theory of Democritus was
a guess, and no more than a guess. Everybody around
him was guessing about the origin of things, and they
guessed in a great number of ways ; but he happened to
make a guess which was more near the right thing than
any of the others. This view was right in its main hypo
thesis, that all things are made up of elementary parts,
and that the different properties of different things depend
rather upon difference of arrangement than upon ultimate
difference in the substance of which they are composed.
* See Nature, vol. viii., pp. 441, and vol. xi., pp. 357,374.
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
$
Although this was contained in the atomic theory of
Democritus, as expounded by Lucretius, yet it will be
found by any one who examines further the consequences
which are drawn from it, that it very soon diverges from
the truth of things, as we might naturally expect it
would. On the contrary, the view of the constitution of
matter which is held by scientific men in the present day
is not a guess at all.
In the first place I will endeavour to explain what are
the main points in this theory. First of all we must take
the simplest form of matter, which turns out to be a gas,
—such, for example, as the air in this room. The belief
of scientific men in the present day is that this air is not
a continuous thing, that it does not fill the whole of th®
space in the room, but is made up of an enormous num
ber of exceedingly small particles. There are two sorts of
particles : one sort of particle is oxygen, and another sort
of particle nitrogen. All the particles of oxygen are as
near as possible alike in these two respects ; first in weighty
and secondly in certain peculiarities of mechanical struc
ture. These small molecules are not at rest in the room,
but are flying about in all directions with a mean velocity
of seventeen miles a minute. They do not fly far in one
direction ; but any particular molecule, after going over an
incredibly short distance—the measure of which has been
made—meets another, not exactly plump, but a little on
one side, so that they behave to one another somewhat in
the same way as two people do who are dancing Sir Roger
de Coverley; they join hands, swing round, and then fly
away in different directions. All these molecules are con
stantly changing the direction of each other’s motion;
they are flying about with very different velocities, although,
as I have said, their mean velocity is about seventeen miles
a minute. If the velocities were all marked off on a scale,
they would be found distributed about the mean velocity
just as shots are distributed about a mark. If a great
many shots are fired at a target, the hits will be found
thickest at the bull’s-eye, and they will gradually diminish
�6
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
as we go away from that, according to a certain law, which
is called the law of error. It was first stated clearly by
La Place ; and it is one of the most remarkable conse
quences of theory that the molecules of a gas have
their velocities distributed amongst them precisely accord
ing to this law of error. In the case of a liquid, it is
believed that the state of things is quite different. We
said that in the gas the molecules are moved in straight
lines, and that it is only during a small portion of their
motion that they are deflected by other molecules ; but in
a liquid we may say that the molecules go about as if they
were dancing the grand chain in the Lancers. Every mole
cule after parting company with one finds another, and so
is constantly going about in a curved path, and never gets
quite clear away from the sphere of action of the surround
ing molecules. But notwithstanding that, all molecules in
a liquid are constantly changing their places, and it is for
that reason that diffusion takes place in the liquid. Take
a large tank of water and drop a little iodine into it, and
you will find after a certain time all the water turned
slightly blue. That is because all the iodine molecules
have changed like the others and spread themselves over
the whole of the tank. Because, however, you cannot see
this, except where you use different colours, you must not
suppose that it does not take place where the colours are
the same. In every liquid all the molecules are running
about and continually changing and mixing themselves up
in fresh forms. In the case of a solid quite a different
thing takes place. In a solid every molecule has a place
which it keeps ; that is to say, it is not at rest any more
than a molecule of a liquid or a gas, but it has a certain
mean position which it is always vibrating about and keep
ing fairly near to, and it is kept from losing that position
by the action of the surrounding molecules. These are
the main points of the theory of the constitution of matter
as at present believed.
It differs from the theory of Democritus in this way.
There is no doubt that in the first origin of it, when
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
7
it was suggested to the mind of Daniel Bernouilli as an
explanation of the pressure of gases, or to. the mind of
Dalton as an explanation of chemical reactions, it was a
guess; that is to say, it was a supposition which would
explain these facts of physics and chemistry,.but which was
not known to be true. Some theories are still in that posi
tion ; other theories are known to be true, because they
can be argued back to from the facts. In order to make
out that your supposition is true, it is necessary to show,
not merely that that particular supposition will explain the
facts, but also that no other one will. Now, by the efforts
of Clausius and Clerk Maxwell, the molecular theory or
matter has been put in this other position. Namely,.instead
no.w of saying, Let us suppose that such and such things are
true, and then deducing from that supposition what the con
sequences ought to be, and showing that these consequences
are just the facts which we observe ; instead of doing that, I
say, we make-certain experiments, we show that certain facts
are’undoubtedly true, and from these facts we go back by a
direct chain of logical reasoning, which there is. no way of
getting out of, to the statement that all matter is made up
of separate pieces or molecules, and that in matter of a
given kind, in oxygen, or in hydrogen, or in nitrogen, these
molecules are of very nearly the same weight, and have
certain mechanical properties which are common to all of
them. In order to show you something of the kind of
■evidence for that statement, I must mention another theory
which, as it seems to me, is in the same position; namely,
the doctrine of the luminiferous ether, or that wonderful
substance which is distributed all over space, and which
carries light and radiant heat. By means of certain experi
ments upon interference of light, we can show, not by any
hypothesis, not by any guess at all, but by a pure interpre
tation of the experiment—we can show that in every ray
of light there is some change or other, whatever it is,
which is periodic in time and in place. By saying it is
periodic in time, I mean that at a given point of the ray
of light, this change increases up to a certain instant, then
�8
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
decreases, then increases in the opposite direction, and
then decreases again, and so on alternately. That is
shown by experiments of interference; it is not a theory
which will explain the facts, but it is a fact which is
got out of observation. By saying that this pheno
menon is periodic in space, I mean that, if at any given
instant you could examine the ray of light, you would
find that some change or disturbance, whatever it is
has taken place all along it in different degrees.
It
vanishes at certain points, and between these it increases
gradually to a maximum on one side and the other alter
nately. That is to say, in travelling along a ray of light
there. is a certain change (which can be observed by
experiments, by operating upon a ray of light with other
rays of light), which goes through a periodic variation in
amount. The height of the sea, as you know if you travel
along it, goes through certain periodic changes ; it increases
and decreases, and increases and decreases again at definite
intervals. And if you take the case of waves travelling
over the sea, and place yourself at a given point, say you
put a cork upon the surface, you will find that the cork
will rise up and down, that is to say, there will be a change
or displacement of the cork s position, which is periodic in
time, .which increases and decreases, then increases in the
opposite direction, and decreases again. Now, this fact,
which is established by experiment, and which is not a
guess at all, the fact that light is a phenomenon, periodic
in time and space, is what we call the wave theory of
light. The word theory here does not mean a guess; it
means an organised account of the facts, such that from
it you may deduce results which are applicable to future
experiments, the like of which have not yet been made.
But we can see more than this. So far we say that
light consists of waves, merely in the sense that it consists
of some phenomenon or other which is periodic in time
and in place ; but we know that a ray of light or heat is
capable of doing work. Radiant heat, for example, striking
on a body, will warm it and enable it to do work by ex*
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
9
pansion; therefore this periodic phenomenon which takes
place in a ray of light is something or other which possesses
mechanical energy, which is capable of doing work. We
may make it, if you like, a mere matter of definition, and
say: Any change which possesses energy is a motion of
matter; and this is perhaps the most intelligible definition
of matter that we can frame. In that sense, and in that
sense only, it is a matter of demonstration, and not a
matter of guess, that light consists of the periodic motion
of matter, of something which is between the luminous
object and our eyes.
But that something is not matter in the ordinary
sense of the term, it is not made up of such molecules
as gases and liquids and solids are made up of. This
last statement again is no guess, but a proved fact.
There are people who ask, Why is it necessary to
suppose a luminiferous ether to be anything else except
molecules of matter in space, in order to carry light
about ? The answer is a very simple one. In order that
separate molecules may carry about a disturbance, it is
necessary that they should travel at least as fast as the
disturbance travels. Now we know by means that I shall
afterwards come to, that the molecules of gas travel at a
very ordinary rate, about twenty times as fast as a good
train. But, on the contrary, we know by the most certain
of all evidence, by five or six different means, that the velo
city of light is 200,000 miles a second. By that very simple
consideration we are able to tell that it is quite impossible
for light to be carried by the molecules of ordinary matter,
and that it wants something else that lies between those
molecules to carry the light. Now remembering the
evidence which we have for the existence of this ether,
let us consider another piece of evidence, let us now
consider what evidence we have that the molecules of ~a
gas are separate from one another and have something
between them. We find out, by experiment again, that the
different colours of light depend upon the various rapidity
of these waves, depend upon the size and upon the length
�io
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
of the waves that travel through the ether, and that when
we send light through glass or any transparent medium
except a vacuum, the waves of different lengths travel
with different velocities. That is the case with the sea;
we find that long waves travel faster than short ones. In
much the same way, when light comes out of a vacuum
and impinges upon any transparent medium, say upon
glass, we find that the rate of transmission of all the light
is diminished, that it goes slower when it gets inside of
a material body ; and that this change is greater in the
case of small waves than of large ones. The small waves
correspond to blue light and the large waves correspond to
red light. The waves of red light are not .made to travel
so slowly as the waves of blue light, but, as in the case of
waves travelling over the sea, when light moves in the
interior of a transparent body the largest waves travel
most quickly. Well, then, by using such a body as will
separate out the different colours—a prism—we are able
to affirm what are the constituents of the light which
strikes upon it. The light that comes from the sun is
made up of waves of various lengths; but making it pass
through a prism we can separate it out into a spectrum,
and in that way we find a band of light instead of a spot
coming from the sun, and to every band in the spectrum
corresponds a wave of a certain definite length and definite
time in vibration. Now we come to a very singular
phenomenon. If you take a gas such as chlorine and
interpose it in the path of that light, you will find that
certain particular rays of the spectrum are absorbed, while
others are not. Now how is it that certain particular rates
of vibration can be absorbed by this chlorine gas while
others are not ? That happens in this way, that the
chlorine gas consists of a great number of very small struc
tures, each of which is capable of vibrating internally.
Each of these structures is complicated, and is capable of a
change of relative position amongst its parts of a vibratory
character. We know that molecules are capable of such
internal vibrations, for this reason, that if we heat any
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
11
solid body sufficiently it will in time give out light; that
is to say, the molecules are got into such a state of vibration
that they start the ether vibrating, and they start the
ether vibrating at the same rate at which they vibrate
themselves. So that what we learn from the absorption of
certain particular rays of light by chlorine gas, is that the
molecules of that gas are structures which have certain
natural rates of vibration which they absorb, precisely those
rates of vibration which belong to the molecules naturally.
If you sing a certain note to a string of a piano, that string if
in tune will vibrate. If, therefore, a screen of such strings
were put across a room, and you sang a note on one side,
a person on the other side would hear the note very weakly
or not at all, because it would be absorbed by the strings ;
but if you sang another note, not one to which the strings
naturally vibrated, then it would pass through, and would
not be eaten up by setting the strings vibrating. Now this
question arises. Let us put the molecules aside for a
moment. Suppose we do not know of their existence, and
say, is this rate of vibration which naturally belongs to the
gas, a thing which belongs to it as a whole, or does it
belong -to separate parts of it ? You might suppose that it
belongs to the gas as a whole. A jar of water if you shake
it has a perfectly definite time in which it oscillates, and
that is very easily measured. That time of oscillation
belongs to the jar of water as a whole. It depends upon
the weight of the water and the shape of the jar. But
now, by a very certain method, we know that the time of
vibration which corresponds to a certain definite gas, does
not belong to it as a whole, but belongs to the separate
parts of it, for this reason : that if you squeeze the gas you
do not alter the time of vibration. Let us suppose that we
have a great number of fiddles in a room which are all in
contact, and have strings accurately tuned to vibrate to
certain notes. If you sang one of those notes all the fiddles
would answer ; but if you compress them you clearly put
them all out of tune. They are all in contact, and they will
not answer to the note with the same precision as before.
�12
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
But if you have a room which is full of fiddles, placed at a
certain distance from one another, then if you bring them
within shorter distances of one another, so that they still
don’t touch, they will not be put out of tune, they will answer
exactly to the same note as before. We see, therefore, that
since compression of a gas within certain limits does not alter
the rate of vibration which belongs to it, that rate of vibra
tion cannot belong to the body of gas as a whole, but it must
belong to the individual parts of it. Now, by such reason
ing as this it seems to me that the modern theory of the
constitution of matter is put upon a basis which is abso
lutely independent of hypothesis. The theory is simply an
organised statement of the facts, a statement, that is, which
is rather different from the experiments, being made out
from them in just such a way as to be most convenient for
finding out from them what will be the results of other
experiments. That is all we mean at present by scientific
theory.
Upon this theory Professor Clerk Maxwell founded a
certain argument in his lecture before the British Associa
tion at Bradford. It is a consequence of the molecular
theory, as I said before, that all the molecules of a certain
given substance, say oxygen, are as near as possible alike
in two respects—first in weight, and secondly in their times
of vibration. Now Professor Clerk Maxwell’s argument
was this. He first of all said that the theory required us
to believe not that these molecules were as near as may be
alike, but that they were exactly alike in these two respects—
at least the argument appeared to me to require that. Then
he said all the oxygen we know of, whatever processes it
has gone through—whether it is got out of the atmosphere,
or out of some oxide of iron or carbon, or whether it belongs
to the sun or the fixed stars or the planets or the nebulae—
all this oxygen is alike. And all these molecules of oxygen
we find upon the earth must have existed unaltered, or
appreciably unaltered, during the whole of the time the
earth has been evolved. Whatever vicissitudes they have
gone through, how many times they have entered into
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
13
combination with iron or carbon and been carried down
beneath the crust of the earth, or set free and sent up
again through the atmosphere, they have remained stead
fast to their original form unaltered, the monuments of
what they were when the world began. Now Professor
Clerk Maxwell argues that things which are unalterable,
and are exactly alike, cannot have been formed by any
natural process. Moreover, being exactly alike, they cannot
have existed for ever, and therefore they must have been
made. As Sir John Herschell said, “they bear the stamp
of the manufactured article.”
Now, into these further deductions I do not propose to
enter at all. I confine myself strictly to the first of the
deductions which Professor Clerk Maxwell made from the
molecular theory. He said that because these molecules
are exactly alike, and because they have not been in the
least altered since the beginning of time, therefore they
cannot have been produced by any process of evolution.
It is just that question which I want to discuss. I want
to consider whether the evidence that we have to prove
that these molecules are exactly alike is sufficient to make
it impossible that they can have been produced by any
process of evolution.
The position, that this evidence is not sufficient, is
evidently by far the easier to defend; because the negative
iS proverbially hard to prove ; and if any one should
prove that a process of evolution was impossible, it would
be an entirely unique thing in science and philosophy.
In fact, we may see from this example precisely how
great is the influence of authority in matters of science.
If there is any name among contemporary natural philo
sophers to whom is due the reverence of all true students
of science, it is that of Professor Clerk Maxwell. But if
any one, not possessing his great authority, had put
forward an argument founded apparently upon a scientific
basis, in which there occurred assumptions about what
things can and what things cannot have existed from
eternity, and about the exact similarity of two or more
�14
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
things established by experiment, we should say, “ Past
eternity; absolute exactness; this won’t do; ” and we should
pass on to another book. The experience of all scientific
culture for all ages during which it has been a light to men,
has shown us that we never do get at any conclusions of that
sort. We do not get at conclusions about infinite time or
infinite exactness. We get at conclusions which are as
nearly true as experiment can show, and sometimes which
are a great deal more- correct than direct experiment can
be, so that we are able actually to correct one experiment
by deductions from another ; but we never get at con
clusions which we have a right to say are absolutely exact;
so that even if we find a man of the highest powers
saying that he had reason to believe a certain statement to
be exactly true, or that he believed a certain thing to have
existed from the beginning exactly as it is now, we must
say, “It is quite possible that a man of so great eminence
may have found out something which is entirely different
from the whole of our previous knowledge, and the thing
must be inquired into.- But, notwithstanding that, it
remains a fact that this piece of knowledge will be abso
lutely of a different kind from anything that We knew
before.”
Now let us examine the evidence by which we know
that the molecules of the same gas are as near as may be
• alike in weight and in rates of vibration. There were
experiments made by Dr. Graham, late Master of the
Mint, upon the rate at which different gases were mixed
together. He found that if he divided a vessel by a thin
partition made of black-lead or graphite, and put different
gases on the two opposite sides, they would mix together
nearly as fast as though there was nothing between them.
The difference was that the plate of graphite made it
more easy to measure the rate of mixture; and Dr.
Graham made measurements and came to conclusions
which are exactly such as are required by the molecular
theory. It is found by a process of mathematical calcula
tion that the rate of diffusion of different gases depends
�The First and the Fast Catastrophe.
15
upon the weight of the molecules. A molecule of oxygen
is sixteen times as heavy as a molecule of hydrogen,
and it is found upon experiment that hydrogen goes
through a septum or wall of graphite four times as fast as
oxygen does. Four times four are sixteen. We express
that rule in mathematics by saying that the rate of diffu
sion of gas is inversely as the square root of the mass of
its molecules. If one molecule is-thirty-six times as heavy
as another—the molecule of chlorine is nearly that multi
ple of hydrogen—it- will diffuse itself at one-sixth of
the rate.
This rule is a deduction from the molecular theory, and
it is found, like innumerable other such deductions, to come
right in practice. But now observe what is the conse
quence of this. Suppose that, instead of taking one gas and
making it diffuse itself through a wall, we take a mixture of
two gases. Suppose we put oxygen and hydrogen into one
side of a vessel which is divided into two parte by a wall of
graphite, and we exhaust the air from the other side, then the
hydrogen will go through this wall four times as fast as the
oxygen will. Consequently, as soon as the other side is full
there will be a great deal more hydrogen in it than oxygen
•—that is to say, that we shall have sifted the oxygen from
the hydrogen, not.completely, but in a great measure, pre
cisely as by means of a screen we can sift large coals from
small ones. Now, suppose when we have oxygen gas
unmixed with any other, the molecules are of two sorts
and of two different weights. Then you see that if we
make that gas pass through a porous wall, the lighter par
ticles would pass through first, and we should get two dif
ferent specimens of oxygen gas, in one of which the mole
cules would be lighter than in the other. The properties
of one of these specimens of oxygen gas would necessarily
be different from those of the other, and that difference
might be found by very easy processes. If there were any
perceptible difference between the average weight of the
molecules on the two sides of the septum, there would be
no difficulty in finding that out. No such difference has
�16
The First and the Last Catastrophe,
ever been observed. If we put any single gas into a
vessel, and we filter it through a septum of black-lead into
another vessel, we find no difference between the gas on
one side of the wall and the gas on the other side. That
is to say, if there is any difference it is too small to be
perceived by our present means of observation. It is
upon that sort of evidence that the statement rests that
the molecules of a given gas are all very nearly of the
same weight. Why do I say very nearly ? Because evi
dence of that sort can never prove that they are exactly
of the same weight. The means of measurement we have
may be exceedingly correct, but a certain limit must
always be allowed for deviation ; and if the deviation of
molecules of oxygen from a certain standard of weight
were very small, and restricted within small limits, it would
be quite possible for our experiments to give us the results
which they do now. Suppose, for example, the variation
in the size of «the oxygen atoms was as great as that in the
weight of different men, then it would be very difficult
indeed to tell by such a process of sifting what that dif
ference was, or in fact to establish that it existed at all.
But, on the other hand, if we suppose the forces which
originally caused all those molecules to be so nearly alike
as they are, to be constantly acting and setting the thing
right as soon as by any sort of experiment we set it wrong,
then the small oxygen atoms on one side would be made
up to their right size, and it would be impossible to test
the difference by any experiment which was not quicker
than the processes by which they were made right again.
There is another reason why we are obliged to regard
that experiment as only approximate, and as not giving us
any exact results. There is very strong evidence, although
it is not conclusive, that in a given gas—say in a vessel
full of carbonic acid—the molecules are not all of the
same weight. If we compress the gas, we find that when
in the state of a perfect gas, or nearly so, the pressure
increases just in the ratio that the volume diminishes.
That law is entirely explained by means of the molecular
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
iy
It is what ought to exist if the molecular theoryIf we compress the gas further, we find that the •
pressure is smaller than it ought to be according to this law..
This can be explained in two ways. First of all we may sup
pose that the molecules are so crowded that the time during
which they are sufficiently near to attract each other sensibly
becomes too large a proportion of the whole time to be
neglected; and this will account for the change in the
law. There is, however, another explanation. We may
suppose, for illustration, that two molecules approach one
another, and that the speed at which one is going relatively
to the other is very small, and then that they so direct one
another that they get caught together, and go on circling,
making only one molecule. This, on scientific principles,
will account for our fact, that the pressure in a gas which
is near a liquid state is too small—that instead of the
molecules going about singly, some are hung together in
couples and some in larger numbers, and making still larger
molecules. This supposition is confirmed very strikingly
by the spectroscope. If we take the case of chlorine gas,
we find that it changes colour—that it gets darker as it
approaches the liquid condition. This change of colour
means that there is a change in the rate of vibration which
belongs to its -component parts; and it is a very simple
mechanical deduction that the larger molecules will, as a
rule, have a slower rate of vibration than the smaller ones
—very much in the same way as a short string gives a
higher note than a long one. The colour of chlorine
changes just in the way we should expect if the molecules
instead of going about separately, were hanging together
m couples; and the same thing is true of a great number
of the metals. Mr. Lockyer, in his admirable researches
has shown that several of the metals and metalloids have
various spectra, according to the temperature and the
pressure to which they are exposed; and he has made it
exceedingly probable that these various spectra, that is,
the rates of vibration of the molecules, depend upon the
molecules being actually of different sizes. Dr. Roscoe
theory.
is true.
B
�18
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
has, a few months ago, shown an entirely new spectrum of
the metal sodium, whereby it appears that this metal exists
in a gaseous state in four different degrees of aggregation,
as a simple molecule, and as three or four or eight mole
cules together. Every increase in the complication of the
molecules—every extra molecule you hang on to the aggre
gate that goes about together, will make a difference in
the rate of the vibration of that system, and so will make
a difference in the colour of the substance.
So then we have an evidence, you see, of an entirely
extraneous character, that in a given gas the actual mole
cules that exist are not all of the same weight. Any
experiment which failed to detect this would fail to detect
any smaller difference. And here also we can see a reason
why, although a difference in the size of the molecules
does exist, yet we do not find that out by sifting. Suppose
you take oxygen gas consisting of single molecules and
double molecules, and you sift it through a plate ; the
single molecules get through first, but when they get
through, some of them join themselves together as double
molecules; and although more double molecules are left on
the other side, yet some of them separate up and make
single molecules ; so the process of sifting, which ought to
give you single molecules on the one side anti double on the
other, merely gives you a mixture of single and double on
both sides ; because the reasons which originally decided
that there should be just those two forms are always at
work, and continually setting things right.
Now let us take the other point in which molecules
are very nearly alike; viz., that they have very nearly the
same rate of vibration. The metal sodium in the common
salt upon the earth has two rates of vibration ; it sounds
two notes as it were, which are very near to each other.
They form the well-known double line D, in the yellow
part of the spectrum. These two bright yellow lines
are very easy to observe. They occur in the spectra
of a great number of stars. They occur in the solar
spectrum as dark lines, showing that there is sodium in
�The First and the Fast Catastrophe.
i9
the outer rim of the sun, which is stopping and shutting
off the light of the bright parts behind. All these
lines of sodium are just in the same position in the
spectrum, showing that the rates of vibration of all these
molecules of sodium all over the universe, so far as we
know, are as near as possible alike. That implies a
similarity of molecular structure, which is a great deal
more delicate than, mere test of weight. You may weigh
two fiddles until you are tired, and you will never find out
whether they are in tune; the one test is a great deal more
■delicate than the other, Let us see how delicate this test
is. Lord Eayleigh has remarked that there is a natural
limit for the precise position of a given line in the spec
trum, and for this reason. If a body which is emitting a
sound comes towards you, you will find that the pitch of
the sound is altered. Suppose that omnibuses run every
ten minutes in the streets, and you walk in a direction *
opposite to that in which they are coming, you will
obviously pass more omnibuses in an hour °than if you
walked in an opposite direction. If a body emitting light
is coming towards you, you will find more waves in a
certain direction than if it was going from you; conse
quently, if you are approaching a body emitting light, the
waves will come at shorter intervals, the vibration will be
of shorter period, and the light will be higher up in the
spectrum—it will be more blue. If you are going away
from the body, then the rate is slower, the light is lower
down on the spectrum, and consequently more red. By
means of such variations in the positions of certain known
lines, the actual rate of approach of certain fixed stars to
the earth has been measured, and the rate of going away
of certain other fixed stars has also been measured. Suppose
we have a gas which is glowing in a state of incandescence,
all the molecules are giving out light at a certain
specified rate of V.bration; but some of these are
coming towards us at a rate much greater than seven
teen miles a minute, because the temperature is higher
when the gas is glowing, and others are also going
�20
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
away at a much higher rate than that. The consequence is,
that instead of having one sharply defined line on the spec
trum, instead of having light of exactly one bright colour,
we have light which varies between certain limits. If
the actual rate of the vibration of the molecules of the
gas were marked down upon the spectrum, we should not
get that single bright line there, but we should get a
bright band overlapping it on each side. Lord Eayleigh
calculated that, in the most favourable circumstances, the
breadth of this band would not be less than one-hundredth
of the distance between the sodium lines. It is precisely
upon that experiment that the evidence of the exact
similarity of molecules rests. We see, therefore, from the
nature of the experiment, that we should get exactly the
same results if the rates of vibration of all the molecules
were not exactly equal, but varied within certain very
small limits.
If, for example, the rates of vibration
varied in the same way as the heads of different men,
then we should get very much what we get now from the
experiment.
From the evidence of these two facts, then, the evidence
that molecules are of the same weight and degree of
vibration, all that we can conclude is that whatever
differences there are in their weights, and whatever differ
ences there are in their degrees of vibration, these
differences are too small to be found out by our present
modes of measurement. And that is precisely all that we
can conclude in every similar question of science.
Now, how does this apply to the question whether it is
possible for molecules to have been evolved by natural
processes ? I do not understand, myself, how, even sup
posing we knew that they were 'exactly alike, we could
infer, for certain, that they had not been evolved;
because there is only one case of evolution that we know
anything at all about—and that we know very little about
yet__namely, the evolution of organised beings.
The
processes by which that evolution takes place are long,
cumbrous, and wasteful processes of natural selection and
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
21
hereditary descent. They are processes which act slowly,
which take a great lapse of ages to produce their natural
effects. But it seems to me quite possible to conceive, in
our entire ignorance of the subject, that there may be
other processes of evolution which result in a definite
number of forms,—those of the chemical elements,—just
as these processess of the evolution of organised beings
have resulted in a greater number of forms. All that we
know of the ether shows that its actions are of a rapidity
very much exceeding anything we know of the motions
of visible matter. It is a possible thing, for example,
that mechanical conditions should exist, according to
which all bodies must be made of regular solids, that
molecules should all have flat sides, and that these sides
should all be of the same shape. I suppose that it is just
conceivable that it might be impossible for a molecule to
exist with two of its faces different. In that case we
know there would be just five shapes for a molecule to exist
in, and these would be produced by process of evolution.
Now the forms of various matter that we know, and that
chemists call elements, seem to be related one to another
very much in that sort of way; that is, as if they rose out
of mechanical conditions which only rendered it possible
for a certain definite number of forms to exist, and which,
whenever any molecule deviates slightly from one of these
forms, would immediately operate to set it right again. I
do not know at all—we have nothing definite to go upon
—what the shape of a molecule is, or what is the nature
of the vibration it undergoes, or what its condition is com
pared with the ether; and in our absolute ignorance
it would be impossible to make any conception of the
mode in which it grew up. When we know as much about
the shape of a molecule as we do about the solar system,
for example, we may be as sure of its mode of evolution
as we are of the way in which the solar system came
about; but in our present ignorance all we have to do is to
show that such experiments as we can make do not give us
.evidence that it is absolutely impossible for molecules of
�22
The First and the .Last Catastrophe.
matter to have been evolved out of ether by natural
processes.
The evidence which tells us that the molecules of a
given substance are alike, is only approximate. The theory
leaves room for certain small deviations, and consequently
if there are any conditions at work in the nature of the
ether, which render it impossible for other forms of matter
than those we know of to exist, the great probability is,
that when by any process we contrive to sift molecules of
one. kind from molecules of another, these very conditions
at once bring them back and restore to us a mass of gas
consisting of molecules whose average type is a normal one.
Now I want to consider a speculation of an entirely dif
ferent character. A remark was made about thirty years ago,
by Sir William Thomson, upon the nature of certain pro
blems in the conduction of heat. These problems had been
solved by Fourier, many years before, in a beautiful
treatise. The theory was that if you knew the degree of
warmth of a body, then you could find what would happen
to it afterwards, you would find how the body would
gradually cool. Suppose you put the end of a poker in
the fire and make it red hot, that end is very much hotter
than the other end, and if you take it out and let it cool,
you will find that heat is travelling from the hot end to
the cool end, and the amount of this travelling, and the
temperature at either end of the poker can be calculated
with great accuracy. This, comes out of Fourier’s theory.
Now suppose you try to go backwards in time, and take the
poker at any instant when it is about half cool, and say,
“ this equation,—does it give me the means of finding out
what was happening to it before this time, in so far as the
present state of things has been produced by cooling?”
You will find the equation will give you an account of the
state of the poker before the time when it came into your
hands, with great accuracy up to a certain point, but beyond
that point it refuses to give you any more information, and
it begins to talk nonsense. It is in the nature of a problem
of the conduction of heat, that it allows you to trace the
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
23
forward history of it to any extent you like ; but it will
not allow you to trace the history of it backward, beyond
a certain point. There is another case in which a similar
thing happens. There is an experiment in the excellent
manual, ‘ The Boy’s Own Book,’ which tells you that if you
half fill a glass with beer, and put some paper on it, and
then pour in water carefully, and draw the paper out
without disturbing the two liquids, the water will rest on
the beer. The problem then is to drink the beer without
drinking the water, and it is accomplished by means of a
straw. Let us suppose these two liquids resting in contact ;
we shall find they begin to mix, and it is possible to write
down an equation which is exactly of the same form as
the equation for the conduction of heat, which would tell
you how much water had passed into the beer at any given
time after the mixture began. So that given the water and
the beer half mixed, you could trace forward the process of
mixing, and measure it with accuracy, and give a perfect
*
account of it; but if you attempt to trace that back you
will have a point where the equation will stop, and will
begin to talk nonsense. That is the point where you took
away the paper, and allowed the mixing to begin. If we
apply that same consideration to the case of the poker,
and try to trace back its history, you will find that the
point where the equation begins to talk nonsense is the
point where you took it out of the fire. The mathematical
theory supposes that the process of conduction of heat has
gone on in a quiet manner, according to certain defined
laws, and that if at any time there was a catastrophe, one
not included in the laws of the conduction of heat, then
the equation could give you no account of it. There is
another thing which is of the same kind, namely, the
transmission of fluid friction. If you take your tea in
your cup, and stir it round with a spoon, it won’t go on
circulating round for ever, but will come to a stop ; and
the reason is that there is a certain friction of the liquid
against the sides of the cup, and of the different parts of
the liquid with one another. Now the friction of the
�24
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
different parts of a liquid or a gas is precisely a matter of
mixing. The particles which are going fast, and are in
the middle, not having been stopped by the side, get mixed,
and the particles at the side going slow, get mixed with
the particles in the middle. This process of mixing can
be calculated, and it leads to an equation of exactly the
same sort as that which applies to the conduction of heat.
We have, therefore, in these problems a natural process
which consists in mixing things together, and this always
has the propei’ty that you can go on mixing them for ever,
without coming to anything impossible ; but if you attempt
to trace the history of the thing backward, you must
always come to a state which could not have been produced
by mixing, namely, a state of complete separation.
Now upon this remark of Sir W. Thomson’s, the true
consequences of which you will find correctly stated in
Mr. Balfour Stewart’s book on the ‘ Conservation of
Energy,’ a most singular doctrine has been founded.
These writers have been speaking of a particular pro
blem, on which they were employed at the moment.
Sir W. Thomson was speaking of the conduction of
heat, and he said this heat problem leads you back
to a state which could not have been produced by the
conduction of heat. And so Professor Clerk Maxwell,
speaking of the same problem, and also of the diffusion of
gases, said there was evidence of a limit in past time to
the existing order of things, when something else than
mixing took place. But a most eminent man, who has
done a great deal of service to mankind, Professor Stanley
Jevons, in his very admirable book, the ‘ Principles of
Science,’ which is simply marvellous for the number of
examples illustrating logical principles which he has drawn
from all kinds of regions of science, and for the small
number of mistakes that occur in it, takes this remark of
Sir W. Thomson’s, and takes out two very important
words, and puts in two other very important words. He
says, “We have here evidence of a limit of a state of
things which could not have been produced by the previous
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
2.5
state of things according to the known laws of nature.’’
It is not according to the known laws of nature, it is
according to the known laws of conduction of heat, that
Sir William Thomson is speaking; and from this . we
may see the fallacy of concluding, that if we consider
the case of the whole universe we should be able, suppose
we had paper and ink enough, to write down an equation
which would enable us to make out the history of the
world forward, as far forward as we liked to go, but if we
attempted to calculate the history of the world backward,
we should come to a point where the equation would begin
to talk nonsense, we should come to a state of things which
could not have been produced from any previous state of
things, by any known natural laws. You will see at once
that that is an entirely different statement. The same
doctrine has been used by Mr. Murphy, in a very able
book, 1 The Scientific Basis of Faith,’ to build upon it an
enormous superstructure—I think the restoration of the
Irish Church was one of the results of it. But this doctrine
is founded, as I think, upon a pure misconception. It is
founded entirely upon forgetfulness of the condition
under which the remark was originally made. All these
physical writers, knowing what they were writing about,
simply drew such conclusions from the facts which were
before them as could be reasonably drawn. They say
*
here is a state of things which could not have been pro
duced by the circumstances we are at present investigating.
Then your speculator comes, he reads a sentence and says,
Here is an opportunity for me to have my fling. And he
has his fling and makes a purely baseless theory about the
necessary origin of the present order of nature at some
definite point of time which might "be calculated. But if
we consider the matter, we shall see that this is not in any
way a consequence of the theory of the conduction of heat;
because the conduction of heat is not the only process that
goes on in the universe.
If we apply that theory to the case of the earth, we find
that at present there is evidence of a certain distribution of
�26
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
temperature in the interior of it; there is a certain rate at
which the temperature increases as we go down, and no
doubt if we made further investigations, we should find that
if we went deeper an accurate law would be found, accord
ing to which the temperature increases in the interior.
Now, assuming this to be so, taking this as the basis of
our problem, we might endeavour to find out what was the
history of the earth in past times, and when it began
cooling down. That is exactly what Sir William Thom
son has done. When we attempt it, we find that there is a
definite point to which we can go, and at which our equa
tion talks nonsense. But we do not conclude that at that point
the laws of nature began to be what they are; we only
conclude that the earth began to solidify. Now solidifica
tion is not a process of the conduction of heat, and so the
thing cannot be given by our equation. That point is
given definitely as a point of time, not with great accuracy
but still as near as we can expect to get it with such means
of measuring as we have, and Sir William Thomson has
calculated that the earth must have solidified at some time
a hundred millions or two hundred millions of years ago;
and there we arrive at the beginning of the present state
of things; the process of cooling the earth which is
going on now. Before that it was cooling as a liquid, and
in passing from the liquid to the solid state there was a
catastrophe which introduced a new rate of cooling. So
that by means of that law we do come to a time when the
earth began to assume its present' state. We do not find
the time of the commencement of the universe, but simply
of the present structure of the earth. If we went farther
back, we might make more calculations and find how
long the earth had been in a liquid state. We should
come to another catastrophe, and say at that time, not that
the universe began to exist, but that the present earth
passed from the gaseous to the liquid state.. And if we
went farther back still we should probably find the earth
falling together out of a great ring of matter surrounding
the sun and distributed over its orbit. The same thing is
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
27
true of every body of matter : if we trace its history back,
we come to a certain time at which a catastrophe took
place, and if we were to trace back the history of all the
bodies of the universe in that way we should continually
see them separating up into smaller parts. What t ey
have actually done is to fall together and get solid. If we
could reverse the process we should see them separating
and getting fluid, and, as a limit to that, at an indefinite
distance in past time, we should find that all these Jodies
would be resolved into molecules, and all these would be
flying away from each other. There would be no limit to »
that process, and we could trace it as far back as ever we
liked to trace it. So that on the assumption, a very large
assumption, that the present constitution of the laws of
geometry and mechanics has held good during the whole ot
past time, we should be led to the conclusion that at an
inconceivably long time ago the universe did consist of
ultimate molecules, all separate from one another, and
approaching one another. Then they would meet together
and form a great number of small hot bodies. Then you
would have the process of cooling going on in these bodies,
exactly as we find it going on now. But you will observe
that we have no evidence of such a catastrophe as implies
a beginning of the laws of nature. We do not come to
something of which we cannot make any further calcula
tion- we find that however far we like to go back, we
approximate to a certain state of things, but never actually
get to it.
„
Here, then, we have a doctrine about the beginning ot
things. ' First, we have a probability, about as great as
science can make it, of the beginning of the present state
of things on the earth, of the fitness of the earth for habi
tation ; and then we have a probability about the beginning
of the universe as a whole which is so small, that it is
better put in this form, that we do not know anything at
all about it. The reason why I say that we do not know
anything at all of the beginning of the universe, is that
we have no reason whatever fob believing that what we
�28
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
at present know of the laws of geometry and mechanics
are exactly and absolutely true at present, or that they have
been even approximately true for any period of time,
further than we have direct evidence of. The evidence we
have of them is founded on experience, and we should have
exactly the same experience of them now, if those laws
were not exactly and absolutely true, but were only so
nearly true that we could not observe the difference. So
that in making the assumption we may argue upon the
absolute uniformity of nature, and "suppose these laws to
e have remained exactly as they are, we are assuming some
thing we know nothing about. My conclusion then is, that
we do know, with great probability, of the beginning of
the habitability of the earth about one hundred or two
hundred millions of years back, but that of a beginning of
the universe we know nothing at all.
Now let us consider what we can find out about the end
of things. The life which exists upon the earth is made
by the sun’s action, and it depends upon the sun for its
continuance. We know that the sun is wearing out, that
it is cooling, and although this heat which it loses day by
day is made up in some measure, perhaps completely at
present, by the contraction of its mass, yet that process
cannot go on for ever. There is only a certain amount of
energy in the present constitution of the sun, and when
that has been used up, the sun cannot go on giving out
any more heat. Supposing, therefore, the earth remains
in her present orbit about the sun, seeing that the sun
must be cooled down at some time, we shall all be frozen
out. On the other hand, we have no reason to believe
that the orbit of the earth about the sun is an absolutely
stable thing. It has been maintained for a long time that
there is a certain resisting medium which the planets have
to move through, and it may be argued from that, that in
time all the planets must be gradually made to move
in smaller orbits, and so to fall in towards the sun.
But, on the other hand, the evidences upon which this
assertion was based, the movement of Encke’s comet and
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
<1$
others, has been quite recently entirely overturned by
Professor Tait. He supposes that these comets consist of
bodies of meteors. Now, it was proved a long time ago,
that a mass of small bodies travelling together m an orbit
about a central body, will always tend to fall in towards it,
and that is the case with the rings of Saturn. So that,
in fact, the movement of Encke’s comet is entirely accounted
for on the supposition that it is a swarm , of meteors, with
out regarding the assumption of a resisting medium. On
the other hand, it seems exceedingly natural to suppme
that some matter in a very thin state is diffused about the
planetary spaces. Then we have another consideration,
just as the sun and moon make tides upon the sea, so the
planets make tides upon the sun. If we consider the ti e
which the earth makes upon the sun, instead of being a
great wave lifting the mass of the sun up directly under
the earth, it is carried forward by the sun’s rotation ; the
result is, that the earth instead of being attracted to tha
sun’s centre, is attracted to a point before the centre. The
immediate tendency is to accelerate the earth s motion,
and the final effect of this upon the planet is to make
its orbit larger. That planet disturbing all the other
planets, the consequence is that we have the earth gradually
going away from the sun, instead of falling into it.
*
In any case, all we know is that the sun is going out.
If we fall into the sun then we shall be fried; if we go
away from the sun, or the sun goes out, then we shall be
frozen. So that, so far as the earth is concerned, we have
no means of determining what will be the character of the
end, but we know that one of these two things must take
place in time: But in regard to the whole universe, if we
were to travel forward as we have travelled backward in
time, consider things as falling together, we should come
finally to a great central mass, all in one piece, which
would send out waves of heat through a perfectly empty
* I learn from Sir W Thomson that the ultimate effect of tidal defor
mation ona number of bodies is to reduce them to two, which move as if
they were rigidly connected.
�jo
The First and the Last Catastrophe.
ether, and gradually cool itself down. As this mass got
cool it would be deprived of all life or motion ; it would
be just a mere enormous frozen block in the middle of the
ether. But that conclusion, which is like the one that we
discussed about the beginning of the world, is one which
we have no right whatever to rest upon. It depends upon
the same assumption that the laws of geometry and
mechanics are exactly and absolutely true ; and that they
will continue exactly and absolutely true for ever and
ever. Such an assumption we have no right whatever to
make. We may therefore, I think, conclude about the
end of things that so far as the earth is concerned, an end
of life upon it is as probable as science can make any
thing ; but that in regard to the universe we have no right
to draw any conclusion at all.
So far, we have considered simply the material existence
of the earth; but of course our greatest interest lies
not so much with the material life upon it, the organised
beings, as with another fact which goes along with that,
and which is an entirely different one—the fact of the
consciousness that exists upon the earth. We find very
good reason indeed to believe that this consciousness
in the case of any organism is itself a very complex
thing, and that it corresponds part for part to the action
of the nervous system, and more particularly of the
brain of that organised thing. There are some whom
such evidence has led to the conclusion that the destruc
tion which we have seen reason to think probable of all
organised beings upon the earth, will lead also to the final
destruction of the consciousness that goes with them.
Upon this point I know there is great difference of opinion
amongst those who have a right to speak. But to those
who do see the cogency of the evidences of modern physio
logy and’ modern psychology in this direction, it is a very
serious thing to consider that not only the earth itself
and all that beautiful face of nature we see, but also the
living things upon it, and all the consciousness of men,
and the ideas of society, which have grown up upon the
�The First and the Last Catastrophe.
3i
surface, must come to an end. We who hold that belief
must just face the fact and make the best of it; and 1
think we are helped in this by the words of that Jew
philosopher, who was himself a worthy crown to the
splendid achievements of his race in the cause of progress
during the Middle Ages, Benedict Spinoza. He said
“ The free man thinks of nothing so little as of death, and
his wisdom is a meditation not of death but of life.
ur
interest lies with so much of the past as may serve
to guide our actions in the present, and to intensify our
pious allegiance to the fathers who' have gone before us
and the brethren who are with us ; and our interest lies
with so much of the future as we may hope will be
appreciably affected by our good actions now. Beyond
that, as it seems to me, we do not know, and we ought no
to care. Do I seem to say, “ Let us eat and drink, for
to-morrow we die ? ” Far from it; on. the contrary I say,
“ Let us take hands and help, for this day we are alive
together.”
PRINTED BY C. IV. REYNELL, LITTLE PULTENBY STREET, HAYMARKET.
�SUNDAY LECTURE SOCIETY,
To provide for the delivery on Sundays in the Metropolis, and
to encourage the delivery elsewhere, of Lectures on Science,
physical, intellectual, and moral,—History, Literature,
and Art; especially in their bearing upon the improvement
and social well-being of mankind.
THE SOCIETYS LECTURES
AKE DELIVERED AT
ST GEORGE’S HALL, LANGHAM PLACE,
On SUNDAY Afternoons, at FOUR o'clock precisely.
(Annually—from November to May).
Twenty-Four Lectures (in three series), ending 23rd April,
1876, will be given.
Members’ £1 subscription entitles them to an annual ticket
(transferable and admitting to the reserved seats), and to eight
single reserved-seat tickets available for any lecture.
Tickets for each series (one for each lecture) as below,_
To the Shilling Reserved Seats—5s.
6d.
To the Sixpenny Seats—2s., being at the rate of Threepence
each lecture.
For tickets apply (by letter) to the Hon. Treasurer, Wm. Henry
Domville, Esq., 15 Gloucester Crescent, Hyde Park, W.
Payment at the door:—One
(Reserved Seats) One Shilling.
Penny ;—Sixpence ;—and
�
Dublin Core
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Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
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2018
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
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Pamphlet
Dublin Core
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Title
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The first & the last catastrophe : a criticism on some recent speculations about the duration of the universe : a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 12th April, 1874
Creator
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Clifford, William Kingdon [1845-1879]
Description
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Place of publication: London
Collation: 31 p. ; 18 cm.
Notes: Printed by C.W. Reynell, Little Pulteney Street, London. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
Publisher
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Sunday Lecture Society
Date
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1875
Identifier
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N092
Subject
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Cosmology
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<a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The first & the last catastrophe : a criticism on some recent speculations about the duration of the universe : a lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society, on Sunday afternoon, 12th April, 1874), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span>
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
NSS
Universe
-
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Victorian Blogging
Description
An account of the resource
A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library & Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span>
Creator
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Conway Hall Library & Archives
Date
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2018
Publisher
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Conway Hall Ethical Society
Text
A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text.
Original Format
The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data
Pamphlet
Dublin Core
The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/.
Title
A name given to the resource
Is life worth having? and the eternal hope: an answer from Buddha's first sermon to some questions of to-day. A lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society on Sunday afternoon, January 19th, 1879
Creator
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Davids, T. W. Rhys (Thomas William Rhys)
Description
An account of the resource
Place of Publication: London
Collation: 21, [1] p. ; 18 cm
List of the Society's lectures on unnumbered page at the end. Reprinted from the Fortnightly Review. Inscription on bound volume: Presented by Miss Morris, November 1904.
Publisher
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Sunday Lecture Society
Date
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1880
Identifier
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N187, G3420
Rights
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<img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br />This work (Is life worth having? and the eternal hope: an answer from Buddha's first sermon to some questions of to-day. A lecture delivered before the Sunday Lecture Society on Sunday afternoon, January 19th, 1879), identified by Humanist Library and Archives, is free of known copyright restrictions.
Format
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application/pdf
Type
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Text
Language
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English
Buddhism-Doctrines
Gautama Buddha