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3 1 DFC W
R.P.A. Cheap Reprints—No. 51 (New Series)
MONASTERY
By JOSEPH McCABE
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��TWELVE YEARS
IN A
MONASTERY
By Joseph McCabe
(Formerly the Very Rev. Father Antony, O.S.F.),
Author of “ Peter Aboard,” “ The Story
of Evolution,” “ Goethe,” etc.
Third and Revised Edition
Issued for the Rationalist Press Association, Limited
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�TRANSLATED BY JOSEPH McCABE.
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�PREFACE
TO THE THIRD EDITION
When this work first appeared, in 1897, the only
aj criticism which the author observed among the many
(columns of press notices was that he would have
done well to refrain for a few years from writing
a about the Church he had abandoned. The painful
?, experiences which are recorded in its later chapters
I
! would not unnaturally suggest that the book must
have been written in an embittered mood. The
implication was, however, inaccurate, and when, in
1903, a second edition was prepared, after the work
had been out of print for five years, very little
change was needed. The author had had the good
fortune, on leaving the Church, to come under the
genial influence of Sir Leslie Stephen, and had
endeavoured to write in the mood of “ good-natured
contempt,” which the great critic recommended to
him. Neither in this nor in any subsequent work
of his will there be found any justification for the
petulant Catholic complaint that the author writes
with “bitterness” or “hatred” of the Roman
Church.
The truth is that, on re-reading the book after
an interval of nine years, for the purpose of pre
paring a popular edition, the moderation of its
temper somewhat surprises the author. The reader
�vi
PREFACE
may judge for himself whether the system depicted
in the following pages has been harshly judged in
the few phrases of censure which have been admitted
into the work. The author himself looks back with
astonishment on features of that system which had
almost faded from his memory, and is amazed to
think that such a system still commands the nominal
allegiance of large numbers of educated men and
refined women. The Rome of history we all know
—the Rome which retained the bandage of ignor
ance about the eyes of Europe for a thousand years,
and, while exhibiting a spectacle of continuous and
unblushing immorality in its most sacred courts,
employed the rack and the stake to intimidate any
man who would venture to impugn its sanctity or
its truth. But there is a widespread feeling that
the Reformation chastened the Church of Rome,
and that at least in the nineteenth and twentieth
century it has ground, whatever its superstitions,
to claim to be one of the greatest spiritual forces
in the world.
This description of the Roman system by one who
had intimate experience of it for many years,
written with cold impartiality at a time when every
feature was still fresh in his memory, must give
ground for reflection to those who would grant
Catholicism some strange preference over the
Reformed Christian Churches. The work is not an
indictment, but a simple description. A distin
guished London priest once told the author that it
had had a considerable influence in checking the
flow of “ converts ” from the English to the Roman
Church. To such “ movements of population ” the
�PREFACE
vii
author is genially indifferent. His aim was solely to
present to those who were interested a candid
account of intimate Roman Catholic life and of the
author’s career as monk, priest, and professor; and
the constant circulation of the book fifteen years
after its first publication, no less than the cordial
welcome extended to it by men so diverse as Sir
John Robinson, Sir Walter Besant, Dr. St. George
Mivart, and Mr. Stead, have encouraged the author
to think that it was interesting in substance and
moderate in temper. Yet, when he looks back upon
that system across sixteen years’ experience of
“ worldly life ”—to use the phrase of his monastic
days—he is disposed to use a harsher language in
characterising its profound hypocrisy and its wilful
encouragement of delusions. More than sixteen
years ago the author looked out, timidly and
anxiously, from the windows of a monastery upon
what he had been taught to call, with a shudder,
the world ”—the world into which an honest
change of convictions now forced him. He has
found a sweeter and happier life, and finer types
of men and women, in that broad world, and now
looks back with a shudder on the musty, insincere,
and oppressive life of the cloister from which he was
happily delivered.
Yet the temptation to add a censorious language
to the book shall be resisted. It remains, in its
third edition, a cold and detached depictment of
modern monasticism, and of so much of the inner
life of the Roman clergy as came within the author’s
knowledge. Considerable revision was needed in
preparing the book for the wider public to which
B 2
�viii
PREFACE
it now appeals, but this has consisted only in some
literary correction of the juvenility of the original
and the substitution for certain technical passages of
material of more general interest. Here and there
the text has been brought up to date, but the author
must confess to a certain indifference to the for
tunes of the Church of Rome which prevents him
from bringing it entirely up to date. The fiction
of the Catholic journalist, that the author hovers
about the fringes of the Church in some mysterious
eagerness to assail it, is too ludicrous for words;
and the grossly untruthful character and low
cultural standard of such Catholic publications
(especially of the “ Catholic Truth Society ”) as are
occasionally sent to him, on account of their lurid
references to himself, deter him from taking such
interest in Romanist literature as he should like to
take. The work must, therefore, be regarded as
a plain statement of personal experience, which, in
the fifteen years of its circulation, has attracted
considerable and most virulent abuse, but no serious
criticism.
J. M.
September, 1912,
�CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAP.
I
II
.
INTRODUCTION
VOCATION
.
.
II
.
.
.
.
.
18
HI
NOVITIATE .
31
IV
STUDENTSHIP
59
81
V
PRIESTHOOD
THE CONFESSIONAL
IOI
VII
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN .
121
VIII
MINISTRY IN LONDON .
146
OTHER ORDERS AND THE I ONDON CLERGY
168
COUNTRY MINISTRY
.
192
SECESSION .
.
VI
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
.
.
.
208
CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM .
224
THE CHURCH OF ROME
239
IX
��TWELVE YEARS IN A
MONASTERY
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
Monasticism, inseparable as it is from every
advanced religious system, seems to be a direct out
growth from the fundamental religious idea. The
great religions of Asia, Europe, and America, despite
their marked differences in conceiving the ultimate
objects of religious belief, and the distinct racial and
territorial influences that have affected them, have been
equally prolific in monastic institutions; they seem to
have been evoked by the story which is common to
them all. Nor is it strange that that story inspired
such an abdication of earthly joys as the monastic
system embodies. If philosophers have, on their cold
reasonings, been led to despise the changeful forms
for the enduring realities they thought they perceived,
it is not strange that religion should have taught the
same theme with yet deeper effect. Men gazed on
the entrancing vision of a world beyond, until the
attitude of hope and expectancy satisfied them even,
now. In the hermit’s cell or in the cloistered abbey
11
�12
INTRODUCTION
they withdrew from earth and awaited the removal
of the veil.
But the religious mind has entered upon a more
troubled phase of its development. Physical and
economical science have drawn its attention more
eagerly to its present home; a growing self-conscious
ness has made it more critical and reflective; the
outlines of the eternal city are once more fading.
The vision has lost all the sharpness of outline and the
warmth of colour that once made it so potent an
agency in human life. The preacher must speak more
of “the city of men,” and be less, disdainful of its
interests and pleasures. The age of martyrs, the age
of Crusaders, the age of public penance, or even of
private mortification, must hope for no revival. The
sterner dictates of the older supernaturalism must be
explained away as unsuited to our more energetic age,
or as a blunder on the part of a less enlightened
generation.
Hence when, a few years ago, Dr. St. George Mivart
confessed that he looked forward to a revival of the
religious orders of the thirteenth century, he was
greeted with a smile of incredulity outside the narrow
sphere of his own co-religionists. Monasticism was
dying—not in the odour of sanctity. Men visited
the venerable ruins of abbeys and monasteries, and
re-peopled in spirit the deserted cells and dreary
cloisters and roofless chapel with a kindly archaeological
interest; smiled at their capacious refectories and
wine-cellars; dwelt gratefully on the labours of the
Benedictines through the Age of Iron; conjured up
the picturesque life and fervent activity of the Grey
Friars before their corruption; and shuddered at the
�INTRODUCTION
13
zeal of the White Friars in Inquisition days. But
people would as soon have thought to see the dead
bones of the monks re-clothed with flesh as to see
any great revival of their institutions. France and
Portugal have already expelled the monks for ever;
Italy and Spain will probably follow their example
within the next twenty years. And how could one
expect them to prosper in the lands of the Reformers?
In point of fact, however, there has been a revival
of monastic institutions in England, Germany, and
the United States proportionate to the revival of Roman
Catholicism. A hundred years ago England flattered
itself that the monastic spirit—if not Popery itself—
was extinguished for ever within its frontiers: the
few survivors of the old orders were still proscribed,
and crept stealthily about the land in strange disguises.
Then the French refugees surreptitiously reintroduced
it, just as they brought over large quantities of the
hated “ popish baubles ” in their huge boxes, which,
on the king’s secret instructions, passed the custom
house untouched. The long Irish immigration set in,
and the zeal of the aliens kept pace with growing
British tolerance. The removal of Catholic disabilities,
the Oxford movement, and the establishment of the
hierarchy followed in quick succession, and, as Catholi
cism spread rapidly through the land, the Continental
branches of the monastic orders grasped the oppor
tunity of once more planting colonies on the fruitful
British soil.
At the present day every order is represented in
England and America, and the vast army of monks
and nuns is tens of thousands strong. The expulsions
from France and Portugal are increasing the number
�14
INTRODUCTION
yearly. From train and road one sees the severe
quadrangular structures springing up on the hillsides
and in the quiet valleys as in days of old. Any
important ecclesiastical function in England or the
States attracts crowds of monks in their quaint
mediaeval costumes. After three long centuries they
have started from their graves, and are walking
amongst us once more.
It is true that the fact is not wholly realised outside
their own sphere, for the monks have fallen under
the law of evolution. The Benedictine does not now
bury himself with dusty tomes far from the cities of
men; he is found daily in the British Museum and
nightly in comfortable hotels about Russell Square.
The Grey Friar, erstwhile (and at home even now)
bareheaded and barefooted, flits about the suburbs in
silk hat and patent leather boots, and with silver
headed cane. The Jesuit is again found everywhere,
but in the garb of an English gentleman. Still, what
ever be their inconsistency, they come amongst us with
the old profession, the archaic customs and costumes,
of their long-buried brethren.
Their reappearance has provoked several contro
versies of some interest. When the monks last
vanished from the stage in England they left behind
them a dishonourable record which their enemies were
not slow to publish. Are modern monasteries and
convents the same whited sepulchres as their pre
decessors, on whom the scourge of the Reformation
fell so heavily? A strong suspicion is raised against
them by their former history; the suspicion is con
firmed by a number of “ escaped ” monks and nuns
who have traversed the land proclaiming that such
�INTRODUCTION
15
is the case, and it is not allayed by the impenetrable
secrecy of modern monastic life.
One of the least satisfactory features of the con
troversy that has arisen is that the disputants on both
sides are, as a rule, entirely ignorant of the true
condition of monasteries. The Catholic layman, to
whom the task of defending them is usually com
mitted, generally knows little more of the interior and
regime of English monasteries than he does of those
of Thibet. The monks preserve the most jealous
secrecy about their inner lives; their constitutions
strictly forbid them to talk of domestic matters to
outsiders, and their secular servants are enjoined a
like secrecy with regard to the little that falls under
their observation. Roman Catholics who live under the
very shadow of monasteries for many years are usually
found, in spite of a most ardent curiosity, to be com
pletely ignorant of the ways of conventual life. The
Protestant is, of course, not more enlightened. And it
must be stated that the pictures offered to the public
by impartial and liberal writers are not wholly trust
worthy. Sir Walter Besant once described to me a
visit of his to a Benedictine monastery for the purpose
of giving colour to his “ Westminster.” The life was '
very edifying ; the fathers had, of course, been “ sitting
for their portrait.” I remember an occasion when
Dr. Mivart spent twenty-four hours at our Franciscan
monastery for the purpose of describing our life in one
of the magazines. We were duly warned of his coming,
and the portrait he drew of us was admirable.
In such circumstances there is, perhaps, occasion for
an ex-monk to contribute his personal experiences.
The writer, after spending twelve years in various
�16
INTRODUCTION
monasteries of the Franciscan Order, found himself
compelled in the early part of 1896 to secede from
the Roman Catholic priesthood. During those years
he acquired a large experience of Catholic educational,
polemical, and administrative methods, and of the
monastic life, and it may not be inopportune to set
it forth in simple narrative.
The religious Order to which I belonged is a revival
of the once famous Province of Grey Friars, the
English section of the Order of St. Francis. At the
beginning of the thirteenth century, immediately after
the foundation of the Order, Agnellus of Pisa success
fully introduced it into England. Even after the
Reformation a few friars lived in the country in disguise
until the nineteenth century. Then occurred the
remarkable change in the fortunes of the Church of
Rome. The very causes which were undermining the
dominion of the Papacy in Italy, Spain, and France—
the growth of a sceptical and critical spirit, and the
broadening of the older feeling for dogma—reopened
England and Germany, and opened the United States,
to the Roman missionaries. The Belgian and French
friars quickly planted colonies in England, and the
German and Italian provinces (each national branch
of the Order is called “ a province ”) founded the
Order of St. Francis in the United States. The dis
persion of the Irish Catholics through the Englishspeaking world coincided in quite a dramatic fashion
with the new opportunity, and before the end of the
nineteenth century the Franciscans had become fairly
numerous.
Other monastic orders and religious congregations
advanced with the same rapidity. The Jesuit Society
�INTRODUCTION
17
has enjoyed its customary prosperity : the Benedictine,
Dominican, Carmelite, and Carthusian Orders are also
well represented, together with the minor congrega
tions—Passionists, Marists, Redemptorists, Oblates,
Servites, &c., and the infinite variety of orders and
congregations of women. In the following pages I
shall give such items of interest concerning them (and
the Church of Rome at large) as may have fallen under
my experience. As the narrative follows, for the sake
of convenience, the course of the writer’s own life,
it is necessary to commence with the means of recruit
ing the religious orders and the clergy in general.
�CHAPTER II
VOCATION
In an earlier age the “ vocation ” to a monastic life
was understood to have an element of miracle, and
there are psychologists of our time who affect at least
to find a fascinating problem in the religious “ con
version.” It may be said at once that the overwhelm
ing majority of calls to the monastic life have not the
least interest in either respect. The romantic con
versions of the days of faith are rare events in our
time. Monasteries and nunneries are no longer the
refuges of converted sinners, of outworn debauchees,
of maimed knights-errant, or of betrayed women.
One does not need the pen of a Huysman to describe
the soul en route to the higher life of the religious
world. The classes from which monasticism draws jts
adherents to-day are much less romantic, and much
less creditable, it must be confessed.
Nine-tenths of the religious and clerical vocations
of the present day are conceived at the early age of
fourteen or fifteen. As a general rule the boy is fired
with the desire of the priesthood or the monastery pre
cisely as he is fired with the longing for a military
career. His young imagination is impressed with the
dignity and the importance of the priest’s position,
his liturgical finery, his easy circumstances, his unJ8
�VOCATION
19
usually wide circle of friends and admirers. The
inconveniences of the office, very few of which he
really knows, are no more formidable to him than the
stern discipline and the balls and bayonets are to the
martial dreamer; the one great thorn of the priest’s
crown—celibacy—he is utterly incapable of appreciat
ing. So he declares his wish to his parents, and they
take every precaution to prevent the lapse of his
inclination. In due time, before .the breath of the
world can sully the purity of his mind—that is to say,
before he can know what he is about to sacrifice—he
is introduced into the seminary or monastery, where
every means is employed to foster and strengthen his
inclination until he shall have bound himself for life
by an irrevocable vow.
That is the ordinary growth of a vocation to the
clerical state to-day. There are exceptions, but men
of maturer age rarely seek admission into the cloister
now. Occasionally a “ convert ” to Rome in the first
rush of zeal plunges headlong into ascetical excesses.
Sometimes a man of more advanced years will enter a
monastery in order to attain the priesthood more
easily; monastic superiors are not unwilling, especially
if a generous alms is given to a monastery, to press
a timid aspirant through the episcopal examinations
(which are less formidable to monks), and then allow
him, with a dispensation from Rome, to pass into the
ranks of the secular clergy. There are cases, it is
true, when a man becomes seriously enamoured of the
monastic ideal, and seeks admission into the cloister;
rarely, however, does his zeal survive the first year
of practical experience.
Apart from such exceptional cases, monasteries and
�20
VOCATION
seminaries receive their yearly reinforcements from
boys of from fourteen to fifteen years. Nothing could
be more distant from the Roman Catholic practice
than the Anglican custom of choosing the Church at
an age of deliberation, during or after the university
career. The Catholic priesthood would be hopelessly
impoverished if that course were adopted. The earliest
boyish wish is jealously consecrated, for Catholic
parents are only too eager to contribute a member to
the ranks of the clergy, and ecclesiastical authorities
are only too deficient in agreeable applications for the
dignity. The result is that, instead of a boy being
afforded opportunities of learning what life really is
before he makes a solemn sacrifice of its fairest gifts,
he is carefully preserved from contact with it through
fear of endangering his vocation. Too often, indeed,
he is unduly influenced by the eagerness of his rela
tives, he enters a seminary or a convent for their
gratification or glorification, and, if he has not the
courage to return, to the disappointment and mortifica
tion of his friends, he bears for the rest of his life a
broken or a depraved heart under his vestments of silk
and gold. For it must be remembered that before he
reaches what is usually considered to be the age of
deliberation he is chained for life to his oar, as will
appear in the next chapter.
There was no trace of undue family influence in
my own case, but as my vocation was typical in its
banality, a few words on it will illustrate the theme.
My boyhood and early youth were spent under the
shadow of a beautiful Franciscan church at Man
chester. I have a distinct recollection that, in spite
of my eagerness to serve in the sanctuary, my mind
�VOCATION
21
was closed against the idea of joining the fraternity.
The friars frequently suggested it in playful mood,
but I always repulsed their advances. At length a
lay brother 1 with whom I spent long hours in the
sacristy exerted himself to inspire me with a desire
to enter their Order. After many conversations I
yielded to his influence. Twice circumstances inter
vened to prevent me from joining, and I acquiesced in
them as easily as I had done in my “ vocation.” At
length a third attempt was made to arrange my admis
sion, and I rather listlessly gave my name as a pupil
and aspirant to the monastic life. I had been con
scious throughout of merely yielding to circumstances,
to the advice and exhortations of my elders. There
was no definite craving for the life on my part, cer
tainly no “ voice speaking within me ” to which I felt
it a duty to submit. I do not, of course, mean to say
that my subsequent profession was in any way a matter
of constraint. Once within the walls of the monastery,
my mind was seriously and deliberately formed, in so
far as we may regard the reflections of a boy of fifteen
as serious. I am merely describing the manner in
which a religious “ vocation ” is engendered. About
the same time a Jesuit, the late F. Anderdon, S.J.,
made advances to me from another direction; and a
third proposal was made to send me to the diocesan
seminary to study for the secular clergy. There seem
1 The inmates of a monastery are divided into two sharply
distinct categories, clerics (priests and clerical students) and lay
brothers. The latter are usually men of little or no education,
who discharge the menial offices of the community. They are
called lay brothers in contradistinction to the students or cleric
brothers, who, however, familiarly go by their Latin name,
fratres.
�22
VOCATION
to have been no premonitory symptoms in my youthful
conduct of the scandal of my later years.
The
vocations ” of most of my fellow-students,
and of my students in later years, had a similar origin.
They had either lived in the vicinity of a Franciscan
convent, or their parish had been visited by Franciscan
missionaries. Already troubled with a vague desire
for a sacerdotal career, the picturesque brown robe, the
eventful life, and the commanding influence of the
missionary had completed their vision. They felt a
“ vocation ” to the Order of St. Francis ; their parents,
if they were at all unwilling, were too religious to
resist; the missionary was informed (after an unsuc
cessful struggle on the part of the parish priest to get
the boy for the diocesan seminary), and the boy of
thirteen or fourteen was admitted to the monastic
college.
Other religious orders are recruited, as a rule, in the
same way. The more important bodies—the Jesuits,
Benedictines, and Dominicans—have more reliable
sources of supply in their large public schools at Stonyhurst, Douai, and Downside. In those institutions the
thoughts of the more promising pupils can easily be
directed into the higher channels of religious aspiration
by the zealous monks, without any undue influence
whatever. But the minor congregations are sorely
pressed for recruits; many of them, indeed, were glad
to accept the very small fish that ran through even
the net of the Franciscans. Ireland furnishes most of
the recruits to the English orders and clergy.
Missionaries are the principal recruiting sergeants.
Besides holding his “ revival exercises ” for the good
of souls, the missionary has the task of procuring
�VOCATION
23
funds and novices for his monastery; and in propor
tion to his success in this will be his superior’s thought
fulness in appointing him to the more comfortable
missions. For the modern missionary is not so insens
ible to the charms of hospitality as his mediaeval
forerunner was.
The ranks of the secular clergy are recruited in the
same way. Large numbers of boys, usually of the
middle and poorer classes, are drafted annually into
the preparatory seminaries, to be preserved jealously
in their vocation if they have one, or inspired with
one if they have not. Parents and parish priests are
continually on the watch for symptoms of the divine
call, and in the case of clever, quiet boys the desire
is tactfully created.
Finally, a word must be said here of the vocation
of nuns; more will be said of them in the following
chapter. It is true that the proportion of women
who take the veil in maturer years is much larger
than that of men. Whatever may be their ultimate
attitude, it must be admitted that there is a large
amount of earnestness and religious sincerity in the
vocations of women. Still the number of young girls
who are received into nunneries is lamentably high,
and the anxiety shown by nun-teachers to inspire
their pupils with a “ vocation ” is extremely deplor
able. They frequently request priests to secure
aspirants for their congregations, and many a priest
is tempted, out of desire to find favour at the con
vent (an important social distinction), to welcome
the first word that his girl-penitents breathe in the
confessional about a religious vocation. Many priests
develop quite a mania for sending their penitents to
�24
VOCATION
convents. For myself, in my hours of deepest faith
I never found courage to send a girl to a nunnery.
One girl, a penitent of mine, often solicited me about
her vocation. I am thankful to say that I restrained
her, and that no heart is, owing to my action, wearing
itself out to-day in the dreary institutions which we
know as nunneries. It is a fiction of the Catholic
novelist that most nuns are happy in the life they have
chosen.
A conspicuous advantage of this system (from the
ecclesiastical point of view) is that it affords time for
a more extensive and systematic training. If other
Christian sects prefer the more honourable course of
not extending any ecclesiastical sanction whatever to
aspirants until they arrive at a deliberative age, they
must and do suffer in consequence in the training
of their ministry. The divinity lectures which the
Anglicans follow are but a feeble substitute for the
specialised education which their grave responsibility
as religious teachers obviously demands; and in a
large proportion of cases the theological training of
Anglican curates begins and ends with such lectures.
In later years, when contact with earnest readers
impresses them with a due sense of their position, they
are not infrequently heard to desiderate the systematic
training of their Romanist rivals. No doubt in point
of general culture they are much superior to the
average priest; one can often recognise the priest who
has entered the sanctuary in a maturer age, after seces
sion from Anglicanism, by that impalpable culture
which is the characteristic gift of the university.
How it happens that the Catholic educational system
produces such inferior results will appear subsequently ;
*
�VOCATION
25
in theory it is admirably constructed for the attain
ment of the ecclesiastical aim. Instead of merely
adding to an ordinary liberal education a few lectures
on current theological controversies, it takes the boy
of thirteen or fourteen and arranges his whole curri
culum up to the age of twenty-four with a direct
relation to his sacerdotal ministry. The course of
training thus extends over a period of ten or eleven
years under direct ecclesiastical control. The boy is
handed over by his parents and transferred to the
seminary, or to a preparatory college in connection
with it, where his education is at once undertaken
by clerics. All the larger dioceses have their own
seminaries, and each monastic body has its colleges.
The scheme of education is divided broadly, accord
ing to universal ecclesiastical usage, into three sections.
The preliminary training consists of the usual course
of classics and mathematics; the classics being more
than usually expurgated, and the whole training gener
ously provided with spiritual and ascetical exercises.
This stage extends over a period of five or six years on
the average. To the “ humanities ” succeeds a course
of scholastic philosophy, which usually occupies two
years, and which now usually includes a few carefully
expurgated and commentated lessons on physical
science. Finally the student is treated to a threeyears’ course of theology, passes a severe examination,
and is admitted to ordination. The various stages
will be described more in detail as the. writer passed
through them.
Such is the scheme of education of the Catholic
priesthood all the world over, with but few local
variations. The mendicant orders and the minor
�26
VOCATION
congregations generally corrupt and mutilate it: the
larger seminaries and the more important orders
expand it. The Jesuits have the longest and fullest
curriculum, and their educational scheme has the
highest reputation. In reality the curriculum of the
Jesuit student is protracted mainly because he has
to spend long periods in teaching, during which his
own studies are materially impeded. Although the
Jesuits have the finest Catholic schools to draw pupils
from, and the longest curriculum of clerical training,
it will hardly be contended that, as a body, they
show any marked superiority over their less-dreaded
colleagues, either in literature or pulpit oratory.
The Benedictines and Dominicans also conduct their
preliminary studies in a creditable manner in their
well-known colleges, but most of the other religious
bodies are extremely negligent in that stage of clerical
education. Each religious order is responsible for the
training of its own candidates. The religious orders
—the regular or monastic clergy as opposed to the
secular—do not fall directly under the jurisdiction
of the bishop of the diocese. Monks are irregular
auxiliaries of the ecclesiastical army, and are supposed
to emerge occasionally from their mountain fastnesses
to assist in the holy warfare. The monasteries of the
same order in each land are grouped into a province,
and the central authority, the provincial, exercises a
quasi-episcopal jurisdiction over them. All the pro
vinces are united under a common general at Rome;
and there is a special congregation of cardinals at
Rome to regulate the conflicts (not infrequent) of
bishops and the monastic clergy. Hence monks have
but few points of contact with episcopal authority,
�VOCATION
27
and indeed they are usually regarded with jealous
suspicion by the bishop and the secular clergy. Car
dinal Manning was known to cherish a profound anti
pathy to all religious orders except the Franciscan,
and to the Franciscans he said, with characteristic
candour: “I like you—where you are (in East
London).” Indeed, nearly throughout England the
monastic orders have been compelled to undertake
parochial duties like the ordinary clergy.
However, the comparative independence of the
monastic orders gives them an opportunity of modify
ing the scheme of education according to the pressure
of circumstances, and the general result is extremely
unsatisfactory. The low ideal of sacerdotal education
which they usually cherish is largely explained by the
strong foreign element pervading, if not dominating,
them. They have been founded, at no very remote
date, by foreigners (by Belgians in England, and by
Germans and Italians in the States), and are still
frequently reinforced from the Continent. And it
will be conceded at once that the continental priest
(or even the Irish priest) does not attach a very grave
importance to the necessity of culture. A priest has
definite functions assigned him by the Church, and
for their due fulfilment he needs a moderate acquaint
ance with liturgy, casuistry, and dogma; beyond these
all is a matter of taste. Relying, in Catholic countries,
upon the dogmatic idea, and the instinctive reverence
which his parishioners have for the priesthood, he does
not concern himself about any further means of con
ciliating and impressing them. The consequence is
that a low standard of education is accepted, and those
who have imported it into English-speaking countries
�28
VOCATION
have not fully appreciated their new environment—
have not realised that here a clergyman is expected to
be a gentleman of culture and refinement. The effect
is most clearly seen in a wanton neglect of classics.
The Franciscan regime, at the time I made its
acquaintance, may serve as an instance.
The preparatory college of the Grey Friars (for they
retain the name in spite of the fact that they now
wear the brown robe of their Belgian cousins) was, at
that time, part of their large monastery at Manchester.
Seraphic Colleges, as the Franciscan colleges are
called (because St. Francis is currently named the
“ Seraphic ” Saint), are a recent innovation on their
scheme of studies, on account of the falling-off of
vocations amongst more advanced students. The
college was not a grave burden on the time and
resources of the friars at that period. One of their
number, an estimable and energetic priest, whose only
defect was his weakness in classics, was appointed to
conduct the classical studies and generally supervise
and instruct the few aspirants to the order who pre
sented themselves. We numbered eight that year, and
it may be safely doubted whether there was an idler
and more mischievous set of collegiates in the United
Kingdom. Our worthy professor knew little more
of boys than he did of girls, and he had numerous
engagements to fulfil in addition to his professorial
duties. The rector of the college, a delightfully obtuse
old Belgian friar, would have discharged his function
equally well if he had lived on Mars.
In spite, however, of the discouraging circumstances
we contrived to attain our object very rapidly. We
were all anxious to begin our monastic career in robe
�VOCATION
29
and tonsure as soon as possible, and all that the order
required as a preliminary condition was a moderate
acquaintance with Latin—the language of the Liturgy.
Our professor, indeed, had a higher but imperfectly
grasped ideal. He added French and Greek to our
programme. Physics and mathematics were unthought-of luxuries, and our English was left at its
natural level, which was, in most cases, a rich and
substantial Irish brogue; but at one time our pro
fessor began to give us a course of Hebrew, learning
the day’s lesson himself on the previous evening.
Still, taking advantage of the fact that I studied at
my own home, I was enabled to present a list of
conquests at the end of the year which at once secured
my admission to the monastic garb. The list will
serve to illustrate further our educational proceedings :
it comprised, (1) French grammar and a little French
literature (such as Fenelon’s Telemaque); (2) Greek
grammar, St. John’s Gospel, one book of Xenophon,
and a few pages of the Iliad—crammed for the
purpose of disconcerting the monastic examiner; (3)
Latin grammar, several lives from Nepos, two books
of Caesar, six orations of Cicero, the Catilina of Sallust,
the Germania of Tacitus, the /lrs Poetica of Horace,
two books of Livy, two books of the ^Eneid, and
fragments of Ovid, Terence, and Curtius. As I
remained at the college only from June 1884 until
the following May, it will be seen how much private
care and exertion were required in later years to correct
the crudity of such an education.
The kindliness of my first professor and of most of
my later teachers will ever be remembered by me.
I was treated always as the favourite pupil. Yet this
�30
VOCATION
description of the only training which the Roman
Church gave me, apart from a theological equipment
which is now useless, will suffice to answer the ridicu
lous and frequent statement that I owe my knowledge
of languages, science, and history to that Church.
Such as that knowledge is, it represents thirty years
of intense personal labour. Even of Latin only an
elementary knowledge is given by the Church. Very
few monks could read Vergil at sight.
Those were not the worst days of our Seraphic
College. Our professor was an earnest and hard
working priest, though an indifferent scholar, an un
skilful teacher, and burdened with many tasks. But
the time came when even less discretion was exercised;
and not only were studies neglected, but the youthful
aspirants to the monastic life, living in a monastery,
had more licence than they would have had in any
college in England. The system is somewhat better
to-day. I was myself entrusted with the task of recon
structing it ten years later. But I pass on to my first
acquaintance with the inner working of monastic life.
�CHAPTER III
NOVITIATE
The novitiate is an episode in the training of the
monastic, not of the secular, clergy : it is a period of
probation imposed upon all aspirants to the monastic
life. Religious of every order and congregation,1 both
men and women, must spend at least one year as
“ novices ” before they are permitted to bind them
selves by the solemnity of the vows. During that
period they experience the full severity and asceticism
of the life to which they aspire, and they are minutely
observed and tested by their superiors. It is a wise
provision: the least that can be done to palliate the
gravity of taking such an irrevocable step. Since no
formal study is permitted during its course, it causes
an interruption of the “ humanities ” of the monastic
clerics.
In the original intention of the founders of the
monastic orders there was no distinction between cleric
and lay members. Francis of Assisi, who was not a
priest himself, simply drew up a rule of life, a modified
1 A congregation is a monastic institution of less importance and
antiquity than an order. The members of both are commonly
called “religious,” in the substantive sense. Monastic priests are
further known as “regular” clergy (because they live under a
“rule”), while the scattered, ordinary priests, who live “in the
world” (saeciilum), are known as the “secular” clergy.
31
�32
NOVITIATE
version of his own extraordinary life, and allowed his
followers, after due probation, to bind themselves by
vow to its fulfilment. In it he naively proscribes
study: “ Let those who know not letters not seek to
learn them.” However, although a divine inspiration
is claimed for him in his first composition of the rule,
he soon recognised the necessity of a different treat
ment of his clerical brethren; Antony of Padua was
appointed by him “ to teach theology to the brethren.”
He had not been many years in his grave—his pre
mature death was not unassisted by his grief at the
growing corruption of his order (the saintly Antony
of Padua having already been publicly flogged in the
convent of Aracaeli at Rome for his dogged resistance
to the corruptors)—when the intellectual fever of the
thirteenth century completely mastered the fraternity,
and friars were to be found in hundreds at all the great
universities, even in the professorial chairs at Oxford,
Paris, and Cologne. Gradually the lay-brothers became
the mere servants of the priests; and the studies of
the clerics were duly organised.
At that time and until the present century the
neophytes were men of a more advanced age. After
twelve months of trial, prayer, and reflection, they
were permitted to make their vows or “ profession,”
from which there was no dispensation. In recent
years, however, the practice of receiving aspirants at
an earlier age has developed so rapidly that one feels
apprehensive of a revival of the old Benedictine custom
of accepting children of tender years, whose parents
were resolved that they should be monks, for financial
or political reasons. Pius IX. made an important
change in this direction. “ Attenta raritate vocationum
�NOVITIATE
33
—seeing the fewness of vocations,” as he frankly
confessed, he decreed that there should be two sets of
vows. It would be too serious an outrage on human
nature to allow boys of sixteen to contract an utterly
irrevocable 1 obligation of so grave a character; at the
same time it w’as clearly imperative to secure boys at
that age if the religious orders were not to die of
inanition. So a compromise was effected. Boys should
be admitted to the monastic life at the age of fifteen
for their novitiate, and should make what are called
“ simple ” vows at the age of sixteen. From the
simple vows the Pope was prepared to grant a dis
pensation : and the General of the order could annul
them (on the part of the order) if the neophyte turned
out unsatisfactory. The “ solemn ” or indispensable
vows would be taken at nineteen, leaving three years
as a kind of secondary novitiate.
Thus the criticism of the enemies of monasticism
was thought to be averted, and at the same time
boys were practically secured at an early age; for
it will be readily imagined that few boys would care
to make an application to Rome for a dispensation
and return to disturb the peaceful content of their
families—having, moreover, had twelve months’ pro
bation besides two or three years in a monastic
college. In justice to the monks I must add that I
have never known a case in which difficulties have been
put in the way of one who desired a dispensation :
certainly the accusation of physical detention in
1 The Pope claims to have the power to dissolve solemn vows,
but in point of fact they are practically insoluble. There is only
one clear case on record where the power has been used ; needless
to say it was in favour of a member of a wealthy royal house,
which was threatened with extinction.
�34
NOVITIATE
monasteries or convents is without foundation in my
experience. If the student was promising, their advice
to him to reconsider his position would, no doubt, take
a very urgent and solemn character; if he persisted,
I feel sure they would conscientiously procure his
dispensation. However, in my personal experience I
have only known one instance; the youth had entered
under the influence of relatives and endured the strain
for two years, but he wisely revolted at length, sought
a dispensation, and took to the stage.
It is thus explained how the monastic career usually
commences at such an early age. A visitor to the
novitiate of any order (a privilege which is rarely
granted) cannot fail to notice the extreme youth of
most of those who are engaged in weighing the
tremendous problem of an irrevocable choice. They
have, as a rule, entered the preliminary college at the
age of thirteen, and have been called upon to come
to a decision, fraught with such momentous con
sequences, at the age of fifteen or sixteen.
The novitiate, as the convent is called in which the
novices are trained, is normally a distinct and secluded
monastery; but economy of space frequently compels
the monks merely to devote the wing of some existing
monastery to the purpose. In either case the regula
tions for its complete isolation are very severe. The
novices are not allowed to leave the monastery under
any pretext whatever, and they are permitted to
receive but few visitors, and to have little correspond
ence (which is carefully examined) with the outside
world. The comparison of monastic and secular life
is conspicuously one-sided.
For the novitiate of the Franciscan Order at that
�NOVITIATE
35
time a portion of their friary 1 at Killarney had been
set aside. The three enterprising Belgian friars who
invaded England forty or fifty years ago found them
selves presently compelled to carry their tent to the
more hospitable sister-isle. At Killarney their presence
led to scenes of enthusiasm that take one back to the
Middle Ages. The peasantry flew to their assistance,
and before long they erected the plain but substantial
building which catches the eye of the tourist on
issuing from the station. The friary enjoyed an
uninterrupted prosperity from the date of its founda
tion, with the usual consequence that its inner life
soon became much more notable for comfort than for
asceticism. However, one or two small scandals, the
advent of a hostile bishop, the impoverishment of the
country, and frequent visits from higher authorities,
brought about a curtailment of the friars’ amenities.
And when the place was chosen as convent of the
novitiate, the good friars put their house in order,
tightened their girdles, and resigned themselves to a
more or less regular discipline; for one of their
most sacred principles is that novices must not be
scandalised.
The first emotion which the place inspired in me
when I entered it at the end of May 1885 was one
of profound melancholy and discontent. It had a
large and well-cultivated garden, and before us daily
was the lovely and changeful panorama of the hills.
But the interior of the monastery, with its chill,
gloomy cloisters,, its solemn and silent inmates, gave
me a deep impression of solitude and isolation. When
1 A house of friars may with equal propriety be called a friary,
monastery, or convent.
�36
NOVITIATE
we sat down to supper at the bare wooden tables on
the evening of our arrival—my first community-meal
—widely separated from each other, eating in profound
silence, and with a most depressing gravity, I felt that
my monastic career would be a short one. A young
friend had entered their novitiate the previous year,
and had ignominiously taken flight two days after his
arrival; I found myself warmly sympathising with
him.
However, since we were not to receive the monastic
garb for a week or more, we were allowed a good deal
of liberty, and my depression gradually wore off. It
happened, too, that I was already acquainted with
three of the friars, and soon became attached to the
community. The first friar whom we had met, a
lay-brother, rather increased our trouble; he was
already far advanced in religious mania and ascetical
consumption, and did, in fact, die a year afterwards
in the local asylum. The second we met, also a laybrother, did not help to remove the unfavourable
impression. His jovial and effusive disposition only
accentuated his curious deformity of structure; his
hands and bare toes diverged conspicuously from the
central axis, one shoulder was much higher than its
fellow, his nose was a pronounced specimen of the
Socratic type, and a touch of rheumatism imparted a
shuffling gait to the entire composition. Happily we
found that the teratological department of the convent
ended with these two.
Our novice-master, or “ Instructor,” at that time
was an excellent and much esteemed friar of six-andtwenty years; we were soon convinced of his kindness,
consideration, and religious sincerity, and accepted
�NOVITIATE
37
willingly the intimate relations with him in which our
position placed us. The superior of the monastery
likewise had no difficulty in securing our esteem. He
was a kindly, generous, and upright man, but without
a touch of asceticism. Tall and very stout, with dark
twinkling eyes and full features, he was a real “ Friar
of Orders Grey ” of the good old times. He was a
Belgian, but he had attained wide popularity in Kerry
by acquiring a good Flemish parody of an Irish brogue,
and constructing a genealogical tree in which some
safely remote ancestor was shown to be Irish. His
ideal of life was not heroic, but he acted up to it con
scientiously; he was genuinely pious in church,
fulminatory in pulpit and confessional, kind and fami
liar with the poor and sick, generous and a moderate
disciplinarian in his convent.
A few lay-brothers and four other priests made up
the rest of the community. There was a cultured and
refined young friar, who, after a few years of perverse
misunderstanding and petty persecution from his
brethren, took to drink, and was happily rescued from
his position by the hand of death. A second, a tall,
eccentric friar, ultimately became a stumbling-block
to his fraternity and was expelled for drunkenness;
another, a little, stout Lancashireman, of earnest and
blameless life, and of a deeply humane and affectionate
disposition, fell a victim a year later to typhus. Lastly,
there was a little, round, rubicund Irishman of enthu
siastic, unreasoning piety; kind, ascetical, hard-work
ing, studious (he studied everything except religious
evidences), he was a greatly respected figure in Irish
missionary circles. The one rule he confided to young
missionaries was : “ Throw the fire of hell at them ”;
C
�38
NOVITIATE
and with his own stentorian voice (though he told you
he was consumptive, and that one lung had already
decayed) he threw it with prodigious effect amongst
the peasantry.
A few days afterwards we were duly clotlied with
the monastic garb. The “ clothing ” has developed
into an impressive religious ceremony, and as there
were six of us (of whom four were under the age of
sixteen) to be clothed on this occasion, and it was the
inauguration of a new novitiate, the event was cele
brated with much solemnity. The six tunics (“ habits,”
as they are called) of rough brown frieze, with their
knotted cords, were blessed and sprinkled with holy
water during the mass, and we were solemnly enrobed
with the consecrated garments amidst much prayer and
psalm-singing, and the audible groans of the peasantry.
Our heads had been shaven in advance, leaving a
bald uncomfortable patch on the vertex about the
size of a cheese plate, a symbol, it is said, of the crown
of thorns of Christ’s passion. The brown tunic is
also symbolical of the passion, for it is made in the
form of a cross, the body being of the same width
from neck to foot, and the wide sleeves branching
out at right angles. However, the symbolism is an
outgrowth of more modern piety. Francis of Assisi
made no fantastic choice of a costume. Casting aside
his rich garments at his conversion, he merely adopted
the costume of the Italian beggar of his time—a rough
tunic and hood, girded with a knotted cord, and
sandals to his feet. The habit which excites so much
comment on the modern friar is thus merely an Italian
beggar’s costume of the thirteenth century; substan
tially, at least, for it too has fallen under the law of
�NOVITIATE
39
evolution. In fact, the point of vital importance on
which the two great branches of the Franciscan Order 1
diverge is the sartorial question, What was the original
form of the habit of St. Francis? The Capuchins hold
that his hood (or “ capuce ”) was long and pointed,
and that he had a beard; their rivals—the Observantes,
Recollecti, and Reformati—dissent, and their age-long
and unfraternal strife on the subject became as fierce
and alarming as the historical controversy of the
Dominicans and Jesuits of the sixteenth century on the
nature of grace. The Roman authorities had to inter
vene and stop the flow of literature and untheological
language by declaring all further publications on the
subject to be on the Index Expurgatorius.
The costume is still uncomfortable and insanitary.
In summer the heavy robe and the rough woollen
underclothing are intolerable; in winter the looseness
and v/idth of the tunic promote ventilation to an un
desirable extent; and sandals, with all respect to Mr.
Edward Carpenter, are neither healthy nor delectable.
The rule prescribes that the costume consist of “ two
tunics, a hood, a girdle, and drawers,” but in England
and America the inner tunic is interpreted to mean
an ordinary woollen shirt; on the Continent it is a
second tight-fitting tunic of the same brown material.
A mantle of the same colour is usually worn out of
doors, and is considered part of the costume during
the winter.
The name of the novice is changed when he enters
the monastery, as a sign that he is henceforth dead
to the world. The surname is entirely dropped, and
1 Since united under a common General.
C 2
Second edition.
�40
NOVITIATE
the Christian name is changed into that of some saint
of the order, who is adopted as patron; thus my own
name was changed into Antony. We were now, there
fore, fully fledged friars—of the mature age of fifteen
—and we entered at once upon the dull routine of the
monastic life. The character of the life will be best
understood by a detailed description of an ordinary
monastic day.
At a quarter to five every morning one of the friars
was awakened by his alarm-clock, and proceeded at
once to rouse the community. We novices, having
the eye of our instructor constantly upon us, shot out
of our rooms with proper despatch, but in most cases
the procedure was not so simple. There were friars
of all stages of somnolency. Some, of nervous tem
perament, heard the alarm themselves, and perhaps
rushed upstairs for a cold bath (a luxury admitted in
the degenerate friaries of England and the States);
the majority were aroused by a vigorous tap of the
wooden hammer at their door, accompanied by the
pious salutation, “ Laudetur Jesus Christus,” to which
they sleepily responded “ Amen ” (or made some other
pious or facetious observation); some slept so pro
foundly that the knocker-up had to enter their rooms
and shake them violently every morning. On one
occasion a young friar was carried out on his mattress
in profound sleep by his fellow-students and laid in
the middle of the busy corridor. When the round
was completed (all the bedrooms opening into a wide
central corridor, in accordance with the ever-watchful
constitutions), the large bell sent a deafening clangour
through the dormitories, and we quickly prepared
for chapel.
�NOVITIATE
41
A quarter of an hour was allowed for the purpose,
but, as our toilet was extremely simple, most of the
friars who had got beyond the stage of “ primitive
innocence ” continued their slumbers for five or ten
minutes. We were ordered by the constitutions to
retain all our underclothing during the night, so there
was nothing to do but throw on the rough brown robe
and gird it with the knotted cord. Then, towel in
hand, we raced to our common lavatory, for our simple
cells of twelve feet square were not encumbered with
washstands and toilet tables. In the lavatory a long
narrow zinc trough, with a few metal basins and a
row of taps overhead, was provided for our ablutions.
I afterwards discovered that, crude as it was, this
arrangement was rather luxurious for a friary.
At the end of the quarter the bell rang out its
second warning, and all were supposed to be kneeling
in their stalls in the choir by that time. The supe
rior’s eye wandered over the room to see if all were
present, and any unfortunate sleeper was at once sum
moned, and would have to do public penance for his
fault at dinner. At five the religious exercises began,
and they continued, with half-an-hour’s interval, until
eight o’clock.
The ancient monastic custom of rising at midnight
for the purpose of chanting the “ Office ” finds little
favour with modern monks; and, even from a religious
point of view, they are wise. I was enabled to make
observations on the custom some years later on the
Continent, and I found little ground for that enthu
siasm which Roman Catholic writers (usually those
who have never tried it) frequently express. A few
devotees enter into the service with their usual fer
�42
NOVITIATE
vour; but the vast majority, to whom a religious con
centration of thought during an hour’s service is an
impossibility, even in their most lucid hours, are
fatally oppressed with sleep and weariness. In
summer they fall asleep in their stalls; in winter the
night s repose is lost, and many constitutions are
ruined, by the hour or hour and a half spent in the
icy-cold chapel at midnight. There is very slender
ground for romantic admiration.
1 he Office ” which is thus chanted in choir is a
collection of Latin psalms, hymns, and readings from
Scripture, which every priest is bound to recite every
day. The monks chant it, or “ psalmody ” it, as they
say, in a monotone in their chapel at various hours
of the day;
Matins and Lauds, ’ ’ the principal
section, form the opening ceremony in the morning.
It lasts about an hour, and is followed by a half-hour
of silent meditation—a sad pitfall for the somnolent
at that early hour. During meditation the friars turn
away from each other and kneel in their stalls, with
their faces buried in their hands and their arms rest
ing on the seat. A facetious London priest, who
had once endeavoured to pass through the novitiate of
a monastery, used to tell me that he was discharged
because he snored so loudly during meditation as to
disturb the slumbers of the elder brethren. Mass
followed, and then breakfast was taken in profound
silence. It was a simple meal, consisting only of
coffee (taken in bowls, and without sugar—except on
fast-days) and bread and butter; during the meal a
few pages of the Imitation of Christ were read
aloud. After breakfast a further section of the Office
was chanted, and we were dismissed to arrange our
�NOVITIATE
43
rooms; for every friar, even the highest superior, is
his own chambermaid.
Afterwards we were allowed a quarter of an hour
in the garden in strict silence, and then our semi
religious studies and classes commenced. During the
novitiate profane study is prohibited (the perusal of
a Greek grammar one day brought on me as severe
a reprimand as if it had been a French novel), and
the time is occupied with religious exercises, of which
we had seven or eight hours daily, and the study of
our rule and constitutions, of ritual, and of ascetica!
literature. At half-past eleven another section of the
Office was chanted, at twelve there was a second halfhour of silent contemplation (an injudicious custom—
St. Teresa rightly maintained that one cannot medi
tate fasting), and at 12.30 the welcome dinner bell
was heard. Growling, rather than reciting, a De
Profundis for departed benefactors, we walked in
silent procession to the refectory, where, standing face
to face in two long rows down the room, we chanted
a long and curiously intonated grace.
Dinner was taken in strict silence. Two friars read
aloud, in Latin and English alternately, from Scripture
or some ascetical work, and the superior gave the
necessary signals with a small bell that hung before
him. There were no table-cloths, as monks are for
bidden the use of linen, but our pine tables were as
smooth as marble and scrupulously clean. The friars
only sit on one side of the table, on benches fixed into
the wall, so that the long narrow tables run round
the sides of the room. The dinner itself was frugal
but substantial enough; it usually consisted of soup,
two courses of meat and two vegetables, and fruit,
�44
NOVITIATE
with a pint of beer to each friar. A pint is the con
stitutional potion, but we juniors were, after grave
deliberation, allowed to have a smaller mug as a con
cession to English sobriety. Many of us had hardly
reached the age of strong drink, but we were forced
to take our two mugs daily, at dinner and supper,
with the rest. In Belgian and German friaries there
is an amusing intrigue constantly going on for securing
the larger mugs, and there even the youngest novices
must drink at least three pints of beer a day.
After dinner tongues were loosened at last, and
recreation permitted until 2.30. There is a curious
custom for two of the friars (a priest and a student) to
wash the dishes after dinner. A large tank of hot
water containing the dishes is suitably mounted in
the kitchen, and the two friars, armed with cloths tied
to the end of sticks, hurry through their task, chanting
meanwhile alternate verses of the Miserere in Latin,
freely interspersed with comments on the temperature
of the water. From this custom, too, the element of
spiritual romance has departed. Every Friday evening,
when the offices of the ensuing week are distributed
at supper, and announced in Latin by the reader, it is
still prescribed that “ Pater A----- et Frater B----lavabunt scutellas,” but the ceremony has not a particle
of the spiritual force it had in the days when the papal
legates, bringing the cardinal’s hat to the great St.
Bonaventure, found him so employed, and were told to
hang the hat on the bushes until he had finished.
Recreation is, in all monasteries, an incurably dull
affair. It generally consists of a walk round the
garden, while the friars indulge in light banter or
ponderous discussions of theology. We were allowed
�NOVITIATE
45
cricket at the beginning of our monastic career, but
it was presently vetoed by a foreign authority on the
ground that it was contrary to religious modesty.
Hand-ball was played by the students, and at one
place an ineffectual attempt was made to introduce
tennis. The lay-brothers and the priests played
dominoes or skittles; but the three castes—priests,
students, and lay-brothers—are forbidden to inter
mingle, or even to speak to each other without neces
sity. Cards are strictly forbidden in the monastic con
stitutions ; bagatelle was popular, and billiards not
unknown; and I have known the priests of a London
monastery to occupy their recreation with marbles for
many months. It was strangely impressive to hear
such problems as Predestination or Neo-Malthusianism
discussed over a game of marbles.
At 2.30 the bell summoned us to choir for Vespers,
the last section of the Office, and shortly afterwards
tea was announced. Nothing was eaten, but each
friar received a large bowl of tea; many of the older
friars took a second pint of beer instead, for tea was
a comparatively recent innovation. The Belgian friars
and the early English missionaries always take beer.
Silence was not enforced during the quarter of an hour
which is allowed for tea, but at its termination the
strictest silence was supposed to be observed until
recreation on the following day. In point of fact,
however, the law of monastic silence is only observed
with any degree of fidelity by novices and students,
and by these only so long as the superior is within
earshot. “ Charity,” they would plead in justifica
tion, “ is the greatest of all commandments.”
After an hour of prayer and spiritual reading we
�46
NOVITIATE
continued our pious studies until 6.30, when a third
half-hour of silent contemplation had to be accom
plished. It was pitiful, sometimes, to see young
students endeavouring to keep their attention fixed
upon the abstract doctrines of Christianity for so long
a time—to see them nervously tightening their lips
against the assaults of the evil one. For our monastic
literature, never entertaining for a moment the idea
that such a performance was beyond the powers of
the average individual, taught us to see in spirit
myriads of ugly little demons, with pointed ears and
forked tails, sitting on our shoulders and on the arms
of our stalls, and filling our minds with irrelevant
thoughts. In fact, our worthy novice-master (and a
number of reputable authors) assured us that these
imps had been seen on more than one occasion by
particularly pious elder brethren; that on one dread
occasion, happily long ago, a full-sized demon had
entered the choir with a basket and orthodox trident,
discovered a young friar who was distracted in his
prayers, and promptly disappeared with him in his
basket. To all of which we were obliged to listen
with perfect gravity, if we set any value upon our
sojourn in the monastery.
A series of mental devices, or “ methods of medita
tion,” had been invented for the purpose of aiding
the mind to fix its gaze on the things of the spirit
without interruption. Unfortunately they were often
so complicated as to make confusion worse con
founded. The method which our instructor selected
for us was quite an elaborate treatise in itself. I
remember one of our novices confiding to me the
trouble it occasioned him. The method was, of course,
�NOVITIATE
47
merely an abstract form of thought to be filled in with
the subject one chose to meditate about. But my
comrade, a clever ex-solicitor, had by some incompre
hensible confusion actually mistaken it for the subject
of meditation, and complained that the bell usually
rang before he had got through the scheme, and that
he had no time left to consider the particular virtue
or vice he had wished to meditate upon. On the
whole, it will be readily understood that of the seven
hours of prayer which were imposed upon us at that
period six at least were a sheer waste of time.
At seven we were summoned to supper—a simple
meal of eggs or cold meat, potatoes, and beer. After
wards, on three evenings per week, we took the dis
cipline, or self-scourging. Each friar repaired to his
cell for the purpose and flogged himself (at his own
discretion) across the shoulders with a knotted cord,
whilst the superior, kneeling in the middle of the
corridor, recited the Miserere aloud. Knowing that
our instructor used to listen at our doors during the
performance, we frequently gave him an exaggerated
impression of our fervour by religiously flogging the
desk or any other resonant surface. However, our
instruments of torture were guaranteed to be perfectly
harmless, even in the hands of a fanatic. I remember
how we hated a bloodthirsty little Portuguese friar,
who told us, with a suggestion of imitation, stories
of the way they took discipline in Portugal. But
before the end of the novitiate we had learned the
true value of the edifying tales with which visitors
invariably entertained the novices.
The remainder of the evening was spent in private
devotions or spiritual reading, and at 9.30 we were
�48
NOVITIATE
obliged to retire. Straw mattresses and a few blankets
were our only bed-furniture; and one wooden chair, a
plain desk, with half-a-dozen necessary books, com
pleted the inventory of the cell. A small plaster
crucifix was the only decoration on the unwashed walls.
Our dormitory was cut off from the others by a special
partition which was locked every evening, for the
papal regulations for the isolation of novices were
very stringent. Our novice-master kept the key, and
even the superior of the monastery was not allowed
to enter our department except in the company of
one of the older friars.
That was the ordinary course of our lives through
out the year of the novitiate, and indeed it had few
variations. Feast-days were the principal events we
looked forward to; in fact, it would be safe to say
that few boys would persevere in their condition if
the feast-days were abolished. A score of festivals
were indicated in the constitutions on which the
superior was directed to allow conversation at
dinner, and to give wine to the brethren: “ half
a bottle to each ” was the generous allowance of
the constitutions. In ordinary monasteries festivals
are much more frequent, and conversation is granted
at dinner on the slightest pretext. In the novitiate,
where a stricter discipline prevailed, we had usually
two or three every month, and on the more important
feasts the midday dinner assumed enormous propor
tions. At Christmas the quantity of fowl and other
seasonable food which was sent in occupied our strenu
ous attention during a full week; in fact, all our
convents had the custom of celebrating the entire
octave of Christmas with full gastronomic honours.
�NOVITIATE
49
So many friends conceived the happy idea of sending
a gift to the “ poor friars ” that the larder was
swollen with vast quantities of Christmas fare. I had
never tasted beer or wine before I entered the
monastery, but a little calculation shows that I must
(in my sixteenth year) have consumed fifty gallons
of ale and a dozen bottles of good wine during that
first year of monastic life.
The greatest event of the year, however, was the
patronal feast of the superior of the monastery. He
was a warm favourite in Killarney, and there were
enough comestibles (and potables) sent in to store a
small ship, the two neighbouring nunneries especially,
and a host of friends, vying with each other in the
profusion and excellence of gifts to honour his festival.
Even when a feast-day fell upon a fast-day, the
restriction in solids was usually compensated by a
greater generosity in fluids; we young novices were
more than exhilarated on one or two occasions when
dinner had opened with a strong claret soup, had been
accompanied by the usual pint of beer and a glass of
sherry, and followed by two or three glasses of
excellent port—sometimes even champagne. Nor is
the restriction to fish felt very acutely in Killarney,
where the lakes yield magnificent salmon, and where,
by a most ingenious process of casuistic reasoning,
water-fowl are included under the heading of fish!
The monotony of the life was also relieved by the
occurrence of the fasts. Besides the ordinary fasts
of the Church, the friars observe several that are
peculiar to their rule of life, especially a long fast
from the first of November until Christmas. How
ever, there are now few who really fast—that is to
�50
NOVITIATE
say, content themselves with one full meal per day—
even in monasteries; abstinence from flesh meat is the
usual limit of monastic mortification. On the Con
tinent fasting, in the strict sense of the word, is
much more frequently practised in monasteries, but
it may be questioned if idleness is not too heavy a
price to pay for an observance which is discredited
by modern moralists of all schools. In England and
the States the monks, and clergy generally, more
wisely prefer industry to fasting, though it is regret
table that they do not modify their professions in
accordance. The Passionists are the only English con
gregation who cling to the practice with any fidelity,
and their statistics of premature mortality are a
sufficient commentary on the stupidity of the Italian
authorities who are responsible for it.1
Moreover, the fasting ” of modern times departs
not a little from the primitive model. I have seen
the “ one full meal ” which is allowed at midday
protracted until four o’clock; and a partial meal has
been introduced in the evening. Drink, of course,
does not break the fast, except strong soup, choco
late, and a few other thick fluids, a list of which is
duly drawn up by casuists. Any amount of beer or
wine may be taken. And since it is, or may be,
injurious to drink much without eating, a certain
quantity of bread is allowed with the morning coffee;
at night (or in the morning if preferred), eight or ten
ounces of solid food arc permitted. The Franciscans
. * Since this was written I have met an ex-member of the Passionist body, who laughingly assured me that my statement that
the Passionists were ascetic was “the only serious mistake in my
book.
Second edition.
J
�NOVITIATE
51
are much reproved by rival schools of theologians for
their laxity in this regard, and the strained interpreta
tion they put upon admitted principles. At one time a
caricature was brought out in Rome depicting a Fran
ciscan friar complacently attacking a huge flagon of
ale and a generous allowance of bread and cheese in
the middle of his fast. To the ale was attached the
sound theological aphorism, “ Potus non frangit
jejunium—drink does not break the fast ” ; the huge
chunk of bread was justified by the received principle,
“ Ne potus noceat—in order that the drink may do
no harm ” ; and the cheese was added in virtue of the
well-known saying, “ Parum pro nihilo reputatur—
a little counts as nothing.”
Since there was no parish attached to the monastery
at Killarney (which is the correct canonical status of
a monastery), a few words must be said of the life
of the priests. At that time it was a hopeless mystery
to me, and it is principally from later observation and
information that I am able to describe it. That it was
far from being an industrious life will be understood;
occasional visits to the sick poor and the rendeiing of
services to the secular clergy of the diocese con
stituted the whole of their work outside. In our own
church there was only one sermon per week, and there
were six friars to share the work. Hence the greater
portion of the day was at the personal disposal of
the priests; and, as manual labour was considered
beneath the sacerdotal dignity, and their crude educa
tion had given them, with few exceptions, little or
no taste for study, they were always eager for dis
tractions. They were frequently to be met rowing or
sailing on the lakes (always in their brown habits), or
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NOVITIATE
driving on side-cars through the loveliest parts of
Kerry; and in return the parish priests whom they
visited or assisted paid frequent visits to the friary
and helped the monks to fill up an idle hour with a
cigar and a glass of whisky. A few years later,
indeed, a large-minded superior of this friary con
verted a conservatory that stood in the centre of the
garden into a cosy smoking-room.
In point of fact both whisky and tobacco were
forbidden in our constitutions, but I have never yet
seen a constitution in which a theologian could not
find a loophole and pass through it with unruffled
dignity. Our professor of theology used to tell a
genial story (against the casuist) of an old lady at
Glasgow who lost her purse, and prayed that it might
not fall into the hands of a theologian. The con
viviality of the priests, in our days, was confined to
a small room at a safe distance from our wing of
the house, but we frequently met one of the younger
priests moving stealthily along the corridor with the
neck of a bottle peeping out from his mantle, and
often, as we lay awake at midnight, we caught the
faint echo from the distant room of “ Killarney ” or
“ The Dear Little Shamrock.”
The penances, too, were an interesting feature of
the life, when observed in the case of one’s com
panions. The common form of public penance is to
kneel in the centre of the refectory during dinner,
praying silently with arms outstretched, until the
superior gives permission to rise. The next in point
of severity is to kneel without the hood, or with an
inscription stating one’s crime, or with the fragments
of anything one has broken. For graver faults,
�NOVITIATE
58
especially of insubordination, a culprit is condemned
to eat his dinner on the floor in the centre, the
observed of all observers, for one or more days; and
for an exaggerated offence his diet is restricted to
bread and water. Confinement to the monastery for
a long period, suspension from sacerdotal functions,
and, ultimately, expulsion from the order, are the
more grievous forms of punishment. Though monastic
constitutions still direct that each monastery must
have its “ prison,” I do not think that formal incar
ceration is now practised in any part of the world.
Apart, however, from these penances the whole scheme
of discipline is crushing and degrading. For speaking
a word in time of silence a novice would be forced to
carry a stick in his mouth during recreation; he would
be called upon at any time, for no fault whatever
(and generally just in proportion as he was intelligent
and sensitive), to stand against the wall or in a corner
of the room and make a fool of himself in the most
idiotic fashion. Everything is done to expel the last
particle of what is commonly called self-respect, to
distort and pervert character according to a stupid
mediaeval ideal. I remember once nearly bringing my
monastic career to a very early close by a transgression
of this supreme command of blind obedience. I had
been asked a question which would implicate a col
league—in a trivial matter—and I refused out of a
sense of honour to reply. If I had not apologised
afterwards in a public and humiliating fashion I should
have been expelled at once.
Thus the twelve months passed monotonously, and
the time approached for us to take the “ simple vows.”
The votes of the community are taken every three
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NOVITIATE
months on the merits of candidates for the order. The
community is assembled for the purpose in the chapter
room (a room in which the superior assembles his
religious three times a week for prayer, exhortation,
and public confession of their minor faults—breaking
utensils, oversleeping, &c.) and the superior invites a
discussion on the merits or demerits of the novice.
He then produces a bag of white and black marbles,
of which he gives a pair to each voter; they are
collected with great secrecy in two bags, and if the
novice does not obtain a majority of “ white balls ”
he is invited to abandon his intention. If it is probable
that he will be “ blackballed,” he is usually warned
in advance : hence it very rarely happens.
Our votes having been satisfactorily obtained we
prepared to make our religious profession at the com
pletion of our year of probation. The profession, an
impressive religious ceremony, consists essentially of a
vow to observe the rule of St. Francis and to “ live
in poverty, chastity,1 and obedience for the whole
time of our lives.” When the morning arrived, a large
and sympathetic congregation had gathered in the
church, and the sight of the six young friars—mere
boys we all were—solemnly forswearing every earthly
desire moved them deeply. The purport of the vow
was explained to them in the exhortation given by
the superior, and they at least knew the extent of the
sacrifice we were making. We, too, were convinced
1 A vow of chastity embraces the obligation of celibacy and
much more : it doubles the guilt of any transgression of the virtue
of chastity or purity, which, in the theory of the Church of Rome,
is a very comprehensive piece of ethical legislation. Yet many
confessors encourage their girl-penitents, living in the world, to
make such a vow.
�NOVITIATE
55
that we fully realised the gravity of the step; as,
although our thoughts were taken up rather with the
glamour of the position we ultimately sought and the
advantages it offered, we were not in our way insens
ible of the price we were asked to pay. But it was
many.a long year before the act could be appreciated
—not until long after we had solemnly and irrevocably
ratified our vows.
What are the world and the flesh to a boy of
sixteen, or even to a youth of nineteen (at which age
the final, irrevocable step is taken), who has been
confined in an ecclesiastical institution from his
thirteenth year? He knows little more of the life
which he sacrifices so lightly with his vow of poverty
than he does of life on Mars; and he is, when he
utters his vow of celibacy, entirely unacquainted with
the passion that will one day throb in every fibre of
his being, and transform the world beyond conception.
He has signed a blank cheque, on which nature may
one day write a fearful sum. Yet he is permitted, nay
persuaded, to make that blind sacrifice, and place
himself in lifelong antagonism to the deepest forces
of his being, before he can have the faintest idea of
his moral strength. If it be true that monastic life
is ever sinking into corruption, we should feel more
inclined to pity than to blame the monks.
The secular clergy make no vow of poverty or
obedience, and it may be urged that even their vow
of celibacy is more defensible. The seminary student
makes his vow when he is admitted to the subdiaconate, the first of the holy orders, and the
canonical and usual age of the subdeacon is twentyone. The average youth of twenty-one may be
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NOVITIATE
admitted to be capable, in ordinary circumstances,
of forming an opinion on such matters, but we must
remember that the ecclesiastical student has had an
abnormal training. Every precaution has been taken
to keep him in complete ignorance of sexual matters,
and to defer the development of that faculty of which
he is asked to make a lifelong sacrifice. He has never
come in contact with the other sex, for even during
his vacation the fear of scandal hangs like a millstone
about him; he has never read a line concerning the
most elementary facts and forces of life—his classics,
his history, his very fiction, have been rigidly expur
gated; the weekly minute confession of his thoughts,
the incessant supervision of his superiors, the constant
presence of innumerable threats, have combined to
postpone the unfolding of his sex-life until he shall
have blindly abdicated it for ever. In the confessional
I have known students of a much more advanced age
yho were still sexually undeveloped. In fact, the
Church knows that they are unconscious of sex, and
expects them to be unconscious; for if she awaited the
full development of mind and body in her candidates
her clergy would never be sufficiently recruited as long
as she insists on celibacy.
The proportion of nuns who take the vow of chastity
at an early age is smaller, as I have said, but the sin
is more grievous. The life of the nun who finds in
later life that she has made a mistake is infinitely more
wretched. The priest is in the world and frequently
of it ;■ the nun is jealously imprisoned in the walls of
her convent. No doubt, her vow is usually only a
“ simple ” vow and theoretically dispensable; but who
ever knew a nun to write to Rome for a dispensation?
�NOVITIATE
57
No woman would dare to face the ignominy of such a
step. “ Woe to him (or her) who draws back his hand
from the plough ” is one of the most inculcated maxims
of the conventual life; and the prospect of returning,
a failure, to one’s family and friends is most for
bidding.
I have never been able to witness without a shudder
the ceremony of a young girl making her vows. Some
comfortable monk or light-tongued Jesuit preaches to
her from the altar of the tranquil joy of her future
life as spouse of Christ alone, and the candid virginal
eyes that are bent upon him tell only too clearly of
her profound ignorance of the sleeping fires within her,
the unknown joys of love and maternity which she
sacrifices so readily. In ten years more she will know
the meaning of the vow of chastity into which she has
been deluded. It was brought home to me vividly on
hearing one day the confession of a young nun who
was in the wild throes of passion-birth. After
enumerating the usual peccadilloes, she began to tell
me of her utter misery and isolation. Her sisters
were unkind, thoughtless, and jealous; “and yet,
father,” she urged piteously, “ I do want some one
to love me.” I muttered the commonplaces of our
literature; but as she knelt at my feet, looking sadly
up at me, in their little convent chapel, I felt how
dark a sin it was to admit an immature girl to a vow
of chastity. How their parents—their mothers—can
let them act thus, nay, can look on with smiles and
congratulations, surpasses my comprehension. We
read with shudders of the ancient Mexican sacrifices
of maidens, yet hundreds of fine-natured girls are
annually sacrificed on this perverse altar of chastity in
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NOVITIATE
England. They send home no word of unhappiness,
it may be said. Do their parents not know that every
letter they write must be given, open, to a superior?
I doubt if France ever did a greater service to its
women than when it (though not entirely) closed t-heir
convents.
�CHAPTER IV
STUDENTSHIP
After the novitiate had been successfully accom
plished it was necessary to resume the course of our
education. Owing to the total neglect of profane
study which is foolishly directed, most of the ground
we had already conquered was lost during the year
of the novitiate. Latin was sustained, even advanced
a step, since all our services and quasi-religious studies
had been in Latin; although ecclesiastical Latin, and
especially the Latin of the Psalms, of which we heard
so much, would make the shade of Cicero shudder.
Whatever other acquisitions had been made such as
Greek and French were entirely lost. We had, there
fore, to devote ourselves once more to “ humanities,”
and for this purpose we were transferred (without a
glimpse of the immortal lakes, for the friars had fallen
on evil days with the bishop) to what is now the
principal house of studies of the Franciscans at Forest
Gate in East London.
The large and imposing pile of buildings which the
friars have to-day at Forest Gate is often quoted as
an illustration of the growth of Catholicism. Fifteen
years ago (1882) there was no Catholic congregation
in the locality; only a dozen worshippers made their
way to the washhouse of the neighbouring nunnery,
59
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STUDENTSHIP
when the friars first came to celebrate mass there.
When our party arrived three years afterwards the
congregation numbered 300 souls; and when I left in
1896 the friars had erected property to the value of
about <£25,000, and ministered to a congregation of
more than 3000 souls. As a matter of fact this was
only a symptom of the decentralisation that was going
on in London. There were few converts to Rome in
the new congregation, and these were merely the
flotsam and jetsam of superficial religious controversy
—good people who would save their souls in any
Church, or none. The great bulk of the parish were
the middle-class Catholics who had migrated from all
parts of East London to the new and healthier district,
in which the sagacious friars had erected a church,
mainly on borrowed funds.1
The priest who was entrusted by the Belgian author
ities with the supervision of our studies was Father
David, since Minister-General of the entire Franciscan
Order, and erudite counsellor to the Holy Office. An
abler student than teacher—a distinction of which our
authorities never dreamed—and a man of many
interests, he contributed little more than the example
of his great industry and learning to our develop
ment; and most of us were very barren soil for that
seed. During the first six months no attempt was
made to organise our work. All our religious exer
cises were hurried through early in the morning,
making more than three consecutive hours of prayers
of divers kinds; as a rule we then had the monastery
to ourselves during the day. Once or twice a week,
1 One of their chief benefactors, Mgr. A. Wells, has since seceded
from the Church.
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61
at any hour of the day or night, our professor would
interrupt the course of his ministerial and parochial
duties, and his studies of Sanscrit at the British
Museum, to give us a class in Latin. Even during
that half-hour he used to write letters, and we would
purposely make the most atrocious blunders, and con
duct ourselves in the wildest manner our imagination
could suggest.
Our long Saturnalia came to an end at last with
the arrival of a second and younger professor, who
entered into the work of reform with alarming zeal.
He was fresh from the Belgian province, in which a
perfect discipline (from a mechanical point of view)
prevails in the houses of study. Young, intensely
earnest, and sincerely religious, he made an honest
effort to reform us without losing our sympathy, but,
as he knew little more of our studies than we did, and
had an uncontrollable temper and a conspicuous harsh
ness of character, lie alienated us more and more as
time went on. From Belgium, too, he had imported
the system of espionage, which is deservedly odious to
English students; he considered that the necessary
rigour of monastic discipline justified it. However,
he never cared to be caught in the act, and we gave
him many an unpleasant quarter of an hour by running
to the door of our study room when we saw his
shadow near it, and chasing him through the convent
in his anxiety not to be seen. At length we appealed
to authority, and effected his deposition and removal.
In later years I learned to esteem and respect him, and
he made rapid progress in the order and in the London
ministry; finally, however, he ended in an ignominious
flight with the contents of the fraternal cash-box.
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His successor was a monk of a very different char
acter. Far from continuing the rigour of his pre
decessor, he became alarmingly liberal and familiar,
and before many months had elapsed we found it
impossible to retain a particle of respect for him. In
point of fact he already showed symptoms of mental
aberration, and a few years afterwards his conduct
became so extraordinary that absolute dementia is the
kindest interpretation of it. He, too, was removed
at our appeal, and we began to have an evil reputation.
During our five years of study at Forest Gate we
succeeded in removing no less than six professors and
superiors; and, since I was the “dean” of the
students throughout my course, I attracted an uncom
plimentary interest. I have no doubt that my own
fall was frequently predicted many years in advance.
After twelve months at Latin we were initiated into
a course of rhetoric. The Jesuits more wisely post
pone the rhetorical studies until the last year; in any
case, it is little more than a waste of time. Lessons
in elocution and declamation are clearly expedient,
and should be insisted upon much more conscientiously
than they are in the training of priests, but the usual
“course of rhetoric ” is only learned to be forgotten.
It deals with the invention and distribution of argu
ments, the analysis and composition of orations, the
various styles of discourse, figures of speech, and the
comparative play of ideas and emotions. There are
few who retain any knowledge of its multitudinous
rules when the period of practice arrives; fewer still
who pay the slightest attention to them. The only
useful element of the training is the practice of
making ecclesiastical students prepare and deliver
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short sermons to their companions. In many
monasteries the students preach to the assembled com
munity during dinner. It affords excellent training
for public speaking, for one who is able to speak with
any degree of self-possession to a small audience will
have little fear of a large congregation. I often
preached to a congregation of a thousand people with
the utmost composure, yet trembled before a con
gregation of ten or twelve persons.
The course of rhetoric is succeeded by a course of
scholastic philosophy. In the great mediaeval schools
philosophy was taught in conjunction with theology,
but the rationalistic spirt, which had been so vigor
ously expressed by Abelard, and the growing import
ance of the Moorish thinkers, led gradually to the
separation of philosophy. By the sixteenth century,
when there was a notable revival of speculative
activity, the separation of philosophy from theology
was complete. In a rationalistic age like ours such
a separation is imperative. Before a positive revela
tion can be entertained, certain preliminary truths,
especially the existence, nature, and authority of the
Revealer, must necessarily be established by pure reason
ing ; in other words, philosophy must precede theology,
and this is now fully recognised by the Church.
The scholastic philosophy which is now taught in
Catholic seminaries usually includes treatises on logic,
metaphysics, and natural ethics. First is given a short
treatise on dialectics, which differs little from the
logic of Jevons or Whateley, and is followed by a more
careful study of the second or material part of logic.
A treatise of general metaphysics follows, in which
are discussed, analysed, and vindicated the general
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concepts and principles which will be used subse
quently in the construction of the desired theses.
Special metaphysics is divided into three parts,
cosmology, psychology and natural theology. It
opens with a proof of the existence of the material
world, against the Idealists, and discusses its origin
and its features of time and space; then the question
of life is entered upon, its origin and nature discussed,
and the two great branches of the organic world are
philosophically described and commented upon. The
second part, psychology, is concerned with the human
soul; it seeks to prove its spirituality and immortality,
against the Materialist, classifies and analyses its
various faculties, treats of the origin and nature of
thoughts, emotions, and volitions. The third part
treats of God; it opens with the usual demonstration
of his existence, against the Agnostics, endeavours to
elucidate his attributes as far as mere reasoning will
avail (and the scholastic philosopher is persuaded that
it will avail much), and considers his relations to
this nether world.
The line of reasoning throughout is taken closely
from Aristotle—or, as Renan would say, from a bad
Latin translation of an Arabic paraphrase of a Syriac
version of Aristotle. Until the time of Thomas
Aquinas, all Catholic philosophers (except Boetius) had
followed Plato, and regarded Aristotle with suspicion;
St. Thomas, however, and all the schoolmen, except
St. Bonaventure, rejected the Platonist method and
introduced Aristotle (through the Latin translations
of the Arabic school), expurgated his philosophy, and
enlarged it in certain directions in harmony with
Christian teaching. Thus the Neo-Scholastic philo-
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sophy is fundamentally the philosophy of Aristotle
enlarged by allusions to modern problems and philo
sophies, and usually enriched with a moderate acquaint
ance with modern science. The Jesuits of Stoneyhurst
have published (in English) an excellent series of
manuals of the Neo-Scholastic philosophy at its best.
To logic and metaphysics is usually added a treatise
on natural ethics, which is founded on the Nicomachean
ethics. It deals with the abstract conceptions of right
and duty, virtue and vice, law and conscience; dis
cusses the various current theories of moral obligation;
and expounds and enforces the various duties which
arise from the relations of individual, social, and inter
national life. Since no appeal to revelation is admitted
in it, and in order to distinguish it from moral
theology (which covers the same ground in the light
of revelation and authority), the treatise goes by the
name of natural ethics.
Customary as it is to decry the scholastic philo
sophy, I would willingly subscribe to the generous
appreciation of it by Mill and Hamilton as a mental
discipline. Its chief defect is its narrow and arrogant
exclusivism. That the system is strongly and skil
fully constructed is what one would expect from the
number of gifted minds that have contributed to it;
but almost every manual from which it is taught, and
nearly every professor, carefully excludes, or only gives
a most inaccurate version of, rival philosophies. The
impression made on the student is that the scholastic
system is so clearly and uniquely true that all oppo
nents are either feeble-minded or dishonest; the latter
theory is only too often urged. When I afterwards
became professor of philosophy I made it my duty to
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study more modern systems, and learned how petty
and antiquated the scholastic system is in comparison.
Even one who had taken a degree in it could hardly
read such writers as Lotze or Royce.
And, indeed, apart from the fact that all opponents
are on the Index 1 (in that they write “ expressly
against the faith ”), and that it would be a sacrilege
to entertain for a moment the possibility of their
being in the right, the time which is devoted to the
vast subject is wholly inadequate. Two years is the
usual duration of the course; one year is very fre
quently the limit of philosophical study. Then the
ages of the students must be taken into account.
They are generally youths of from eighteen to twentyone, who are quite incompetent to enter seriously into
such grave problems; only one in a hundred makes
an attempt to do so. Sufficient information to satisfy
an examiner is committed to memory; but, unless
the student is drawn to the science for a solution of
questions that have arisen in his own soul (which is
very rarely the case), he shirks philosophy as far as
possible, and looks forward eagerly to his deliverance
from it. Further, it is supposed to be taught through
the medium of a dead language, and most of the
professors in the seminaries have very little acquaint
ance with modern science. They are also injudicious
in that, neglecting the problems of actual interest and
importance, they fritter away the allotted time in the
1 The Index, or “list of prohibited books,” is really a far more
extensive thing than the published list. Every work that is
regarded as “against the faith ” (such as this) is prohibited to the
Catholic under pain of hell, although not expressly put on the list.
Hence the ease with which Catholic journals can misrepresent a
book. Their readers dare not read it.
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most trivial controversies. The liberty of the will
or the existence of God will be dismissed in a day,
and a week will be zealously devoted to the question
whether substance and personality are two distinct
entities, or whether the qualities of a thing are
physically, formally, or mentally distinct from its
substance. In many seminaries a certain amount of
physical science is taught in conjunction with the
course of philosophy, but much jealousy is shown with
regard to it. I was much attracted to the empirical
sciences from the beginning, and, though not actually
impeded, I was much discouraged in that pursuit; I
was informed that the empirical sciences made the
mind “ mechanical,” and predisposed to materialism.
F. David, though not actually my professor, guided
my studies with great kindness throughout my course.
Although I fortunately broke loose from his influence
in some directions, and found that I had subsequently
to verify with care whatever I had accepted from
him, I was certainly much indebted to him for the
formation of habits of industry and precision.
The priest who was nominally entrusted with our
philosophical training is certainly not responsible for
the fatal depth to which I ultimately penetrated. One
of the few things he had not mastered was meta
physics ; he could paint and play, and he was an
authority on architecture, archaeology, rubrics, canon
law, and history. He was a Belgian friar of pro
nounced eccentricity, and his method of teaching
philosophy was original. After each lesson he dictated
in Latin a number of questions and answers, and on
the following morning the answers had to be repeated
word for word. Some of my fellow-students passed
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a most satisfactory examination at the end of the
term without having a single idea on philosophical
questions. The worthy father was another victim of
our seditious movements, and his eccentricities enabled
us to make his life a serious burden. He, for instance,
hated meeting anybody on our broad staircases, and
we haunted the stairs. He lived mainly on hard toast,
and we at times stole some of it and scrunched it in
the most silent intervals of dinner, to the delight of
his colleagues.
The last three or four years of the student’s career
are devoted to theology. Under that title are usually
comprised ecclesiastical history, canon law, Scripture,
and moral and dogmatic theology. Ecclesiastical
history, usually a very one-sided version of the vicissi
tudes of the Church, does not, as a rule, occupy much
of the time. Canon law, a vast system of ecclesiastical
legislation, is either neglected or only given in a very
rudimentary fashion. Each order and diocese secures
one or two experts in the subject, who are appealed
to in case of complications, but the majority of the
clergy are content with the slight knowledge of canon
law which they necessarily glean from their moral
theology. The three years are, therefore, devoted to
Scripture and theology proper. In my course not a
single lesson of Canon Law was given.
With four lectures each week during a period of
two or three years it is impossible to study satisfac
torily more than a comparatively small section of the
Scriptures. Certain books are selected, after a general
introduction, for detailed commentary, and the students
are supposed to study the exegetical method in order
to cover the rest of the ground at their leisure.
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How far is the study of Scripture in the Church
of Rome affected by the Higher Criticism (and the
monuments)? Very profoundly, in point of fact,
though this modification of views can find no expres
sion since the celebrated retrograde encyclical of Leo
XIII. Newman’s contention, that there were obiter
dicta in Scripture which did not fall under the in
spiring influence, introduced a far-reaching principle;
it was not necessary to hold that all was inspired,
In face of the stern criticism of the Rationalists many
had begun to admit scientific and historical errors in
Scripture, and the famous French professor, M. Loisy,
went very far in company with the critics. Then
came the Pope’s encyclical, declaring that no errors
could be admitted in Scripture, and M. Loisy dis
appeared from his chair (with, it is true, a most suave
and courteous letter in his pocket, recognising his past
services, from the Pope). However, an encyclical only
affects the expressions, not the thoughts, of scholarly
Catholics. Leo XIII. has never once claimed to
exercise his infallible authority. His encyclicals enjoy
no more than his personal authority as a theologian,
and that is not serious. The bulk of the faithful are
impressed by his utterances, both on the ground of
their wisdom and under the erroneous impression that
they, according to Catholic theology, share to some
degree the prestige of his supernatural power. There
are no degrees in infallibility. Catholic scholars are
waiting patiently until Cardinal Vanutelli, or some
broader-minded man, assumes the tiara.
In the meantime, on this Scriptural question, they
have a refuge in the elasticity of the term “ inspira-‘
tion.” The advanced thinker may give it any interD
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pretation his views may require. A very able professor
of Scripture at Louvain University told me that his
own ideas on Scripture were absolutely chaotic on
account of this vagueness of the fundamental idea.
Another distinguished professor saw in it a line of
dignified retreat for the Papacy when the time came.
What the commission which is now sitting on the
Biblical question at the Vatican may determine can
not be conjectured. But the private opinion of the
leading spirit in that commission is not unknown to
me. “ The truth is,” I recollect Father David saying
to me, when Mr. Sayce’s “ Higher Criticism and the
Monuments ” appeared, “ the truth is that the Old
Testament was not written for us, and the sooner the
Church can quietly drop it overboard the better.” 1
Moral theology has been detached from dogmatic
in the specialisation of studies, and forms a distinct
science of a purely practical nature. It opens with a
few general treatises on moral responsibility, con1 When the first edition was written Leo XIII. had appointed a
commission of theologians, with my tutor, F. David, as secretary,
to draw up a series of guiding statements on the question of
Sciipture. It is plain that Leo XIII. had seen the error of his
encyclical, and was disposed to be more liberal. He is said to
have repeatedly muttered in his last hours : “The Biblical ques
tion, the Biblical question.” Then came the accession of Pius X.
one of the most narrow-minded and medieval of the whole college
of cardinals. The rival partisans of Vanutelli and RampoBa
could come to no agreement, and a nonentity had to be admitted
to the tiara. Unfortunately, he proved as conscientious as he is
ignorant. The Biblical Commission was swamped with reactionary
scholars, and one of the first pronouncements signed by my liberal
tutor was that the whole Pentateuch was certainly written by
Moses ! Then began the great fight against the liberals, or Modern
ists. Cultivated Catholics groan under the rule of Pius X., and
believe that he is ruining the Church. It is a singular commentary
on the dogma of papal inspiration. Third edition.
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71
science, law, and sin, which constitute what is called
fundamental theology. The special treatises which
follow discuss the obligations of the moral agent in
every conceivable relation and circumstance. Each
treatise usually takes a particular virtue as its object,
and enumerates every possible transgression of the
same, discussing their comparative gravity, and fre
quently giving practical rules to the confessor in deal
ing with them. There is a treatise on impurity, which
gives the student the physiological elements of the sub
ject, and enumerates (with the crudest details) the
interminable catalogue of forms of vice, the professor
usually supplementing the treatise from his own ex
perience in the confessional. There are also treatises
on charity, on justice (a voluminous treatise which
descends into the minutest details of conjugal, social,
and commercial life), on veracity, and all other virtues.
Throughout the preceding section on virtues and
vices, which usually forms a quarto volume of 500 or
600 pages, little appeal is made to positive revelation.
The judgments of the theologian are supported from
time to time by texts of Scripture and references to
ecclesiastical legislation, but the main portion of the
work is purely ethical and rational. The second
section, however, another quarto volume of 500 pages,
discusses the seven sacraments of the Church of Rome,
the vast number of obligations they entail in practical
life, the transgressions which arise from their neglect
or abuse, and their theory and practice. The principal
treatises are the two that deal with confession and
matrimony. In the one the future confessor receives
the necessary directions for his task (a much more
complicated one than is commonly supposed); in the
D2
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other the many impediments to marriage, on the
Catholic view, are discussed, as well as the dispensa
tions from them, and there is a further discussion of
conjugal relations. The path throughout is beset with
the innumerable conflicts of theologians, and every point
is profusely illustrated with real or fictitious “ cases.”
Moral theology is regarded as the most important
of sacerdotal studies, and in many monastic orders it
is the only study that is seriously cultivated. Young
priests have annual examinations in it for many years
after their ordination, and throughout life the priest
has to attend periodical conferences, which are held
in every monastery and diocese, for the discussion of
points of casuistry. Our professor was a young man
of much ability and refinement of character, who
lectured on the cruder sections with marked confusion
and apology, but, as a rule, priests soon acquire the
habit of discussing indelicate “ cases ” with the calm
ness of a medical man.
Much as we were attached to our professor for his
kindliness and charm of character, we had to procure
his removal at the end of a year. Though a man of
more than average ability, he was too weak and un
suited for the monastic condition to fill his position
with credit. The dull, oppressive environment grad
ually led him to drink, and he died an unhappy and
premature death.
For our course of dogmatic theology we had the
able guidance of Father David. He was a man of
wide erudition and considerable mental power, and
held us, with one or two exceptions, magnetically
bound to him during our studentship. It was a curious
fact that nearly all of his students withdrew them-
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selves from his influence in later years. The change
seemed to be due to the subsequent discovery of the
inaccuracy of many of the statements we had taken
from him—want of practice in writing and a shrinking
from criticism had encouraged a certain degree of care
lessness in his expressions—and partly to the fact that
his early kindness and assistance had too much of an
element of patronage and authority to survive in
maturer years. Personally I was the most indebted to
his guidance, and was the last of my course to remain
under his influence. He had a remarkable grasp of
dogmatic theology, because he had a thorough know
ledge of the scholastic philosophy, which pervades and
unites its entire structure. For dogmatic theology
takes the student in hand at the point at which philo
sophy has left him; it is, in fact, merely revelation set
in a philosophical frame. The various points of dogma
which are contained (or supposed to be contained) in
Scripture, were first selected by the Fathers, and
developed, generally by the aid of the Neo-Platonic
philosophy, into formidable structures. The schoolmen
completed the synthesis with the aid of the Peripatetic
philosophy, and elaborated the whole into a vast scheme
which they called theology. The purely philosophical
problems which arose have been extracted, and now
form the distinct science of metaphysics; the ethical
questions have been separated and formed into a moral
theology; the speculative science which remains, still
wholly philosophical in form and largely so in argu
ment, is dogmatic theology.
Much space is occupied with the conflicts of rival
schools of theologians, especially of the Thomists, or
followers of St. Thomas (chiefly the Dominicans and
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Jesuits—though Thomism is in general favour just
now, since the Pope has declared for St. Thomas), and
the Scotists (Franciscans) or followers of the Franciscan
Duns Scotus. These rival groups quarrel about every
question that the Church has left undefined. One im
portant result of these divisions is that grave questions
of living interest are only imperfectly grasped by
theologians until the world has moved on a step, and
they then ungracefully follow it. Their time is chiefly
occupied with questions that are fitly illustrated by the
problem of the number of angels that could stand on a
needle’s point.
Through this scheme of education every aspirant to
the Roman Catholic priesthood must pass. In the
larger seminaries and more prosperous congregations
the programme is carried out with great fidelity, and
the more brilliant students are sent on to the universi
ties (Washington, Louvain, Innspruck, Freiburg, and
Rome) for more advanced courses. The smaller
seminaries and minor congregations, who are ever
pressed for priests, curtail the scheme very freely;
philosophy is all but omitted, dogmatic theology is
reduced to the indispensable minimum, and moral
theology is carefully pruned of its luxurious growth
of superfluous controversies. In the case of monastic
orders, whose work consists almost entirely in mission
ary and parochial activity amongst the poor, the Church
connives at a lower standard of education.
In the Franciscan Order the constitutions, from
which its admirers usually but wrongly derive their
information of its practices, generously prescribe three
years for philosophy and four for theology. In few
branches of the order are more than five years devoted
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to the higher studies. In England we were the
pioneers of a new system, and from first to last our
studies were irregular and stunted. We spent five
years as students at Forest Gate, of which fifteen
months were devoted to classics and rhetoric, fifteen
months to philosophy, and two years and a half to
theology. During that period our life differed little
from the model described in the preceding chapter.
We rose at a quarter to five, dragged through the long
programme of religious services, and commenced study
at eight; six or seven hours per day were devoted to
study, and the remainder of the time was occupied as
I have described.
We had taken the irrevocable vows three years after
leaving the novitiate. One of our number had obtained
papal release from his “simple ” vows, but most of
us looked forward eagerly to the priesthood, the “ end
of study,” as we equivocally called it, and we found
means to enliven the dull and insanitary life that had
to be traversed first. No vacation is allowed during
the whole of the period, but once or twice a week we
had the luxury of divesting ourselves of the heavy robe
and taking long walks in ordinary clerical attire, and
once or twice a year we were granted a whole-day
holiday to some pleasant spot. This was in the later
years. At the commencement of the period we had
ample practical illustration of the meaning of a vow
of poverty—which is more than the modern mendicant
friar anticipates. Under one superior, a very mediocre
friar, who had been put into office to serve the purpose
of a diplomatic and ambitious higher superior, our diet
and clothing became painfully appropriate to our pro
fession of mendicancy. His parsimony and real lack
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of money were neatly concealed behind a cheerful pro
fession and praise of “ holy poverty ” before which all
complaint was stultified. However, our congregation,
and the income of our church increased, so that
“ holy poverty ” was laid aside in favour of more
humane sentiments. Our diet became generous and
substantial, our beer and wine more expensive, and a
heating apparatus was introduced; we almost attained
the ordinary level of modern monastic life.
Still the life was extremely insanitary, and there
was much sickness amongst us. During three years
we lost six of our young men, and almost all of us
entered upon our active career with deeply impaired
constitutions. Our medical attendant waged a constant
but fruitless war with our superiors to procure a saner
recreation for us; at his demand for exercise we were
furnished with picks and shovels and turned into our
garden. One huge mound of earth afforded us exercise
for four years; one superior desired to see it in a
central heap, his successor fancied it in the form of a
Roman camp, and a third directed us to form an en
trenchment along the side of the garden with it. But
the root of the evil was far deeper than they cared to
recognise; it lay in the isolation, the dull, soul
benumbing oppression of the monastic life.
The sick were treated with great kindness, as a
rule, but, naturally, with little skill and effectiveness;
for no woman is, under any conceivable circumstances,
allowed to enter the monastery. In a serious illness
which befell me I had painful experience of that aspect
of celibate life. The custards and beef-tea which the
doctor had ordered were made by our cook of corn
flour and somebody’s essence of beef (the cook had the
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laudable intention of saving time for his prayers); and
even when certain lady friends outside had taken the
responsibility for my diet, I still had the equivocal
blessing of “ fraternal ” nursing. The lay-brother
who acted as my infirmarian, a good, rough, kindhearted fellow, like most of his class, had been a collier
before his conversion, and, though he made a strained
effort to be gentle and soothing, his big horny hands
lent themselves very badly to the work. However, no
expense was spared in the care of the sick, and most
superiors were extremely kind and considerate in their
treatment.
The constant changes of the inmates of the monastery
also afford some relief to the monotony of the life.
Elections are held every eighteen months, at which
changes of superiors are made and monks are trans
ferred from one monastery to another. For months in
advance the convents are thrown into a fever of excite
ment over the issues. Discontented inferiors are
afforded an opportunity of venting their grievances, as
a commissioner, or “ visitator,” is sent from Rome,
who has a strictly secret and confidential talk with
every friar in the province before the election takes
place. In some monasteries and nunneries the superior
is elected for life, and in such cases he is usually
chosen by the inmates themselves with great care. In
our fraternity, and in many other congregations, the
local superiors, or “ guardians,” of the various mon
asteries were appointed by a higher council, as I will
describe later, and had to hand in their resignations
at the end of eighteen months; if their record was
satisfactory, they might be re-elected for a time. The
frequent change is a matter of general satisfaction, for
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no superior ever succeeds in gaining the sympathy of
an entire community. One of the kindest and ablest
superiors we ever had, Father Bede, a man of excep
tionally earnest, sincere, and unworldly life, only
retained the position for a year and a half, and at the
end of that term was with great difficulty dissuaded
from leaving our province altogether. There was a
great deal of intrigue afoot always in connection with
the elections.
Feast-days also helped to break the monotony of
the life. Even in our poorest days the higher festivals
were celebrated with much gaiety and opulent meals;
for there are always plenty of thoughtful friends, and
usually a nunnery or two, in the neighbourhood of a
friary to supply the defects of the masculine cuisine on
special occasions. On such days the law of silence is
suspended at dinner, and the friars join in a general
conversation and raillery; often, too, an impromptu
concert is added, and the songs of bygone days re-echo
through the cloisters. Our refectory was prudently
located, as is usual, at the back of the house, and far
from profane ears. Wine is poured out in abundance;
in our days of poverty it was weak Rhine wine or an
inferior port, but with the return of prosperity (and
the advent of a generous benefactress), good port and
whisky, and a fair quantity of champagne, made their
appearance. We students also were liberally supplied
with wine, and, as some religiously declined it, others
drank too generously. Youths in their teens, who had
never seen wine in their homes, drank their half-bottle
once or twice a month. A lamentable proportion of
them became immoderate drinkers.
The long preparation for the priesthood is divided
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into stages marked by the reception of the preliminary
orders. In the Church of Rome there are seven orders
through which the cleric must pass, four minor and
three major or “ holy ” orders. In the early Church
each order marked a certain category of officials in
which the candidate for the priesthood was detained
for some time. The first ceremony, the giving of the
“ tonsure,” in which the bishop symbolically cuts five
locks of hair from the head of the neophyte, is a formal
initiation into the ranks of the clergy. Whilst the hair
is being cut the youth repeats after the bishop the
words, “ The Lord is the part of my inheritance,” for
the “ cleric ” is one who has chosen the part (cleros)
of the Lord. After a time he passes through the four
minor orders, and becomes successively doorkeeper,
reader, exorcist, and acolythe. To-day the tonsure
and the minor orders are usually given in one ceremony,
for the lower offices have been partly absorbed in the
higher, and partly committed to non-clerics. But the
conservatism of the Church still insists on the orders
being taken and their functions discharged at least
once; so that the newly appointed doorkeeper, for in
stance, must march ceremoniously to the church door,
which he opens and shuts, and rings the bell, before
the bishop will proceed to make him reader. The
function of exorcist can now only be discharged by a
priest, with the permission of the bishop in each case.
In the west of Ireland, where belief in diabolical inter
ference and the power of the priest is still very pro
found, exorcisms are not infrequent. But they are not
unknown in enlightened London. A case came to my
knowledge recently in which Cardinal Vaughan con
templated exorcising a man, but the spirit threatened
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to do such serious internal damage before departing
that the ceremony was abandoned.
The subdiaconate is usually received at the age of
twenty-one, and the diaconate in the following year.
In the monastic orders, where the vow of celibacy has
already been pronounced, these ceremonies are com
paratively unimportant, but to the secular student the
subdiaconate is a fateful step; the vow is made by
taking a step forward in the sanctuary at the invita
tion of the bishop, and many a student has withdrawn
at the last moment. The long ceremony of ordination
is impressive and ridiculous in turns. It contains many
beautiful prayers and symbolic rites, but it retains parts
—such as the exhortations to the candidates (who rarely
understand the muttered Latin) and the interrogation
of the people (who would almost commit a sacrilege if
they replied) about the merits of the candidates—which
have long ceased to have any force whatever.
Two years are supposed to elapse between the diacon
ate and the priesthood, but we received the three major
orders within the same six months. Ecclesiastical laws
can always be suspended by Rome in unusual circum
stances, and the extraordinary extent to which clerical
regulations are over-ruled to-day indicates on what evil
days the Church has fallen.
�CHAPTER V
PRIESTHOOD
A consideration of the scheme of study which has
been described would lead to the impression that
Roman Catholic priests must be in a highly satisfactory
condition of intellectual equipment. No other priest
hood has, or ever had, a longer and more systematic
course of training. For ten years, on the average, the
candidate is under the exclusive control of the ecclesi
astical authorities—authorities who have the advantage
of an indefinitely long and world-wide experience in
training their neophytes and a religious authority over
them. Their scheme of education, indeed, does seem
perfectly constructed for the attainment of their
particular object.
Yet it is generally recognised that the Catholic priest
hood, as a body, are not at all remarkable for their
attainments and their intellectual training. Their
system is admirable on paper, but it evidently breaks
down somewhere. That this widely-felt impression of
their inferiority is not a lingering trace of the ancient
prejudice against Rome is clear from the fact that
Englishmen notice the inferiority more particularly out
side of England, where Roman Catholic priests do not
present themselves in the light of schismatical in
truders. And it is placed beyond all doubt by the cir81
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cumstance that the feeling is largely shared, and has
been emphatically expressed, by the Roman Catholic
laity. The correspondence columns of their journals
frequently contain appeals for the better education of
the clergy. The broad fact that, with the wider diffusion
of modern thought, the theological army has struck its
flag, and retreated from point after point, implies a
grave defect even in the leading thinkers of the Church,
as the laity are quick to perceive. It is not surpris
ing, therefore, to find the ordinary clergy much behind
the age in questions of general interest.
The last sermon I preached in a Catholic church
(that of St. Antony, at Forest Gate) was an appeal
for the higher education of the clergy. I urged that
modern thought had entirely changed the position of
the religious teacher, and had made it necessary to
have a regard for intellectual as well as moral train
ing; and I freely denounced the actual ignorance of
the clergy. My mind had already passed from the
Roman Catholic faith, and I spoke strongly and
sincerely on the subject. My colleagues feebly con
gratulated me afterwards, but the laymen of the con
gregation actually sent a deputy to assure me of their
gratitude and their admiration of my bold expression
of their sentiments. On the following evening, after
a scientific lecture I gave them, I spoke on the subject
to a group of educated laymen, and found them deeply
moved on the question. Certainly the clergy of St.
Antony’s (four of whom were professors) were not
below the average. In most of the churches of that
part of London the clergy were far more ignorant, and
even among communities of priests who have wealth
and leisure, like the Jesuits or Oratorians, there are
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few who have even a superficial knowledge of modem
science, history, or philosophy. The impression was
confirmed wherever one listened to Catholic sermons
or entered into serious conversation with the priests.
The reasons of this signal failure of a fine educational
scheme may be deduced partly from what has pre
ceded. The system is unproductive, in the first in
stance, on account of the youth and immaturity of
the students. At nineteen, when they should still be
polishing their wit on Homer, or Tacitus, or Euclid,
they are gravely attacking the profoundest problems
of metaphysics. A well-educated man of thirty-two,
who had a brief course of philosophy under F. David,
told me that he felt as if he were handling blocks of
granite which he was unable to penetrate; our usual
students never even realised that they were handling
“ blocks of granite.” Out of several groups of
students who passed through my hands only one boy
had an idea of the meaning of philosophy. He con
fessed to me that it was because, like myself, he was
tormented by religious doubt from an early age. Be
fore he reaches the age of twenty-four the student has
traversed the whole vast system of scholastic philosophy
and theology, with its innumerable secondary problems
and controversies. He has his opinions formed upon
hundreds of subjects, and knows what to think of every
philosophical and religious system that has ever been
invented, if it be ancient enough. He will have very
little opportunity and less competence to reconsider his
opinions afterwards.
But the studies are not even conducted at the ages
and with the intervals prescribed by the ecclesiastical
legislation; the scarcity of priests (the raritas voca-
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PRIESTHOOD
tionum of which the Pope speaks), induces authorities
unduly to accelerate and curtail the course cf the
higher studies. Every diocese and nearly every religi
ous congregation in England and the States is insuffi
ciently manned. Thousands of baptized Catholics are
allowed to drift for want of clergy, and bishops not
infrequently in despair accept priests who have been
expelled from other dioceses or congregations. It is
true that scores of priests are sent to convert the
natives of Borneo, or to bargain with rival missionaries
over the fortunate Ugandians, and that strenuous efforts
are made to touch the consciences of respectable adher
ents of other Churches; but the fact remains that in
both London and New York tens of thousands of poor
Catholics have drifted for want of priests and chapels.
This leads inevitably to pressure in the seminaries and
curtailment of the studies.
And it is not merely to procure “ labourers for the
vineyard ” that the studies are deplorably mutilated;
another, and a rather curious motive of hurry is found
in certain congregations at least. Certainly in the
Franciscan Order students were prematurely advanced
to the priesthood for the sake of earning money by
their masses. A mass, of course, cannot be sold; that
would be simony. But a priest will say mass for you
or your intention if you make him a present of halfa-crown. He may say it gratuitously if he pleases, but
the English bishops have decreed that if a priest
accepts a “ stipend ” at all he must not take less than
half-a-crown. Now every friar is bound to say mass
for his superior’s intention, and the superior, having
to provide for the community, secures as many and
as “ fat ” stipends as he possibly can. As a friar is
�PRIESTHOOD
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bound to say mass every morning he is worth at least
£1 per week on that count alone; in fact, at Forest
Gate, where we were six priests, mere than £400 was
obtained annually in stipends for masses. As a priest,
however young he may be, says mass daily from the
day of his ordination, the anxiety of the superior to
see him ordained is easily understood. A student is
an onus on the community; he must be made productive
as soon as possible.
Under such conditions it is not strange that their
educational system leads to such unsatisfactory results.
Numbers of young priests are annually discharged upon
humanity with full powers to condemn and anathe
matise, and an intense itching to do so. They soon
find that the “ crude and undigested mass ” they have
learned is a burden to themselves and a source of pain
to their long-suffering audience. In their eagerness to
be subtle they teach rank heresy, trouble timid con
sciences, and hurt themselves against episcopal author
ity. Then they abandon study entirely, thinking it
useless for their purpose. Mr. Jerome has a caricature
somewhere of the newly fledged Anglican curate. The
young evangelist stands at a table on which are
cigarettes and brandy and soda; his books are on sale
or exchange, “ owner having no further use for same.”
The skit is entirely applicable to the average priest.
The canonical age for ordination is twenty-four,
and it is probably the average age; but this precau
tion is nullified by the facility with which dispensations
are granted. The bishop can dispense at twenty-three,
and the Roman authorities readily grant a dispensation
once the candidate has reached the age of twenty-two
and two months. Most of our friars began to earn
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PRIESTHOOD
their pound per week at the age of twenty-two or
twenty-three. Under one provincial bishop, it is said
that there was always a brood of half-fledged priests,
who went by the name of “ Sovereign Pontiffs ” ; they
used to be sent to sing mass on Sundays for priests
who were absent or unwell, and the bishop always
exacted a sovereign for their services. The usual
term of reproach for such immature priests is, “ Praesta
quaesumus ”—an allusion to the fact that they cannot
do more than say mass, for the expression is a common
beginning of mass-prayers.
The ordination is preceded by an episcopal examina
tion in theology. Before the subdiaconate the student
must present one treatise on theology for examination;
he must prepare two for the diaconate and three for
the priesthood. The examination is, however, little
more than a test of the memory and industry of the
aspirant; if he knows the defined points of Catholic
doctrine on the subjects taken, little more is expected
of him. And students are usually careful to select the
shortest treatises for presentation, and to carry the
same treatise through three examinations. Still aspir
ants are occasionally “ ploughed ”; though, judging
from the preposterous answers of certain successful
students whom I have seen at the tribunal, it is difficult
to conceive the possibility of failure.
The ceremony of ordination, which may be wit
nessed on Ember Saturdays in Catholic cathedrals, is
very long and highly symbolical. In fact, it has de
veloped to such an alarming extent that no theologian
can say in what the “ essence ” of the ordination
really consists; there are innumerable controversies as
to which rites are essential to the validity of the sacra
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ment. From the readiness of the theologian to pass
judgment on Anglican orders one would imagine that
he knew the conditions of validity without hesitation;
the truth is, that in the case of each of the three
“ sacred orders,” theologians differ emphatically as
to the essential parts of the ordination. Students are
usually in a state of terror about the numerous possi
bilities of the invalidity of their ordination, and even
bishops betray much nervous anxiety in the matter;
the ceremony is sometimes repeated for general satis
faction. A curious story in illustration of the strange
contingencies that affect the validity of orders is told
of a French bishop. He had exercised episcopal func
tions for many years, when one day his old nurse was
heard to boast that she had baptized him (in periculo),
and that she had not used common water, but rose
water for the purpose. The baptism was invalid; his
subsequent confirmation and ordination were invalid,
for baptism is an indispensable condition of receiving
the other sacraments; all the ordinations he had ever
held were invalid, and had. to be repeated; and all the
masses, absolutions, &c., performed by himself and
his priests during that period had been invalid.
A further source of confusion is found in the need
for what is called “ jurisdiction ” before certain of
the priestly functions can be validly used. At ordina
tion the priest receives the power to say mass, and not
even the Papacy can withdraw this (though it may for
bid him to exercise it). On the Catholic theory I still
possess that power in full, and if I seriously utter the
words, “ Hoc est enim corpus meum ” over the piece
of bread I am eating (for that is the essential part of
the mass) it is changed forthwith into the living body
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PRIESTHOOD
of Christ: it is seriously believed on the Continent
that apostate priests frequently consecrate for the socalled Satanists and Freemasons. However, the power
of absolving from sin is not of the same character; it
is only radically received in the ceremony of ordina
tion, and the validity of its exercise is entirely depend
ent upon ecclesiastical authority. M. Zola, most
patient and accurate of inquirers, has overlooked this
distinction; in “ Lourdes” the Abbe Pierre is made
to hear Marie’s confession when he has no jurisdiction
over her and could not validly absolve her.1
A second examination (in casuistry) is necessary
before “ faculties ” to hear confessions are granted,
which is usually some time after ordination. And
jurisdiction is limited to the diocese of the bishop who
gives faculties, and may be still further restricted at
his pleasure: nunneries and boarding-schools are
always excepted from it; and there are always a cer
tain number of sins the absolution of which the bishop
reserves for himself. In some dioceses the list of
“ reserved cases ” is long and interesting : it usually
comprises the sins which are most prevalent in a dis
trict. The confessor must, in such cases, write to the
bishop for power to absolve, and tell the penitent to
return to him. In London four cases are reserved :
immoral advances by a priest to women in the con
fessional, frequentation of theatres by a priest,1 murder,
2
1 A non-Catholic writer ia almost certain to stumble in liturgical
matters. M. Zola’s administration of the sacraments to the dying
—to the pilgrim in the train in 1 ‘ Lourdes, ” and to Count Dario in
“ Rome ”—is quite incorrect. It has never been pointed out, too,
that the moon’s conduct, during Pierre’s three last nights in Rome,
is out of all bounds of astronomical propriety.
2 It must not be supposed that every priest one sees in a London
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and connection with a secret society. Two cases which
are always reserved to the Pope will be treated in the
next chapter.
For a long period after his ordination the priest’s
activity is confined to saying mass every morning. He
is not indeed bound to say mass every morning; he is
compelled to hear mass every Sunday by the general
law, but there is no clear obligation for him to exercise
his power to consecrate.1 But the young priest says
it daily during the years of his primitive fervour, and
many continue the practice faithfully throughout life.
Monastic priests* are usually bound by their constitu
tions to say mass daily. It would be wiser to allow
them liberty in that respect. Priests soon contract
the habit of hurrying through their mass at a speed
which ill harmonises with its solemn character. In
fact, the Church has been forced to legislate on the
point, and forbid the saying of mass in less than twenty
minutes for an ordinary, and fifteen minutes for a
“ black ” * mass (for the dead). No doubt a priest
2
1
works up to a high rate of speed largely out of anxiety
to meet the wishes of his congregation, yet the sight
is distressing to one who knows how much is squeezed
into the twenty minutes. An ordinary worshipper
theatre has incurred this. The law is local only in action, and
does not apply to visitors—say, from the States.
1 So that Zola is wrong in imputing it as a fault that the priests
at Lourdes omitted to say mass.
2 A black mass—in which the priest wears black vestments—is
shorter than usual: hence it is that black vestments so often adorn
the shoulders of an ordinary secular priest. Green vestments are
worn on a common, saintless day ; red for a martyr or the Holy
Ghost; white for virgins, confessors, and all great feasts ; purple
for sadder festivals; and gold for any purpose.
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PRIESTHOOD
merely sees the rapid irreverent genuflections and the
desperate hand movements which are supposed to be
crosses over the sacrament, but the mutilation of the
prayers is much more deplorable: nearly all are direct
and more or less familiar petitions to the Almighty,
and one cannot but hope (for the priest’s sake) that
he is wholly unconscious of the meaning of his
orisons. It is difficult, no doubt, when a large con
gregation is shifting uneasily on the benches, and
perhaps another priest is frowning upon you from the
chancel, waiting for his turn. Certainly there are
very many priests who acquit themselves with edifying
devotion, but the majority run through their mass
(apart from pressure) in the allotted twenty minutes;
and, since it takes a priest nearly an hour to say mass
in his early practising days, one can imagine at what
price the high speed is obtained.
The mass is rendered rather ludicrous sometimes
from an opposite reason—through its undue prolonga
tion and interruption by musical accompaniment. The
High Mass only differs from the daily Low Mass in
the number of assistants and the musical rendering of
some of the parts. It is utterly incongruous from the
purely religious point of view that the celebrant should
interrupt his solemn rites, whilst he and his congrega
tion listen to the florid strains of Haydn or Gounod,
operatically rendered by soulless singers who have no
idea of the meaning of their words, and are very fre
quently non-Catholics. Pope Leo XIII. did endeavour
to bring about a reform, but he must have realised
that it is the music and display that fill the Catholic
churches.
At the same time it must be said that the Church
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does not do all in its power to make the mass (and
other ceremonies) appeal to the priest. It retains a
number of vestments and rites that have ceased to
have any meaning. The “ humeral veil,” which is
worn over the shoulders by the sub-deacon at mass and
by the priest at Benediction, is a curious survival of
the once intelligible custom of drawing a veil across
the sanctuary at the most solemn moments; the
maniple, an embroidered cloth that dangles at the
priest’s left elbow, and is a similarly atrophied relic
of the primitive handkerchief, is now not only un
meaning but gravely inconvenient. The practice of
solemnly facing the people to sing the epistle and gospel
in Latin, and other such survivals of ancient custom,
are interesting from an archaeological point of view,
but they ought to have been changed centuries ago;
indeed, no serious defence can be made of the use of
Latin at all in the Church of Rome.
Ecclesiastical Latin is, of course, easy, yet it is a
fact that many priests know so little Latin of any
kind that many parts of the mass and Office are quite
meaningless to them. I remember a country priest
who was invited to bless a churn. He took the book
of (Latin) benedictions to the farm, and donned his
surplice. Not knowing the Latin for a churn (which
may be excused) he pitched upon a “ Benedictio
thalami ” as probably referring to a churn, and read
the “ Blessing of a marriage bed,” with the usual
solemnity, over the churn of cream.1 Certainly some
1 There are blessings for every conceivable purpose. In my
younger days a woman once asked me to read a prayer over her.
I could not divine the particular purpose, and she seemed uncom
municative. So I chose one from the book, rather at random ; and
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of the sequences in the mass and many of the hymns
in the Breviary are beyond the capacity of a large
number of priests.
And it must be admitted that no familiarity with
Latin will enable the priest to attach a meaning to
certain portions of the liturgy—especially to some of
the psalms. The approved Latin version of the Psalter
is a disgraceful performance; yet it has been used for
1600 years, and there is no question of changing it.
St. Jerome, an expert Hebraist, offered an excellent
translation in his classical Latin, but the monks knew
the old Psalter by heart and would not change; hence
the first translation of the psalms into bad Latin by
very imperfect Hebrew scholars endures to this day.
Some of the psalms—notably the 58th—contain un
mitigated absurdities; the verse i( Kings of armies have
fled, have fled ” is rendered, “ King of virtues, beloved,
beloved ”; verse 18 runs, “ If you sleep in the middle
of the lots, the wings of the dove are silvered,” &c.
There are many similar verses. Yet the good old
monks, who doubtless found many deep symbolical
meanings in the above, clung to the version, and their
modern successors may be excused for wool-gathering
during their chanting.
About forty psalms enter into the daily “ Office ”
which the priest has to recite. One often sees a
secular priest mumbling over his Breviary in train or
omnibus; he is bound to form the words with his lips,
she was safely delivered of twins shortly afterwards. In Belgium I
was severely censured for sending to a dentist a young woman who
came to me with a severe toothache, and an old lady, who had
diseased cows, to a veterinary surgeon. I incurred grave suspicion
of rationalism from my colleagues.
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at least. The monks, however, recite their Office in
their choir, or private chapel, which is fitted with
stalls, like a cathedral. The two sides take up the
alternate verses of the psalms, chanting the words in
a loud monotone; it is only sung on solemn occasions.
The whole of it is set to music, and in such inactive
monasteries as the Carthusians, where it is a question
what to do with one’s time, the whole is sung daily.
It takes about three hours to chant it in the ordinary
monotone, and no normal human mind could remain
in real prayer so long. Indeed, the facility with
which the two rows of chanting friars could be thrown
into fits of laughter was a clear symptom of vacuity.
Even during our novitiate we were frequently con
vulsed with laughter at the entanglements of an elderly
friar who read the prayers at breakneck speed. At
London one day our instructor, who led one side of the
choir, suddenly raised the tone about an octave in the
middle of the psalm. The head superior, who led the
other side, disagreed with him (as usual). We were
afraid to join with either, for they were equally formid
able to us, so we listened with interest as they con
tinued the psalm to the end, chanting alternate verses
at a distance of an octave and a half. Deaf elderly
friars also caused distraction by going ahead in com
plete unconsciousness of the pauses of the rest of the
community.
And if there was much to be desired in these'
religious offices which were of a private character it
will be readily imagined that their public services were
not more satisfactory. It is impossible to expect a
continuous ecstasy during the long hours which monks
and nuns devote to prayer every day; and since most
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of the psalms do not vary from day to day, the very
monotony of the services would stand in the way of
any very serious devotion. In fact, the idea of follow
ing the sense of the words recited day after day for
hours together was so forbidding that it was frankly
given up by our spiritual writers; they were content
to urge us to prepare in advance lines of religious
thought to follow while we were chanting which would
have no connection with the Office itself. We tried
to do so. But the early riser who passes some London
monastery in the small hours of a winter morning, and
catches the sound of the solemn chant breaking on the
sleepy air, must not too hastily conclude that here is a
focus of intense spiritual thought which should work_
if only telepathically (as some think to-day)—for the
betterment of life. The religious exercises of the friars
must be cut down by two-thirds before they can become
really spiritual.
But in the public ceremonies a new distracting
element is introduced—the presence of closely observ
ant spectators; it were not in human nature to be
insensible of their presence. The sanctuary becomes a
stage; and strive how he may to think of higher things,
the ordinary mortal cannot banish the thought that
some hundreds, perhaps thousands, of reverent eyes
are bent upon his every movement. The Catholic
sanctuary, with its myriads of burning tapers, its
fragrant incense, its glory of colour in flowers and
vestments, compels attention. Every line of the
church converges to the altar and the priest. Hence
it is not surprising to find that there is a great deal of
formalism and purely dramatic effect in sanctuary
work. No one, probably, will think much of the grave
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and devout expressions of the ministers. It is a part
of their discipline to cultivate such an expression, and
it soon becomes automatic. In point of fact, there
are few who are not keenly concerned about the
material success of their function—their singing, their
deportment, and appearance. At such a time as Holy
Week, for instance, the feverish anxiety for the suc
cess of the elaborate services runs so high that one may
safely say they are quite unattended with religious
feeling in the sanctuary. Ceremonies and music are
practised for weeks in advance, and, when the time
comes, celebrants are too busy and too nervous to
think of more than the merely mechanical or theatrical
part of the devotions.
And the same thought applies, naturally, to preach
ing ; it runs on the same lines in the Church of Rome
as in every other church. There are deeply religious
preachers whose only serious thought is for the good
of their hearers, as they conceive it; there are preachers
who think only of making a flattering impression on
their audience, or who are utterly indifferent what
effect or impression they produce; the vast majority
strive to benefit their hearers, and are not unassisted
in their efforts by a very natural feeling of self-interest.
I heard a typical story of one a few years ago. The
priest in question is one of the most familiar figures
in Catholic circles in the north of England, an ardent
zealot for the “ conversion ” of England, and, I be
lieve, a very earnest and worthy man. On this
occasion he was preaching in the open air to a large
special congregation who had made a pilgrimage to
some Roman Catholic resort. The preacher seemed
to be carried away by his feelings. My informant,
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however, a keen critic of elocution, noticed that one
gesture—a graceful sweep of the wide-sleeved arm—
was unduly prolonged, and, looking more closely, he
saw that the preacher was signalling to a photographer
in the opposite corner of the quadrangle. The preacher
told him afterwards that he had arranged to be photo
graphed at this specially prepared gesture. The photo
grapher had been so captivated by the sermon that
he had to be recalled to his duty by the orator himself. I also remember being grievously shocked once
in my early days at one of the London “ stars.” I
happened to be near the door when he re-entered the
cloister after a very fervent discourse, and he immediately burst out with the exclamation, “ Now, where
is that glass of port! ” Five years later I used to
feel grateful myself for a glass of port after preaching.
It is not an apostolic practice, but this is not an
apostolic age, and it only merits contempt when it
professes to be such.
If the priest has an educated congregation he usually
prepares his sermon with care. The sermons are rarely
original, for there is a vast library of sermonnaires at
the disposal of the Catholic priest, but it is often
written out in full; though it is never read from the
pulpit, as is done in Anglican congregations. Good
preaching is, however, rather the exception than the
rule; though the age of martyrs has passed away, a
Catholic can always find a sufficient test of his faith
in the shape of an indifferent preacher who insists on
thinking that he needs two three-quarters of an hour
sermons every Sunday. In poor parishes the sermons
usually degenerate into intolerable harangues. A priest
who had charge of a large poor mission told me that
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he always prepared his sermon the hour before it was
delivered : he took a cup of tea, lit a cigar, opened the
gospel of the day and thought dreamily over it, then
he ascended the pulpit and preached for half-an-hour.
Men of wide erudition and facility of utterance would
often preach most impressive sermons at a few minutes’
notice; others, of an ascetic, earnest, contemplative
type, would also preach sound and rational moral dis
courses without preparation. The practice of preach
ing the same sermon many times is, of course, widely
prevalent. I remember one old friar fondly kissing a
much worn manuscript after a sermon on St. Joseph :
“ God bless it,” he said, “ that is the sixty-third time
I have preached it.”
There are many other functions in which the priest
finds it difficult to sustain the becoming attitude. Con
fession will be treated in the next chapter; Extreme
Unction is a ceremony in which only a keener faith
than we usually meet to-day can take a religious
interest. But it is in the ceremony of baptism,
especially, that the most unreasonable rites survive and
the most diverting incidents occur. There is, for in
stance, a long series of questions to be put to the
sponsors, and the Church, unmindful apparently of the
march of time, still insists on their being put in Latin
(and answered by the priest) and repeated afterwards
in English. One lay-brother who used to assist me
in baptizing thought it more proper that he should
learn the Latin responses, instead of allowing me to
answer myself. Unfortunately he muddled the dia
logues, and to my query : i ‘ Dost thou believe in God
the Father,” &c. ? he answered,* with proud emphasis,
“ Abrenuntio—I renounce him.”
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PRIESTHOOD
I was, however, little occupied with sacerdotal
functions. Even before my ordination I had been
appointed to the chair of philosophy, and as soon as
I became a priest I entered upon my duties as pro
fessor. My interest in philosophy had been noticed
by the authorities, and probably attributed to a natural
taste for the subject. The truth was that I was
tormented with doubt, and I knew that philosophy
alone could furnish the cure—if cure there was. My
doubts had commenced six years previously, in the
novitiate. I can remember almost the hour, almost
the spot in the monastic garden, when, on a fine
winter’s day, as I chanted to myself the eternal refrain
of our ascetic literature, “ Ye shall receive a hundred
fold in heaven,” the fatal question fell across my mind
like a lightning-shaft, to sear and torture for many a
weary year. I had dutifully confessed my state of
mind to my superior. Kind and earnest as he was,
he had nevertheless little capacity for such emer
gencies ; he made me kneel at his feet in his cell and,
after severely pointing out the conceit of a boy daring
to have doubts—holding up the exemplary faith of
Wiseman, Newman, &c.—he discharged me with the
usual admonition to stifle immediately any further
temptation of that character. He acted upon the
received ascetical principle that there are two kinds
of temptations which must be fled from, not met and
fought, namely, temptations against purity and tempta
tions against faith: in the second case the rule is
certainly dishonest. Indeed, thoughtful priests do not
recognise it, though it is sanctioned, in theory and
practice, by the majority.
My scepticism increased; it was partly an effect of
�PRIESTHOOD
99
temperament, partly a natural desire to verify the
opinions which I found myself acting upon. At
London I immediately put myself under the guidance
of F. David, and for seven years he was informed,
almost weekly, of the growth of my thoughts.
Though most intimate with him I never allowed him
to make any allusion to my difficulties outside the con
fessional, but, in confession, I spent many hours pro
pounding my difficulties and listening with sincere
attention to his replies. As time went on I began to
feel that I had exhausted his apologetical resources,
that he had but the old threadbare formulae to oppose
to my ever-deepening difficulties. I became, there
fore, more dependent upon my own studies; and, as
my difficulties were wholly philosophical, I devoted
myself with untiring energy to the study of scholastic
philosophy. If, in later years, I did not appeal to
F. David when the crisis came, it was because I was
firmly convinced that I had, in private and in public
lectures, heard all that he had to say on the subject.
He was the only man who knew that my secession
was not the work of one day, but the final step in a
bitter conflict of ten long painful years. All that my
colleagues knew was that I was ever reticent and
gloomy ‘ (which was, I think, attributed to pride and
to sickness), and that I was strangely enamoured of
metaphysics; I was, accordingly, appointed professor
of that subject.
In due time I received jurisdiction and commenced
the full exercise of sacerdotal power. A monastic
superior has the power of examining his own subjects,
and thus practically dispensing with the episcopal
examinations. Knowing that I was not a zealous student
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PRIESTHOOD
of casuistry, F. David kindly undertook my examina
tion ; he asked me the formula of absolution (which I
did not know) one day when I met him in the cloister,
and then sent me up to the Vicar-General as “ ex
amined and found worthy.” I then immediately
entered the mysterious and much-dreaded confessional.
How does one feel on entering upon that unique
experience? I remember the emotion, but am incom
petent to analyse it. I only know that as I sat for
the first time in “ the box ” awaiting the first penitent
I was benumbed, not exalted, with a vague, elemental,
un-rational excitement. Behind me lay my long and
minute book-knowledge of all the conceivable trans
gressions of man, woman, or child; before me vaguely
outstretched the living world, as few see it. Then
came the quick step, the opening of the door, the rustle
of a dress—one last tremor, and the sensation was gone
for ever.
Preaching and other functions also commenced. I
was fully launched on my sacerdotal career. But the
confessional is a subject for more careful study.
�CHAPTER VI
HIE CONFESSIONAL
No point in the vast and contentious system of the
Church of Rome has excited, and still excites, a deeper
and a less flattering interest than the practice of
auricular confession. The Inquisition and the com
merce in relics and indulgences (though this com
merce is by no means extinct) are still favourite sub
jects of the historical critic. Monasticism, the Index,
the use of a dead language, political ambition and
secular intrigue, are some of its actual features which
attract no small amount of opprobrium, and even try
the patience of many of its own adherents. But the
chief butt of the innumerable anti-papal lecturers and
pamphleteers is the confessional. The air of mystery
and secrecy is a necessary evil of the confessional, and
it is a feature that provokes bitter criticism. A
Catholic layman cannot, of course, with delicacy en
large upon his own experience of the confessional, and
in any case it would be too personal to be effective.
No ex-priest has hitherto given his impressions of the
institution, and no priest would venture to express an
unfavourable opinion upon it, or any opinion of a
circumstantial character, for fear of alarming his
co-religionists.
Yet, in point of fact, there is no reason in the
E
101
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THE CONFESSIONAL
nature of things why even an actual confessor should
not write a most ample and detailed account of his
experiences. The “ seal of confession ” is not merely
a sacramental obligation; it is a natural obligation
which no ex-priest would ever dream of violating.
But the obligation has certain limits which are ex
plicitly defined in theological works, and are practically
observed by priests. The obligation is merely to main
tain such secrecy about confessional matters as shall
prevent the knowledge of the crime of a definite indi
vidual ; within those limits the obligation is absolute,
and admits of no possible excuse in the smallest matter.
The priest is not even allowed to use a probability in
his own favour in this question. He is forbidden
under an obligation of the gravest possible character
to say a single word or perform any action whatever
from which the declaration of his penitent might pos
sibly be inferred. Hence he cannot, under any con
ceivable circumstances, act upon the information he
has received. If a priest learned from the confession
of his servant that she had put poison in the wine he
was to take for dinner, Catholic theology directs that
he must not even change the bottle, but act precisely
as if he had heard nothing. I never heard of a test
case, though it is well known that there have been
martyrs to the seal of confession. In less important
matters the confessor interprets his obligation gener
ously. One of our friars, the superior of a monastery,
interrupted an inferior who was confessing to him, and
made him stand up and repeat apart from his confes
sion a certain fault for which he wished to inflict a
public penance. It was a breach of the seal, though
my colleague was too subtle a casuist to admit it. I
�THE CONFESSIONAL
103
remember a priest who was confessor to an acquaint
ance of mine once saying to me of her: “ Miss ----seems to be very well educated; she speaks quite
smoothly on the most delicate points.” I doubt
whether my friend would have cared for me to know
so much of her confession.
However, once the danger of identifying the indi
vidual penitent is precluded, the confessor is free to
make whatever use he pleases of his knowledge.
Theological writers admonish him that it is extremely
imprudent to discuss such matters before laymen, but
that is only part of the discretion of the priest with
regard to the laity, and carries no moral obligation.
Amongst themselves priests discuss their interesting
experiences very freely; and the professor of casuistry
is usually a man of wide experience, who gives his
students the full benefit thereof. In their conferences
(discussion-meetings) the clergy talk freely of their
experiences. It is a common practice of missionaries
to discuss the relative wickedness of town and country,
and of large cities or localities in a city. Such com
mentaries, however, are carefully restricted to sacer
dotal circles, there is no doubt that any departure
from the policy of unqualified secrecy would deeply
impair the fidelity of the laity, and tend to withdraw
them from that greatest engine of sacerdotal influence,
the confessional.
And there is another reason why confessors have
not thought it necessary to enter into the controversy
to any important extent. The attacks upon the con
fessional have usually defeated their own object by
emphasising too strongly the accidental rather than
the inherent and essential evil of the institution.
E2
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THE CONFESSIONAL
Dark stories—which may quite possibly be true in
some cases—are circulated in connection with it, and
the impression is at once urged that such practices are
a normal, or at least a large part, of what is hidden
under the veil of secrecy. The generalisation is fatal,
for the Catholic apologist has little difficulty in pointing
out the impossibility of such a state of things; besides,
the days are happily gone by when the Catholic priest
hood as a body could be accused of systematic and con
scious immorality. The main contention of the critic
having been thus met and answered, attention ii
diverted from the real evil of the confessional, which
is not sufficiently realised by those who are unfamiliar
with it.
The structures which are found in every Catholic
church for the purpose of hearing confessions quite
exclude the cruder anti-papal view on the subject.
The penitent usually remains in sight of the congre
gation, but in any case priest and penitent are separ
ated by a complete partition; a wire gauze-work, about
eighteen inches square, which is set into the partition,
enables them to talk in whispers, but contact is im
possible. These “ boxes,” or confessionals, may be
inspected in any church. In hearing the confessions
of nuns the precautions are usually still more stringent;
the confessor is locked in a kind of bureau, the nun
remaining entirely outside. But it is a fact that the
priest is not bound to hear every confession in the
“box,” and that he frequently hears them in less
guarded places. I have heard the confessions of a
whole community of nuns where no such precautions
existed; they entered singly and entirely unobserved
into the room where I sat to hear them. Their usual
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105
confessor was a venerable and sedate old priest, and it
was either forgotten, or thought unnecessary, to alter
the arrangement for me. During certain hours on
Saturday the priest sits in his box for all comers. Out
side those hours he will hear confessions in the sacristy
(where I have known a liaison to be systematically
pursued under that pretence) or anywhere, and the
anti-papal lecturer may find serious ground for reflection
in that section of his practice.
Confessions are also frequently heard at the resi
dences of penitents. The Church does not sanction
the practice with regard to people who are capable of
attending church, but it is frequently necessary to
hear the confessions of persons who are confined to
bed. The priest is urged in such cases to leave doors
open and take various precautions to avoid scandal,
but those directions are seldom acted upon and would
not be appreciated, as a rule, by the penitent herself.
Cases are known to me in which women have feigned
or exaggerated illness for the purpose of bringing the
priest to their room—with his connivance or at his
suggestion—and a liaison of priest and penitent has
long been maintained in that way. But such appoint
ments are attended with danger, and cannot be
widespread.
I do not believe that there is any large amount of
immorality in connection with the confessional; the
legislation of the Church on that point is stringent and
effective, and the priest is well aware that the con
fessional is the worst place in the world for him to
indulge improper tendencies. He is involved in a net
work of regulations, and sooner or later his misconduct
is bound to come to the knowledge of his authorities,
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THE CONFESSIONAL
with very disastrous consequences to himself. In the
first place, as I explained in the last chapter, improper
suggestion on the part of the confessor is a sin reserved
to the bishop. He cannot say mass until he has
received absolution (I am assuming that he has not
lost all sense of obligation T), and no brother priest
can absolve him from his fault. He must have recourse
to the bishop; and it is safe to presume that he will
not relapse for a considerable period. In the second
place, he is deprived of the power of absolving his
accomplice. An attempt to do so is a sin reserved
to the Pope; and, as every Catholic woman knows
that such absolution is invalid, the misconduct is once
more liable to come to the cognisance of the author
ities. The second sin which is reserved to the Pope
is a false denunciation of a confessor by a woman, so
that one has a guarantee of the genuineness of such
denunciations as are actually made.
Thus it is obviously ill-advised for the unfaithful
priest to make an evil use of the confessional, for the
danger of exposure is sternly prohibitive. A devout
Roman Catholic is horrified at the very speculation;
an impartial thinker, whose estimate of human nature
is neither unduly raised by thoughts of special graces
nor depressed by prejudice, will think of priests as
men more than usually exposed to temptation and
burdened with an enforced celibacy, but will give them
credit, on the whole, for an honest effort to realise
that higher integrity which they profess. He will
1 In that case his infidelity might not be revealed until death,
when any priest can absolve. A curious case was mentioned (by a
priest) in the Daily Telegraph a few years ago. At the death of a
Catholic military chaplain a woman presented herself to the army
authorities as his wife, and actually produced a marriage certificate.
�THE CONFESSIONAL
107
not think them superhuman with the Catholic, nor
infrahuman with certain Protestants. He will not
believe that any of their habitual practices are in
herently immoral, but he will expect the occasional
lapses from which no large body of men can be
free.
The priest’s danger is not in the confessional. It
is the same as that of any voluntary celibate, though,
in the light of what has been said about the age of
taking the vow, perhaps we ought to call him an
involuntary celibate. The fact that from time im
memorial ecclesiastical legislation has returned again
and again to the question of priests’ servants is in
structive enough. From the thirteenth century onward
the Church has recognised a vast deal of this kind of
immorality, and I am aware that there is much of it
in England to-day, even where the housekeeper is a
relative of the priest. Further, the house-to-house
visits of the priest, and the visits he receives, are
made to ladies ; the priest is idle in the hours when
the husband is employed. From the nature of the
case, however, it is impossible to make positive state
ments in this matter.
Whatever may be said of the general integrity of
the priest’s life,1 it may be safely admitted that the
occasional transgressions of his vow in connection with
the confessional have been grossly exaggerated. And
one unfortunate consequence of the excess is that it
1 I have elsewhere ventured to say, as a result of long reflection,
that probably one priest in ten is a man of exceptionally high
character, and one in ten a man of degraded or hypocritical life ;
the remaining eight-tenths are neither very spiritual nor the re
verse, and may lapse occasionally. But in Catholic countries such
as Spain clerical immorality is general. Second edition.
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THE CONFESSIONAL
has diverted attention from the real evil of the con
fessional. It is bad enough for adult men and women
(apart from the few who really desire it) to have to
kneel weekly or monthly at the feet of a priest (usually
a man they know intimately), and tell every unworthy
thought and act into which they have been betrayed;
for girls and young women to discuss their inmost
thoughts and feelings with such a man is vicious and
lamentable. If they are of a refined temper the
practice causes them much pain, and often leads to
duplicity or to actual debasement; to those of a coarser
complexion the temptation to abuse the occasion is
very severe.
When I first began to hear confessions I was much
impressed with the number of girls who unburdened
their minds to me (I was almost a stranger to them)
of some long-concealed transgression of an indelicate
character. A Catholic girl usually chooses a particular
confessor (we were six in number at Forest Gate), and
presents herself at his box every week, fortnight, or
month. The priest learns to recognise her voice, if
he does not know her already, and counts her amongst
his regular penitents, of whom every confessor is
proud to have a certain number. Week after week
she comes with her slender list of the usual feminine
frailities—fibs, temper, and backbiting. At last she
is betrayed into some graver fault, or something which
she imagines (usually after it has taken place) to be
serious. She is unable to reveal it to her ordinary
confessor after her long immunity from serious sin has
won her a certain esteem from him. If she goes to
another confessor, her habitual director will learn it,
for she is bound to say how long it is since her last
�THE CONFESSIONAL
109
confession. He will draw an obvious conclusion; some
confessors go so far as to exact a repetition of the
confession to themselves. She therefore conceals the
sin, and continues her confessions and communions for
months, even years, without confessing it. Now each
such confession and communion, she has been taught,
is as vile a sin as murder or adultery. She goes
through life with her soul in her hands and the awful
picture of a Catholic hell burning deeper into her;
until at last, in an agony of fear, she crouches one day
in the corner of the box and falters out the dread
secret of her breaking heart. And it must be remem
bered that the subject of so much pain is often no real
sin at all. The most unavoidable feelings and acts are
confused with the most vicious practices, and some
times regarded as “ mortal sins.”
But a yet sadder category is the large number of
girls who are actually corrupted by the practice of
confession. Girls who would never dream of talking
to their companions, even to their sisters or mothers
on certain points, will talk without the least restraint
to the priest. They are taught when young that such
is the intention of Christ; that in the confessional
every irregular movement (and to their vaguely dis
ciplined moral sense the category embraces the whole
of sexual physiology) must be revealed. They are
reminded that nothing superfluous must be added, yet
that the sense of shame in the confessional must be
regarded as a grave temptation of the evil one. So
they learn to control it, then to lay it aside temporarily,
and finally, to lose it. They begin to confer with each
other on the subject, to compare the impressibility,
the inquisitiveness, or the knowledge, of various con
�110
THE CONFESSIONAL
fessors, and they make plots (they have admitted as
much to me) to put embarrassing questions to priests.
I am not suggesting for a moment that Catholic
women and girls are less sensitive or less moral than
those under the influence of other religions. That
would be an untruth. But quite certainly it is one
of the evil influences in their lives that, although they
at first manifest a quick sense of shame and delicacy,
they are compelled by the confessor to be more minute
and circumstantial in their narratives.1 A girl will
often try to slip her less delicate transgressions
hurriedly between two common peccadilloes, and only
accuse herself in a general way of having been “ rude ”
or immodest. No confessor can allow such a general
accusation to pass; he is bound to call her and question
her minutely on the subject; for by some curious pro
cess of reasoning the Church of Rome has deduced
from certain of Christ’s words that the confessor,
being judge, must have a detailed knowledge of every
serious transgression before he can give absolution.
The conversation which ensues can very well be
imagined.
Finally, there is a still more curious and pitiable
category of victims of the sacrament of penance. I
speak again of women, because men may be roughly
distributed into two simple classes; the small minority
who are spiritually aided by the weekly discussion of
their fallings and temptations, and the great majority
1 Here the traditional purity of the west of Ireland maiden may
be quoted to me. But, apart from the fact that there is no such
remarkable virtue in Catholic Dublin, or still more Catholic Spain,
it is now proved that the ratio of illegitimate births in the west of
Ireland is kept down by sending the sinners to Glasgow, Liverpool,
or America.
�THE CONFESSIONAL
111
to whom confession is a bore and a burden. The
missionary priest who travels from parish to parish is
often warned that certain women will come to confess
who must be carefully handled. These are, in various
degrees, monomaniacs of the system, and are found in
every diocese. Sometimes they have a morbid love of
denouncing priests to the bishop on a charge of solicita
tion; and in the hope of getting evidence they will
entangle him in the crudest conversation. Sometimes
they are women “ with a history,” which, in their
morbid love of the secret conversation, they urge,
freshly embroidered, upon every confessor they meet,
and make him think that he has secured a Magdalen.
Frequently they are mere novelists who deliberately
invent the most shameless stories in order to gratify
their craving for that peculiar conversation to which
they have grown accustomed in the confessional.
In this I am, of course, relying to some extent on
the larger experience of my older colleagues, but some
pitiable cases linger in my own memory. Almost one
of the first confessions which I received from a woman
was a sordid and lengthy story of a liaison with one
of my colleagues. She assured me that she had never
told it before. When, however, after an hour of this
conversation, I returned to the house, another priest,
who had seen her leave my “ box,” asked me with a
laugh: “How did you get on with Clara?” (I
change the name, of course.) It appeared that, though
her story was probably true, she had hawked it over
London. Others confessed that they came to con
fession precisely on account of the sexual excitement
it gave them; the effect was at times very perceptible.
These are exceptional, but numerous, cases; so are the
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THE CONFESSIONAL
cases in which the confession is a real and valued
spiritual aid. For the vast majority of Catholics it is
a burden which they would gladly avoid if the Church
did not force it on them.
This, then, is the essential, inalienable evil of the
confessional as an obligatory and universal institution.
It may not be so directly productive of gross acts as
is frequently supposed, but it has a corruptive influence
that is clear to all save those who have been familiar
with it from childhood. And yet this system, of so
grave a responsibility, has the most slender basis of all
the institutions of the Church of Rome. The reason
ing by which it is deduced from Scripture is a master
piece of subtlety. “ Whose sins ye shall forgive they
are forgiven, and whose sins ye shall retain they are
retained,” is the sole text bearing on the subject.
The Catholic method of inferring the obligation of
confession from the latter part of the text is interest
ing, and yet very simple. The Apostles, the Church
says, have the power of retaining sin; but if it were
possible to obtain forgiveness in any other way than
by absolution from the Apostles or their successors the
power of retaining sin would be nugatory; therefore
there is only one way of obtaining forgiveness—by
absolution, after full confession. This argument is
strengthened by one from tradition, from the fact that,
in the fourth century, the Church claimed, against the
Novatians, the power of absolving from all sins; but
what was meant in the fourth century by confession
and absolution is not quite clear even to Catholic
theologians, and an outsider may be excused for not
seeing the force of the argument. Certainly confession
was not then obligatory.
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The fact is that, when the Church first began (in
the thirteenth century) to talk about the obligation
of confession, it had not the same critical spirit to
face which it has to-day. It found that a practice
had somehow developed amongst the faithful which
could be turned into a most powerful instrument, and
it proceeded to make the practice obligatory. The
newly founded religious orders were then administer
ing their spiritual narcotics to humanity, and the law
was accepted with docility. Hence, in our own day,
when the Church must provide a more rational basis
for its tenets and institutions, the search for proof of
the divine sanction of the practice is found to be more
than usually difficult to the expert interpreters of the
Church of Rome.
Apart, however, from its feeble dogmatic defence,
it is usual for preachers and writers to expatiate upon
the moral advantages of the practice. Sermons on
the subject are very frequent, for it is well known
that many people are deterred by it from passing over
to Rome. It is urged that confession gives a certain
relief to the soul that is burdened with the conscious
ness of sin, and that it is a great preventive of dis
order. That a large number of the Catholics of the
higher spiritual type are helped by the weekly con
sultation with the confessor is unquestionable. All the
saintly men and women of the Church who are uni
versally esteemed to-day regarded the confessional as
an important aid. In fact, one often meets non
Catholics of high moral sensitiveness who look with
eager longing to the institution. That is certainly an
argument for the admission of quite voluntary con
fession under circumstances of especial security, but it
�114
THE CONFESSIONAL
lends no support to the Roman law of compulsory
confession.
On the other hand, the academic conclusion of the
preacher, that the confessional is a preventive of sin,
vanishes completely before facts which are patent to
all. Catholics are neither more nor less moral than
their non-Catholic fellows in any country where they
mingle. To compare Catholic countries with Protest
ant would be useless. London and Berlin, if we may
strike an average of conflicting opinions, are neither
better nor worse than Madrid or Rome. Paris has not
deteriorated, but rather improved, since it threw off
the yoke of the Church. Milan, largely non-Catholic,
is far more moral than Naples. Liverpool and Glasgow
are much more Catholic than Manchester or London;
yet missionaries admit that they are more vicious.1
The truth is, that whilst the confessor can exercise a
restraining influence over his habitual penitent (as a
rule), the majority soon become so inured to the con
fession that it fails to deter them, and a certain number
are actually encouraged to sin by the thought of the
facility of absolution. The latter point has been
strained by critics; it is by no means a general feature.
But I have been informed by penitents on more than
one occasion that they sinned more readily under the
influence of this thought. In monastic or quasi
monastic institutions the weekly confession to the
chaplain does exercise a degree of influence, but even
1 To meet the generally unfavourable contrast of Catholic lands
and Protestant, the Catholic apologist pretends that vice is more
easily avoided in cooler latitudes. This is ludicrous. Germany
and Italy were equal in vice before the Reformation ; Christiania
and St. Petersburg are as vicious as London : Canada is not more
virtuous than Australia.
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115
here nature has its revenge. The temptation to con
ceal and the practice of concealing are so great that
the Church prescribes that an “ extraordinary con
fessor ” shall be provided every three months, and
that each monk or nun or cleric shall present himself.
In discharging that function I have not only met cases
of long concealment, as might be expected, but I have
known the inmates deliberately to indulge in the pros
pect of my coming. All these facts must be set
against the advantages of the confession for the
spiritual elect1; or, rather, they show that, whatever
may be thought of confession in the abstract, the law
of obligatory confession is a grave moral blunder. I
have heard confessions in very many parts of England
and abroad; I have read much casuistic literature that
is permeated with confessional experience; I have con
ferred on the subject with missionaries who have heard
hundreds of thousands of confessions, and I am con
vinced that the majority of Catholics are unaffected
by the confessional. They are bound to confess once
every year; if they wish to pass as men of ordinary
piety they confess every month or oftener; but in the
whirligig of life the confessional is forgotten, and has
no influence whatever on their morality.
That the institution is a source of great power to
the Church at large is easily understood : it creates a
vast gulf between clergy and laity, and considerably
accentuates the superiority of the former. But to a
large number of individual priests the function is very
distasteful. Apart from the obvious unpleasantness of
1 I have dwelt more fully on these advantages, and said all that
can be urged in favour of confession, in my “ Church Discipline:
an Ethical Study of the Church of Rome,” ch. iv.
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THE CONFESSIONAL
the task, it is much more fatiguing than would be
supposed. Three or four hours’ continuous hearing I
have found very exhausting, and a missionary has fre
quently to spend seven or eight hours a day in the
box. Still there are many priests who show a great
liking for the work, and they will sit for hours in their
boxes waiting—one could not help comparing them to
patient spiders—for the arrival of penitents.
The obligation of confessing commences at the age
of seven years, and is incumbent upon every member
of the Church, clergy and laity alike, even on the
Pope, who has a simple, harmless Franciscan friar
serving him in that capacity. The theory is that the
obligation of confessing commences when the possi
bility of contracting grave sin is first developed, and
in the eyes of the Church of Rome the average child
of seven is capable of meriting eternal damnation by
its acts. Needless to say, the confession of the average
child of seven or eight is a farce. The children used
to be conducted to us from the schools every three
months, after a careful drilling from their teachers,
but scarcely one child in ten had the faintest glimmer
ing of an idea of the nature of absolution. Few of
them could even be sufficiently instructed to fulfil the
material part of the ceremony; they mixed the various
parts of the formulae in the most unintelligible fashion,
and generally wished to retreat before they had
received the essential object of their coming—
absolution.
The method of the ceremony is described in any
Roman Catholic prayer-book. The penitent first
kneels for ten or fifteen minutes in the church and,
with the aid of the minute catalogue of sins in his
�THE CONFESSIONAL
117
book, recalls his transgressions since his last confession.
Entering the box, and usually asking the priest’s bless
ing, he states the occasion of his last confession, so
that the confessor may form a correct estimate of his
sinfulness. He then states his faults, the number of
times he has committed each, and any aggravating
circumstances; if the confessor is not satisfied, he
questions him and elicits further details. Then pre
mising, as a rule, a few words of exhortation or re
proof, he imposes a penance and dismisses him with
absolution, after an act of sorrow and a promise to
amend. According to Catholic doctrine the act of
sorrow and the “ purpose of amendment ” are the vital
and essential elements of the ceremony. The utter
ing of the formula by the priest—every Catholic is
told repeatedly—is entirely useless unless the contri
tion and good resolve are present. This shows that
the Church itself has not a mechanical conception of
the confession; but it must be added that, in practice,
the ordinary Catholic does constantly tend to rely on
just such a conception of the mechanical efficacy of
the rite. No money is ever exacted or received for
absolution. The stories circulated by travellers of lists
of prices of absolution seen in Continental churches
are entirely devoid of foundation.1 Further, an “ in1 I leave this in the text, but must add that I have since been
credibly informed of lists hanging in Canadian churches which set
a price on sin. But I gather that this was not the price of absolu
tion, but of an indulgence (remission of purgatorial punishment)
roughly adapted to various sins. The Catholic believes that,
although absolution relieves him of the fear of hell, he has still the
fires of Purgatory to face. Alms and good works may reduce his
liability to this, and the lists in question, sordid as they are, may
be merely suggestions of what amount of alms may trust to clear
the penalty of sins. Third edition.
�118
THE CONFESSIONAL
diligence ” has no reference whatever to future sin,
but is a remission of the purgatorial punishment due
for sin committed, and already substantially forgiven
by absolution, which the Church of Rome claims the
power to give. That indulgences are still practically
sold cannot be denied : not that a written indulgence
is now ever handed over for so much hard cash 1—such
bargains have proved too disastrous to the Church—but
papal blessings, richly-indulgenced crosses and rosaries,
&c., are well-known rewards of the generous alms-giver.
In Tyndall’s “ Sound ” a curious instance is men
tioned of a church in which certain acoustic peculi
arities enabled the listener at a distant point to hear
the whispers in the confessional; it is said that a
husband in this way heard his own wife’s confession.
Such contingencies are foreseen and provided for in
theological works. The seal of confession applies not
only to the priest, but to every person who comes to
a knowledge of confessional matter. It happens some
times that the penitents waiting outside overhear the
words of priest or penitent, especially when one or
other is a little deaf. At a church in Manchester,
Once more I don the white sheet—so little does even the priest
know of Catholicism in Catholic lands. I have before me four
indulgences which were bought in Spain for fifty, seventy-five, and
105 centimos each in the year 1902, and they bear that date. The
Archbishop of Toledo issues millions of these every year, and
money alone secures them. The Church calls the money an alms
(to itself), and the indulgence a reward of the alms. One of these
infamous papers is known in Spain as “ the thieves’ bula.” It is
the most expensive of the four (about Is.). It assures the thief
that, if he does not know the name of the owner of the ill-gotten
property he has, the Church allows him to keep it in consideration
of this alms. For valuable property large sums have to be paid.
Third edition.
�THE CONFESSIONAL
119
one busy Saturday evening, the priest interrupted his
labours to inquire the object of a scuffle outside his
box. There was a quarrel—not uncommon—about
precedence amongst the mixed crowd that waited their
turn at the door. A boy was complaining of being
deprived of his legitimate place, and when the priest’s
head appeared he exclaimed, “ Please, father, I was
next to the woman who stole the silk umbrella! ”
And in my young days I remember that, on one occa
sion, when we had been conducted to church for the
purpose of confessing, we who were waiting our turn
were startled to hear our stolid elderly confessor cry
out, repeating with horrified emphasis some statement
of his youthful penitent, 44 Eighty-three times! ” We
knew little about the seal in those days, and the boy
did not grudge us the joke we had against him for
many a day.
The 44 penance ” which is inflicted usually consists
of a few prayers. Corporal penances are now unknown
outside of country districts in Spain or Italy (where
one may still see a girl kneeling in chapel with a
pointed reference to the seventh commandment pinned
to her back), and even long and frequently repeated
prayer is not now imposed in England or the States;
the Irish peasant may be ordered to say daily for
months the seven penitential psalms. I soon found,
from the number of people who accused themselves of
neglecting their penance, how useless it was to impose
burdens; those who did not curtail it hurried through
it with precipitate haste. For it is customary to kneel
and say the penance immediately after the confession,
and as there are some scores of idle witnesses, calculat
ing the severity of the penance from the time expended
�120
THE CONFESSIONAL
on it, and thence inferring the gravity of the sin,
brevity is a feature of some importance. Hence I
never imposed more than five or six Pater Nosters.
On one occasion I imposed the usual “ Four Hail
Marys ” on a quiet, unoffending old priest. He was
slightly deaf, and, changing his posture of deep
humility, he looked up at me indignantly, exclaiming
“ Forty Hail Marys! ”
Short penances were not the only deviation from
our theological rules which I allowed myself; I soon
abandoned the hateful practice of interrogating on
malodorous subjects. At first when I heard a general
accusation I merely asked whether the morbidity in
question was serious or not (for if it were not serious
there was no obligation to interrogate). I was, how
ever, so indignantly repulsed when the lady did
happen to have a lighter debt that I was compelled
to resort to the usual dialogue. It was not long
before I entirely abandoned the practice, and simply
allowed my penitents to say what they thought neces
sary. The Church imposes on the priest the obliga
tion of cross-examining under pain of mortal sin, so
that I do not doubt that some of my perplexed
colleagues will see in that “ sin ” the reason of the
withdrawal of the light of faith from me. However,
the institution had become repulsive to me, and I
eagerly embraced an opportunity of escaping from it
and other ministerial work by a course of study at
Louvain University. There came a year when our
studies were disorganised, and I had no students for
philosophy. I gladly accepted an invitation to go and
study oriental languages at Louvain.
�CHAPTER VII
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
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Louvain University is the principal Roman Catholic
university in the north of Europe. Nominally it is
a centre of higher Catholic instruction for all the
northern countries, including, until a recent date, the
United States. However it is, in point of fact, little
more than a national institution. The patriotic
Germans naturally prefer their own vigorous, though
less venerable, University of Innspruck. Britons and
Americans have always been represented in its colleges
very sparsely, for they had been usually attracted to
the fountain-head, to Rome, in their thirst for higher
doctrine. Now America has its great Washington
University, and English Catholicism has brought to
an end its self-imposed banishment from Oxford and
Cambridge. English ecclesiastics will, no doubt, con
tinue to be sent into a more Catholic atmosphere
abroad, and will continue to prefer Spain or Italy to
Belgium. Still, Louvain could boast many nation
alities amongst its 1600 students.
The long struggle between Catholicism and Liberal
ism in Belgium has had the effect of isolating Louvain
as a distinctively Catholic university. The clerical
party naturally concentrated upon it, with its long
tradition of orthodoxy and its roll of illustrious names,
121
�122
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
and determined to exclude the liberalising tendencies
which had either mastered, or threatened to master,
the universities of Brussels, Ghent, &c. The control
is exclusively clerical, both rector and vice-rector being
high ecclesiastical dignitaries, and every orthodox
family with a care for the correct training of its sons
is expected to send them to Louvain.
But Louvain is by no means merely a centre for
clerical training. Belgian Catholicism has fallen much
too low to realise so ambitious a dream. During the
year I spent there—1893-94—there were not more
than fifty clerical students out of the 1600. Ecclesi
astical studies were, therefore, working at a dead loss,
for the theological staff was numerous and distin
guished. The greater part of the students were in
law or medicine, though there were also sections for
engineering, brewery, and other technical branches.
Moreover, the university suffered from the presence of
a rival clerical establishment in the same town—con
ducted, of course, by the Jesuits. The Jesuits, the
“ thundering legion ” of the ecclesiastical army, have
one weakness from a disciplinary point of view; they
never co-operate. “ Aut Caesar aut nullus ” is their
motto whenever they take the field. And so at Lou
vain, after, it is said, a long and fruitless effort to
secure the monopoly of the university itself, they have
erected a splendid and efficient college, in which the
lectures are thrown open to outsiders, and from which
a brilliant student is occasionally sent to throw down
his glove to the university, to defend thirty or forty
theses against the united phalanx of veteran professors.
The Dominicans have also a large international college
in the town, and the American bishops a fourth, in
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
123
which European volunteers for the American missions
are trained. The rivalry which results, although it
does occasionally overflow the channel of fraternal
charity, helps to sustain the vitality of the Belgian
Church, and turns its attention from the rapid growth
of Rationalism and Socialism.
One difference between the Belgian and the English
system is that few of the students live in the colleges,
scattered at intervals over the town, which form the
university. These are usually only lecture halls, with
their attendant rooms and museums; the students live
in the houses of the townspeople, for the town exists
merely for the accommodation of the university. The
vice-president keeps a record of all houses and the
addresses of the students, but the supervision is slight,
and the liberty of the students great. A second and most
important difference from English or American uni
versity life lies in the complete absence of athleticism.
The Belgians are entirely averse to muscular exertion
of any kind. I saw very little cycling, no cricket, no
football, no rowing—nothing more active than skittles
during the whole period; for “ beer and skittles ” is
much more than a figurative ideal to the Belgians.
Their free time, and they are not at all a studious
race, is mainly spent in the estaminets, or beer houses;
and, like German students, they consume enormous
quantities of their national beverage and smoke
unceasingly.
The ethical result of such a mode of life may be
deduced from general physiological laws. The “ rector
magnificus ” was a very able and estimable man, but
of a retiring and studious character; the vice-rector,
Mgr. Cartuyvels, was, however, an active and zealous
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
disciplinarian, and, by means of a wide system of
espionnage, he was tolerably acquainted with the con
dition of affairs. Still he was powerless to stem an
inevitable tide, and indeed it was said that he was
afraid to enforce his authority too sternly, lest he
should drive more Catholics to the Liberal universities.
The religion of the students did not seem to be of a
much higher quality than their conduct. I was in
formed by a Louvain priest that at least 500 out of
the 1500 did not attend mass on Sundays; and such
attendance is obligatory and a test of communion in
the Church of Rome. Like that of so many of our
Irish neighbours in England, their faith needs the
stimulus of a row or a riot over religious questions to
bring it to consciousness. Once the Liberals or the
Socialists fill the street with their anti-clerical, “ A
bas la calotte,” the students are found to be Catholic
to a man. Apart from these uncanonical, though not
infrequent, ebullitions their piety is little exhibited.
The clerical students, who usually live in the
colleges, are priests who have distinguished them
selves in their ordinary theological course, and who
have been sent by their respective bishops to graduate
in theology, philosophy, or canon law. Few of them
see the full term of a university career, as their bishops
are compelled by financial and other pressure, if not
by reports of the examiners, to withdraw them pre
maturely to the active work of the diocese. The suc
cessful student secures his licentiate at the end of the
third year, and his bachelorship at the end of the
fourth. He then ceases to follow the public lectures
at the halls, and spends two years at the study of his
subject, under the guidance of his late professor.
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
125
During that time he must write a Latin treatise on
any theme he chooses. Finally, in the great hall,
before a numerous audience, he wins his cap by
defending a score of theses against the professors and
any ecclesiastic who cares to oppose him. As every
religious order, and consequently every school of
philosophy and theology, is formidably represented in
the town, very lively scenes are sometimes witnessed
during the discussion of the theses. Certain contro
versies have had to be practically excluded from the list
of debatable questions in order to avoid an undignified
delay of the proceedings by the Dominicans and Jesuits
in the gallery. The success of the student is, however,
practically guaranteed by the mere fact of his presenta
tion by a professor. The whole system differs little
from what it was in medieval Louvain, and the divorce
between modern Belgian culture and the Belgian
Church is thus foolishly maintained by the clergy
themselves.
The programme of clerical study at the university
is identical in form with that of the seminaries, but
the questions are treated more profoundly and ex
haustively. Only one treatise is taken each year.
Each question is thoroughly discussed, and subsidiary
questions are treated which are crushed out of the
briefer elementary course. It is like passing from
Huxley’s “ Elements of Physiology ” to the more
exhaustive work of Kirk or Carpenter on the same
subject. Then the philosopher has the advantage of
attending, with the medical students, scientific courses
under men who are eminent in their respective sciences
(which, however, he rarely does), and a few of the
students of theology and Scripture attend lectures in
�126
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
the Oriental languages under equally distinguished pro
fessors. In addition to these there are courses of
Persian, Sanscrit, Chinese, &c., and courses of the
higher literature of most European languages, and of
Latin and Greek classics. There is, however, no
degree corresponding to the English M.A., and literary
studies are greatly neglected. All the clerical students
are intended by their bishops to become professors in
their seminaries, and, in addition to their degree in
theology, they are directed to follow the particular
course which will benefit them. Still a spirit of
narrow utilitarianism pervades all ranks. The laystudents have a definite profession in view and have
no superfluous industry to devote to other studies; the
priests think of little else besides their theology or
philosophy. There are a few disinterested worshippers
at the shrine of philosophy and letters, but their num
ber is comparatively small. The course of Sanscrit and
Chinese ascribed to the distinguished student of those
(and many other) languages, Mgr. de Harlez, seems to
have a mythical existence. Persian is never demanded,
and even Arabic (though the professor is an Arabic
scholar of the first rank) is rarely taken. Hebrew
must be studied by aspirants for theological degrees,
but Syriac has few scholars. There were three of us
who took the Syriac course in 1893, and of the three two
were mendicant friars who paid no fee. It will appear
presently that we received little more than we gave.
I was requested by my superior to follow the course
of Hebrew under M. Van Hoonacker, and, taking
advantage of the temporary interruption of my lectures
on philosophy, I made my way to the monastery of
our order at Louvain. I added a course of Syriac (in
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
127
virtue of which I hoped to disturb my Anglican
brethren over the Peschito version of the New Testa
ment), an elementary course of biblical criticism, and
an advanced course of scholastic philosophy.
The lectures on Hebrew and on biblical criticism
were given by M. Van Hoonacker, an effective teacher
and erudite scholar, who crossed swords (with more
courage than success) with the great Kuenen. An
abler professor of Hebrew we could not have had, and
even in handling the delicate questions raised by the
Higher Criticism he displayed much wealth of know
ledge, a generous acquaintance with the writings of
his opponents (Wellhausen, Kuenen, &c.), and much
argumentative power. The subject marked on the
programme was an introduction to the canon of Scrip
ture; it was based upon the work of M. Loisy, and
ran upon the traditional lines. But he quickly ex
hausted that subject and hastened to his favourite
topic, the discussion, against Wellhausen, of the origin
of the Jewish festivals. Of erudition he gave abund
ant proof, and he showed not a little ingenuity in
research and in the grouping of arguments; but it was
obvious that few of the students had any large view
of the general issues at stake. All scribbled rapidly
as the professor spoke (for we had no manual), and
endeavoured to gather as much detailed information as
would suffice for examination purposes.
In private intercourse I found him extremely kind
and courteous, and he frequently spoke to me of the
difficulty of his position as professor of biblical criti
cism, when the Church left us without any clearly
defined doctrine about the nature and extent of in
spiration in face of modern rationalism : he did not
�128
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
appreciate the liberty of thought which the Church
wisely grants until secular science has reached its highwater mark and it knows what it can decide with
security. The Pope’s encyclical had not yet appeared,
but I know that, as a theologian and an expert, he
would have little internal respect for it.
The professor of Syriac (and of some parts of
Scripture) was a man of a very different type. He
was a very old man, Mgr. Lamy, a distinguished
Syriac scholar, but a poor teacher, and one whose
opinions on biblical questions were of the older days.
Like M. Van Hoonacker, he took the first chapter of
Genesis as a subject for translation, and devoted more
time to his commentaries on the text than to its
Syriac construction. The contrast was instructive.
On the Monday morning we had the Hebrew pro
fessor’s advanced and semi-rationalistic commentary,
resolving the famous chapter into myths and allegories;
the following morning, from the same pulpit, Mgr.
Lamy religiously anathematised all that we had heard,
and gave the literal interpretation so dear to the
earlier generation. He was kind and earnest, but his
method of teaching was so unfortunate that, after
receiving one lecture a week for nine months, we knew
little more than the Syriac alphabet. Toward the end
of the term he startled us by commanding us to pre
pare for the next lecture a translation of a dozen lines
of Syriac without vowel points! The sequel unhap
pily illustrates the average Flemish character as I met
it among the clergy. We were three in number in the
course, and it was my turn to read at the next lecture.
But my companions, fearful of their own turn, endeav
oured to persuade me not to attempt such a preposter
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
129
ous task. By dint of great exertion I copied out the
translation of the passage and brought it to lecture on
the following Tuesday, when my companion, a Flemish
priest, snatched the paper from my hand and tore it
in pieces.
The third professor whose lectures I followed, Mgr.
Mercier, was a gentleman of refined and sympathetic
character, and one of the ablest living exponents of
Catholic philosophy. To a perfect knowledge of the
scholastic philosophy he added a wide acquaintance
with physical science (which can rarely be affirmed of
the scholastic metaphysician) and a very fair estimate
of modern rival schools of philosophy. Instead of
wasting time on the absurd controversies of the
medieval schools he made a continuous effort to face
the deep metaphysical criticism of the German and
English systems; with what success may be judged
from his numerous writings on philosophical questions.
During the year I attended, he took “ Criteriology ”
as his subject; he considered it the most important
section of philosophy in these days when, after 2000
years of faith, the Neo-Academic cry, “ What is
truth? ” has revived in such earnest.
Unfortunately the modern sophist finds little earn
est and disinterested attention, even in universities;
modern students of the great science are widely re
moved from the restless zeal of Athens or Alexandria
or medieval Paris. Mgr. Mercier is, moreover, bur
dened with an obligation to adhere to the teaching of
St. Thomas, almost the least critical of the medieval
theologians, but the present favourite at Rome. How
ever, the Vatican keeps a jealous eye on Louvain since
the outbreak of heterodoxy under the famous Ubaghs
�130
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
some thirty years ago. It is still under the suspicion
of Cartesianism in a mild form, but that is only a
matter of concern to Jesuits and other philosophical
rivals.
I experienced much kindness from Mgr. Mercier.
Like most of the Walloons, he is more refined and
sensitive than the Fleming usually is. Belgium is
made up of two radically distinct and hostile races.
The southern half is occupied by a French-speaking
people (with a curious native Walloon language) whose
characteristics are wholly French; while the northern
race, the Flemings, are decidedly Teutonic, very
hospitable, painfully candid and communicative, but
usually coarse, material, and unsympathetic. The two
races are nearly as hostile as the French and Germans
whom they respectively resemble (though, I think,
neither French nor Germans admit the affinity—the
Germans have a great contempt for the Flemings).
Louvain or Leuven is in Flemish territory, and Mgr.
Mercier, justly suspecting that I was not at ease with
my Teutonic brethren, offered to establish me in his
own house, but my monastic regulations forbade it.
Both through him and the other professors I have the
kindest recollection of the university, from which,
however, I was soon recalled.
A secondary object of my visit to Belgium was the
opportunity it afforded of studying monastic life in
all the tranquillity and fulness of development which
it enjoys in a Catholic country. In England it was
impossible to fulfil many of our obligations to the
letter. It is a firm decree of a monastic order that the
religious costume must never be laid aside. But it is
still decreed in English law that any person wearing
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
131
a monastic habit in the public streets shall be im
prisoned; and, although the law has become a dead
letter, experiment has shown the practice to be at
tended with grave inconveniences. Again, the Fran
ciscan constitutions strictly forbid collective or indi
vidual ownership, and even the mere physical contact
of money; but English law does not recognise the
peculiar effects of a vow of poverty, and English rail
way companies and others are unwilling to accept a
note from a religious superior instead of the coin of
the realm, as the Belgian railways do. In a Roman
Catholic country, at least in Belgium, the friars have
full liberty to translate their evangelical ideas into
active life. I had heard that the Belgian province
was a perfect model of monastic life, and, as I had
vague dreams of helping F. David in his slowly
maturing plan to reform our English houses, I desired
to study it attentively.
I soon learned that perfection consisted, in their
view, very largely of a mechanical and lifeless disci
pline. Much stress was laid on the exact observance
of the letter of the constitutions, which we English
friars greatly neglected. In most of the monasteries
the friars arose at midnight for Office, rigorously
observed all the fasts, would not touch a sou with a
shovel, never laid aside their religious habit, and never
interfered in secular business. They felt themselves,
therefore, at a sufficient altitude to look down com
passionately on our English province, and they were
sincerely astonished when a general of the order, the
shrewd and gifted F. Bernardine, quite failed to
appreciate their excellent condition on the occasion of
a visit from Rome. In point of fact, the province is
�132
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
infected with the idle, intriguing, and materialistic
spirit which is too notoriously associated with monasti
cism when it is not under the constant pressure and
supervision of heretics and unbelievers.
Their literal fulfilment of the vow of poverty in
these unsympathetic times leads to curious complica
tions. In the primitive innocence of the order (its
first ten years) the vow of poverty implied that all
the houses, clothing, &c., that were given to the friars
remained the property of the donors; that money was
on no account to be received for their labours; and
that all food was to be begged in kind. In the course
of time the paternal solicitude of the Pope helped
them out of difficulties by declaring that whatever was
given to the friars became his—the Pope’s—property.
He also instructed them to appoint a layman as syndic
to each of the monasteries, who should undertake (in
the Pope’s name, not that of the friars) the financial
and legal matters which the letter of the rule forbade
the friars to undertake; gradually, too, brothers of
the third order, who make no vow of poverty, were
introduced into the friaries as servants, and a superior
could thus always have a treasurer at hand.
In England the friars never troubled either syndic
or lay-brother. Once a quarter the syndic, or “papa,”
was invited to the friary to sign the books, but the
friars were careful to choose some religious-minded
man whose trust was larger than his curiosity. I
remember the consternation that once fell on the Man
chester friary, which was far from ascetic, when the
syndic they had indiscreetly chosen asked that the
books might be sent to him to study before he signed.
The bill for spirits would have surprised him, if he
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
133
had insisted on seeing the accounts. The superior of
each of our English monasteries had his safe and his
bank account, no priest ever went out with an empty
pocket, and the authorities made contracts (from which
the Pope’s name is wisely excluded) and went to law
like every other modern Christian. In Belgium the
scheme of holy poverty as modified by the Popes
(which would have pained Francis of Assisi) is followed
out faithfully. All food is sent in in kind by the
surrounding peasantry except, usually, meat and beer,
which are bought through the syndic. A lay-brother
is constantly wandering about the country begging
provisions for the friars, and the response is generous
both in quantity and quality. The brown habit is
sure to elicit sympathy, especially in the form of liquid,
and even the railway officials accept a note from the
friary when a ticket is necessary. I have travelled all
over Belgium, visiting Brussels, Waterloo, &c., as com
fortably as a tourist, without touching a centime from
one end of the year to the other.
Their monasteries, too, bear the visible stamp of
their voluntary poverty. Linen is never seen in them,
on tables (except on high festivals), on beds, or on the
persons of the friars; and another point on which they
imitate the apostle St. James is that they rigorously
deny themselves the luxury of a bath—for the reason,
apparently, that was given by the French nun to the
English girl who asked why she was not allowed to
take a bath at the pensionnat: “ Le bon Dieu vous
verrait! ” Gas is not admitted; and, worst of all,
they think it incumbent on them to reproduce in their
friaries the primitive sanitary arrangements of the
neighbouring cottages. Our lavatory, too, was fitted
�134
A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
up with archaic severity. A dirty battered zinc
trough ran along under a row of carefully assorted
taps, and into these the water had to be pumped every
three minutes. There were no hand-basins, there was
no hot water, and neither comb nor brush; and only
a tub of black soft soap was provided for our ablutions.
Some of the friars made use, in the absence of basins,
of vessels which must be left to the reader’s imagina
tion. I have seen this done, from force of habit, even
in England. .
The fasts were rigorously observed; though, as it
is a widespread custom both in France and Belgium
not to breakfast before midday, the friars suffered
little inconvenience by this. At the same time the
feasts were celebrated with a proportionate zeal. On
an ordinary feast-day, which occurs once or twice
every month, the friars would sit for three hours or
more, sipping their wine, talking, chaffing, quarrelling,
long after the dinner had disappeared. Extraordinary
feasts would be celebrated with the enthusiasm of
schoolboys. There would be banquets of a most
sumptuous character, with linen tablecloths, flowers,
and myriads of glasses; wine in abundance and of
excellent quality; music, instrumental and vocal;
dramatic, humorous, and character sketches. In the
larger convents, where there are about thirty priests
and forty or fifty students, there was plenty of musical
talent, and concerts would sometimes be prepared for
weeksu in advance in honour of a jubilee or similar
festival; and every priest had his circle of “ quasels ”
•—pious admirers and penitents of the gentler sex—
who undertook the culinary honours of his festival.
The quantity of beer and claret which they consume
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135
is enormous, yet I saw no excesses in that direction;
their capacity, however, is astonishing, and there are
few of them who do not kindle at the prospect of an
extra pint of beer or of a bottle of red wine. The
youngest novices take three pints of beer per day, for
they take no tea in the afternoon, and they soon learn
to look out for every opportunity of an extra pint.
Spirits are forbidden, though a few of the elders who
have been on the English mission have developed a
taste for Whisky. They tell a curious story in con
nection with it in one of their monasteries. An Eng
lish visitor had smuggled over a bottle for a lay-brother
whom he had known in former years. Later in the
afternoon the lay-brother and one of his comrades
were missing from Vespers. After a long search they
were at length discovered in one of the workshops in
a profound slumber, with the half-empty bottle and
all the materials of punch on a table beside them. At
Louvain the friars had been forced to build a special
entrance to the monastery for the introduction of their
beer, as a censorious Liberal lived opposite the great
gate, and kept a malicious account of the barrels im
ported. One of the most anxious concerns of a superior
is his wine-cellar, for he knows well that his chance
of re-election is closely connected with it. On one
occasion, when I had asked why a certain young friar
seemed, to be a popular candidate for the highest posi
tion before an election, I was told with a smile that
“ his brother was a wine merchant.” Wherever I
went in Belgium, to monasteries, nunneries, or private
houses, I found that teetotalism was regarded as a
disease whose characteristic microbe was indigenous to
the British Isles.
F2
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
The first unfavourable impression I made upon my
hosts was by my unintelligible refusal to drink. We
arrived at Ghent for dinner, and after dinner (with
the usual pint of strong ale) four of us sat down to
five or six bottles of good claret. I drew the line at
the sixth glass, and at once attracted as much sus
picion as a “ water-bibber” of ancient Greece or Rome.
At three o’clock a second pint of strong ale had to be
faced, and at seven a third; when wine re-appeared
after that I violently protested, and I neveT recovered
their good opinion. Thirst seems to be a national
affliction, for even the peasant women sometimes have
drinking matches (of coffee) at their village fairs, and
the first or second prize has more than once fallen a
victim to her cafeine intemperance. It is interesting
to note that few of the friars preserve any mental
vigour up to their sixtieth year, and that great
numbers fall victims to apoplexy.
• There are no congregations attached to the friaries,
so that their work differs materially from that of
English priests. In fact, their life is the typical
monastic life, for, as has been explained, canon law
prescribes that monastic houses should only be con
sidered as auxiliaries of the regular clergy. The first
result, however, is usually a conflict with the priest
in whose parish the monks establish themselves, as
they attract his parishioners to their services; and
they rarely find much favour with the bishop of the
diocese. They hear great numbers of confessions,
principally of the surrounding peasantry, and have
frequent ceremonies in their churches, but, as there
are usually so many friars, the work occupies little
time. The only work of importance which they do
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137
is to preach special sermons and give missions in dis
tant parishes, but even that is little in proportion to
their vast numbers. One meets amongst them many
earnest and devout men who are never idle for a
moment, but the majority lead the most dull and
inactive and useless lives.
At Louvain there were nine priests and hardly
sufficient work to occupy the time of four. There
was one earnest exemplary friar, who was constantly
and usefully occupied; another, equally earnest, would
exhaust himself one fortnight and recuperate the next;
the remainder led a life of most unenviable inaction.
Some, under one pretext or another, did absolutely
nothing from one end of the week to the other. They
were no students; in fact, most of them were grossly
ignorant, and their large library was practically unused.
In summer they would lounge in the garden or bask
at the windows of their cells until the bell rang out
the next signal for some vapid religious exercise; in
winter they would crowd round their stove, and discuss
the daily paper or some point of ritual or casuistry,
eager as children for the most trivial distraction.
In fact, between idleness and eccentricity, many of
them had developed most extraordinary manias. One
of our priests, a venerable old friar whose only
sacerdotal duties consisted in blessing babies and
giving the peasants recipes (prayers) for diseased
cattle, had succeeded in getting himself appointed as
assistant cook. His gluttony was the standard joke of
the community; his meals were prodigious. Another
friar devoted his time to the solution of the problem
of perpetual motion; another had designed a cycle
Which was to outrun any in the market, if he could
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
devise a brake capable of stopping it when in motion;
another explained to me a system of the universe which
he had constructed (from certain texts of Genesis) to
the utter and final overthrow of materialism. He had
explained it to several professors of science, who had
admitted its force in silence, and I found myself in
the same predicament. Some took to mending clocks,
of which they had a number in their cells, others to
painting, others to gardening, others to making col
lections of little pictures of the Virgin or St. Joseph,
or of miraculous statues. Few of them spent any
large proportion of their time in what even a Catholic
would consider the service of humanity.
The little knowledge they possessed was usually con
fined to liturgy and casuistry. Not being parish
priests they had not the advantage of daily visits
amongst the laity, which is the only refining influence
and almost the only stimulus to education of a celibate
clergy; and the little preaching and ministerial work
they were entrusted with, lying almost exclusively
amongst the poor, did not demand any serious thought
or study. There are always a few ripe scholars amongst
them—very few at the present time—but the majority
profess to base their undisguised aversion for study on
the letter and spirit of their constitutions; and not
without reason, though they forget that the age to
which that rule was adapted has passed for ever.
There is no pressure upon them, yet their ordinary
studies make little impression on them, and, though
the Catholic university opens its halls gratis to them,
they only reluctantly allow one or two of their students
to enter it each year. To graduate they regard as an
unpardonable conceit for a monk, and I was therefore
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
139
not permitted to take the degree of Ph.D. to which my
studies entitled me.
Their complete ignorance of philosophy led them ta
take a superfluous interest in my welfare, and gave
me a small idea of the way in which Roger Bacons
are victimised. Mgr. Mercier had sent me Paul Janet’s
“ Causes Finales ” to read, and whilst I was doing
so one of the elder friars came to glance at the title
of my book. He considered it for some moments in
perplexity, and at length exclaimed : “ Tiens! la cause
finale, c’est la mort! ” I offered no correction, and
he went to acquaint the others, as usual. Then one
of the younger friars, the scholar of the community,
recollected that he had read somewhere that Janet
was “ chef de l’ecole spiritualiste ” in France, and,
nobody knowing the difference betwen spiritism and
spiritualism, it was agreed that I was exploring the
questionable region of spooks. When Mgr. Mercier
went on to lend me the works of Schopenhauer (and
they had looked up the name in the encyclopaedia) there
was serious question of breaking off my intercourse
with him and writing to England of my suspected
tendencies. Happily, I was in a position to treat them
with indifference, for I was neither their subject nor
their guest. They were paid (by my mass fees) for
my maintenance—which cost them nothing—and even
my books, clothing, bedding, &c., had to be paid for
from England. Englishmen, in their eyes, are
proverbially proud; I was credited with an inordinate
share of that British virtue.
At present they are making strenuous efforts to re
organise and improve their scheme of study. One or
two earnest men are striving to lift the burden which.
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
is oppressing them, and possibly time will bring an
improvement; though it can only be by a sacrifice in
point of numbers which all are unwilling to make.
The two points in which the glory of the fraternity is
thought to consist are the maintenance of a perfect
formal discipline and the increase of members. The
Belgian friars are wrongly endeavouring to secure both
points at once. They have built recently a large pre
paratory college, which is always crowded with aspir
ants. But when I asked one of the Belgian friars, in
an unguarded moment, whence the aspirants came, he
answered with a shrug of his shoulders: “ They have
swept up the rubbish of the streets ”; and another
explained that their training was deeply vitiated by
espionnage and by an injudicious system of rewards
and punishments. Whatever may be their future—
and so long as Socialism is kept in check they have
every favourable condition—it is quite clear that any
serious attempt to purify, to vitalise and spiritualise
their fraternity, will meet bitter opposition, and will,
if successful, considerably reduce their numbers. No
large body of men will ever again sincerely adopt an
ascetical spirit in their common life. And the Belgian
fraternity will be healthier and happier for the re
mainder of its days if it can rid itself of all its malades
imaginaires, lazy pietists, crass sensualists, and
ambitious office-seekers.
Belgium is claimed as a Roman Catholic country,
and it may be interesting to discuss the extent and
nature of its fidelity to Rome in the light of my
inquiries and observations. I had many and intimate
opportunities for studying it, and I availed myself of
�A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
141
them carefully; not only because I took a speculative
interest in the question, but on account of the dis
paraging references that the friars made repeatedly to
my own heretical country—“ your unhappy country ”
was their usual description of England. When I
noticed in the list of Peter’s-pence offerings that
Belgium had collected for his Holiness only 200,000
lire, and England 1,200,000, I felt there was occasion
for careful inquiry.
Politics and religion are so confused in Belgium
that the religious status of the country has been
roughly indicated at every election. For many years
there has been a fierce struggle between Liberalism
and Catholicism, in which the orthodox party has been
frequently overpowered; and Liberalism, as is well
known, is the anti-clerical, free-thought party. It is,
roughly speaking, the bourgeoisie of Belgium (with a
sprinkling of the higher and of the industrial class),
permeated with Voltaireanism and modern rationalism :
its motto was Gambetta’s “ Le clericalisme, voila
l’ennemi,” or as the Belgian mob puts it more forcibly
“ A bas la calotte! ” Not that it was at all a philo
sophical sect; it was purely active, but accepted the
conclusions of the philosophers and the critics as
honestly as the orthodox clung to the conclusions of
the theologian. In any case it was bitterly opposed
to the established religion and the dominion of the
clergy on every issue. The aristocracy, for obvious
reasons, indolently sided with the Church; the
peasantry, on the whole, remained faithful out of brute
stolidity and imperviousness to argument.
But during the last few years there has been a pro
found change in the field as Socialism gained power
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
and character. Not very many years ago a young
advocate at the Brussels Catholic conference declared
himself a Christian socialist, and was emphatically
suppressed by the clerical and aristocratic members;
now, if it were not for Christian Socialism, Rome
would soon lose its hold of the peasantry. Socialism,
avowedly anti-Christian as it is on the Continent, has
secured the industrial classes and is undoubtedly mak
ing progress amongst the peasantry. However, it can
not join forces with waning Liberalism, for it hates
and is hated by the bourgeoisie; and it has had the
effect of arousing the monarchy and aristocracy to some
sense of their danger. Thus the power of the Church
remains as yet slightly in the ascendant: it can com
mand a little more than half the votes of the country
as long as the present partial suffrage holds. The
results, however, show that Catholics are really in the
minority, and if ever the Socialists and Liberals unite
they will be swept out of power.
So much is clear from election results; but in a
country that is fermenting with new ideas mere
statistics teach very little of themselves. A new party,
which is hardly a generation old, and which has had
a marvellously rapid growth, is presumed to have
acquired a serious momentum. It consists almost
entirely of converts, and the convert is usually con
scious of his opinions and zealous for them. The
adherents of the old party may still be, to a great
extent, in their traditional apathy, and only need
their minds to be quickened to make them change their
position. Such would seem to be the state of affairs
in Belgium, if we take no more than clerical
witnesses.
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143
It is much easier to test the real fidelity of nominal
adherents of the Church of Rome than of those of any
other sect or party in existence; it is the only sect that
binds its members under pain of grievous sin to certain
positive religious observances. Hence it is possible
to gauge the depth and vitality of its influence over
its statistical members without entering into their
consciences. And so the fact that one-third of the
students at the only Catholic university habitually
neglect mass has a great significance. I once heard
a dispute between a Walloon Premonstratensian monk
and a Flemish Franciscan about the religious merits
of their respective races. To a stranger it seemed
difficult to choose between them. Confession was
taken as a safe test, for annual confession is essential,
and its integrity is equally demanded under pain of
mortal sin. However, the Walloon boasted that you
could believe a Walloon in the confessional, but cer
tainly not a Fleming. The Fleming admitted that it
was true, but he added, “ You can believe a Walloon
when you get him, but he only comes to confess twice
in his life, at his first communion and at death.”
They were both old missionaries, and their points were
quite confirmed by the others present.
Moreover, I had a more intimate experience of the
country, which confirmed my low estimate of its
Catholicism. During the Easter vacation I went to a
small convent in the country, about ten miles south of
Brussels. The superior of the convent obtained juris
diction for me, and I did much service in the chapel
of the Comtesse de Meeus, in our own great solid iron
church at Argenteuil (well known to Waterloo visitors),
and in the parish church at Ohain. We monks were
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A YEAR AT LOUVAIN
forbidden under pain of suspension to assist the dying
or to hear Easter confessions; but I soon found that if
we did not do so a great many people would refuse to
take the sacraments. I assisted three dying persons:
one was already unconscious and could only be
anointed, and her friends were utterly indifferent about
even that; another, a young man, had to be coaxed
into making his confession, but refused point blank
to receive communion and extreme unction from his
parish priest, and died without them; the third visibly
condescended to confess, saying that it was immaterial
to him—he would if I wished. Many others came to
confess, saying that they would either confess to me
or not at all. Everywhere, even amongst professing
Catholics, there was a strong anti-clerical feeling,
though the peasantry made a curious exception in
favour of monks. They had not the least idea of the
real life inside the friaries and the quantity of liquor
consumed.
And when I went down to assist at Ohain for the
last day of the Easter confessions I found the little
parish in a curious condition, even to my heretical
experience. The cure smiled when I asked how many
he expected for confession, and said that he had not
the faintest idea. Theoretically, he should have known
how many had already made their Paques (or Easter
confession), and how many parishioners he had; it was
a simple sum of subtraction. He was amused at my
simplicity. It appeared that there were some hundreds
who might or might not make their Paques: in point
of fact, we had about a hundred more than the per
ceding year. He did not seem much concerned about
the matter; said it was not an abnormal condition, and
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145
that it seemed irremediable. It was curious to note
that a Protestant mission which had been founded in
the neighbourhood for some time had only succeeded
after heroic efforts in securing two dilapidated “ con
verts.” The Belgians, like the French, are Catholic
or nothing.
What I observed was fully confirmed by the informa
tion I sought on the subject. The people were indif
ferent, and even a large proportion of the clergy were
apathetic. Great Catholic demonstrations there were
in abundance, but little importance can be attached to
such manifestations. In the great procession of the
Fete-Dieu at Louvain I saw hundreds taking part who
were merely nominal Catholics; and other extraordin
ary religious displays, such as the procession of the
miraculous statue at Hasselt, where I spent some time,
were largely supported by the Liberal municipality and
hotel-keepers from commercial reasons. Little can be
gathered, therefore, from statistics or from external
pageantry. The fidelity of the people must be tested,
as in France, by their obedience to the grave obligations
the Church imposes. Under such a test the Catholi
cism of Belgium fails lamentably. Although the
wisdom of uniting religious and political issues may
be questioned, one may confidently anticipate a steady
growth of the anti-clerical party.
�CHAPTER VIII
MINISTRY IN LONDON
From Louvain I was recalled at the close of the first
academical year by a revival of my educational func
tions at London. A new generation of philosophers
had arrived, and I had to resume the task of im
printing the conclusions of the scholastic philosophy
on their youthful and unsympathetic minds. The
theological studies also were conducted at Forest
Gate, and all the students had to remain under an
“ instructor ” until they were promoted to the priest
hood. As I held that position during most of the
time I remained at Forest Gate, I had ample oppor
tunity to study the formation of priests, as the in
structor is responsible for the material and spiritual
welfare of those under his charge. Of the innumer
able complications with superiors, and with a certain
type of inferiors, which my zeal (not always, perhaps,
nicely tempered with prudence) provoked I forbear
to speak. Enough has been said in the preceding
chapters about the life of the students, so I pass on
to a fuller treatment of the sacerdotal ministry, in
which I was now thoroughly immersed.
In a monastic house, evert in England, there are
always more priests than in a secular presbytery;
more, indeed, than are necessary for the administra146
�MINISTRY IN LONDON
147
tion of the parish which is committed to their care.
Many of these priests, however, are travelling mis
sionaries whose work lies almost entirely outside their
convent. It is customary in Catholic churches to hold
a mission, or series of services somewhat akin to the
revival services of the Methodists, every few years;
it consists principally of a course of the most violent
and imaginative sermons on hell, heaven, eternity, &c.,
and really has the effect of converting numbers to a
sense of their religious duties. Although Cardinal
Manning, who, in writing and in action, shows a
studied disregard of the monastic orders, endeavoured
to form a band of secular or non-monastic missionaries,
it is usually conceded that the desired effect can only
be satisfactorily attained by monks. Hence every order
has a number of religious specially trained for that
purpose, of whom two or three are found in every
monastery. *
Their life differs entirely from that of the ordinary
monk; even when they are at home they are exempt
from community services, from which the constitu
tions release them for three days after returning from
and three days before starting for a mission. They
frequently travel long distances, especially to Ireland,
and are sometimes absent from their monastery for
months at a time. They are, as has been said, the
chief bread-winners of the community. They receive
from five to ten pounds per week for their services,
and bring home also large sums in the shape of alms
or mass-stipends; if a smaller fee is offered they never
return to that parish. I have known a Franciscan
superior (whose rule forbids him to claim any fee
whatever, or to receive any money) to maintain a
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MINISTRY IN LONDON
warm correspondence with a parish priest on the in
sufficiency of his fee. “ Tempora mutantur, nos et
mutamur in illis ” would not be an inappropriate
motto for the friars to substitute for their highsounding “ In sanctitate et doctrina.” However, the
missionaries have very severe labours, as a rule, and
many of them work with untiring industry and devo
tion. They hold a service every evening, including
one heavy sermon, an instruction, and a number of
fatiguing ceremonies. I have known many priests
to collapse under the strain. The enormous number
of confessions they hear adds much to their exertions.
At the same time, many of them prefer the change
and comparative comfort of the life to confinement in
the monastery. They lighten their task by preaching
the same sermons everywhere they go, and they usually
find the presbytery much more comfortable than home;
if they do not, the parish priest will ask in vain for
a second mission.
Another form of outside work which is less understood is the practice of giving “ retreats ” to monas
teries, nunneries, and other religious establishments.
A retreat is a period of recollection in which the
inmates of a convent suspend all study and secular
occupation, and occupy themselves exclusively with
religious exercises; it usually lasts from ten to fourteen
days, and is held annually. The day is spent in
profound silence and meditation, but there are a
number of common ceremonies, and two or three
“ meditations ”—a kind of familiar sermon or causerie
—are preached daily. The amiable Jesuits are much
in demand for retreats, especially by the equally
amiable congregations of teaching nuns, but our friars
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149
were entrusted with a large number every year
amongst the Jess aristocratic congregations of nuns.
To give a retreat is, after a slight experience, not at
all a disagreeable task, and many even of our pro
fessors used to spend their vacation in preaching them.
The usual method is to write out a set of meditations
(the usual graphic descriptions of the “ last day,”
heaven, hell, &c.), though abler men, or men of
sincere fervour, make no preparation. The same set
of meditations is, of course, used in different places,
and five or six sets suffice for a lifetime; for a priest
is often invited several years in succession to the
same convent, and, if the nuns have been particularly
amiable and hospitable, he accepts. In such cases he
must have a new set of conferences, for nuns have
long memories, and will look up maliciously if he
drops into a passage of one of his former sermons.
Besides receiving the usual five or ten pounds, the
priest can always count upon a warm welcome and
tender and graceful hospitality from the good sisters
during his residence in their convent; and, as the
convent is very frequently at a pleasant wateringplace or other desirable locality, it is not surprising
that the work is much appreciated.
Then there are minor functions which bring grist
to the conventual mill, and afford the friars some
diversion from the dreary monotony of home life.
The secular clergy take annual holidays, and engage
a friar at one pound per Sunday to conduct their
services; one of our friaries (at Manchester), where
the missionaries were not in great demand for higher
work, took up the work of “ supply ” with such zeal
that it earned the title of the “ Seraphic Cab-stand.”
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MINISTRY IN LONDON
Special sermons, also, are frequently asked, and
chaplaincies are sometimes offered to the friars. A
neighbouring nunnery will always demand their
services, and even country families may prefer to
bring a friar down every Sunday for a couple of
guineas than to have a chaplain haunting the premises
all the week.
With so many outward attractions of a lucrative and
congenial nature the friars are sometimes tempted to
neglect their own parish, which is, or should be, their
principal care. The superior of the monastery is
always rector or parish priest,1 and several of his
inferiors act as curates; as a rule there is about one
priest to every thousand people, less in older and
larger parishes—at Glasgow we had six priests to
attend to 16,000 people—and more in growing con
gregations. The work, however, is usually confined
to the week end. On Saturday confessions are heard,
for it is necessary to confess before approaching the
sacrament, which is usually received on Sunday morning. On Sunday the priest has a long and very
fatiguing day’s work; he must, as a rule, say two
masses, an early one for communicants and a late
sung mass, at which also he preaches. On account
of the obligation to remain fasting, so stern that not
even a drop of water must pass his lips until the end
of the last mass, the work is very exacting, especially
to a priest Who is single-handed. The section of
In reality all priests in England are merely missionaries, from
the. point of view of canon law ; the bishops are the only real
Parish priests. Beyond the fact that they are thus transferable at
diff^enc0^ S PleaSUrG’the irreSuIarity does not make much practical
�MINISTRY IN LONDON
151
theology which treats of this peculiar fast is interest
ing ; the careful calculation what fraction of a tea
spoonful of water, or what substances (whether flies,
cork, glass, silk, cotton, &c.) break the fast, affords
serious pre-occupation to the casuist. In the afternoon
there are numerous minor ceremonies, baptisms,
catechetical instructions, &c.; and in the evening
another long sermon with Vespers and Benediction.
Speaking from experience I may say that for one
man it is as severe a day’s work as can be found in
any profession.
Here, however, the monastic clergy have the
advantage of numbers. Even the ordinary priest has
the consolation that the other six days of the week
will be practically days of rest; but to monks the
Sunday itself is not very formidable. Of the six
friars in our community there were never less than
three at home on Sunday, so that the work was fairly
distributed.
However, the Sunday work of the priest is obvious
enough. Curiosity looks rather to the manner in
which he spends the other six days of the week. It
may be said in a word that the daily life of a clergy
man is much the same in every religious sect. Apart
from the fact that he has no family relations, the
Catholic priest occupies himself in a manner very
similar to that of his Anglican brother. The friar,
of course, is supposed to follow a very different and
much more serious “ order of the day,” but here
again theory and practice lie wide apart. The rule
of the friar, who, in a missionary country like England
or the States, is unfortunately compelled to take
charge of a parish, is simple and reasonable; he must
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MINISTRY IN LONDON
assist at the community devotions which have been
previously described, and the remainder of his time
must be divided between study and the discharge of
his parochial duties. In the morning from eight to
twelve he is supposed to study, from three to seven
he must visit his parishioners, from eight to ten he
must occupy himself once more with study or prayer.
That is the edifying theory, but the fact is that
the more agreeable task of attending to their
parishioners absorbs most of the priests’ time. There
are few friars who, after they have once entered upon
parochial duties, give more than a sporadic and careless
attention to study. They say that they do not find
any advantage for the better performance of their
duties in study, and, since most of their “ duty ”
resolves itself into visits to the sick and chattering
with ladies over afternoon tea, their contention is
plausible enough; although there are many cases in
which their unfamiliarity with modern literature and
its great problems brings them into contempt. I have
been asked by wives or sisters in the confessional to
visit men who were understood to be wavering in
faith. When I referred them to their parish priests,
I was answered that they had so low an estimate of
their parish priests that they refused to discuss with
them. And where they do meet a Catholic who shows
an interest in and acquaintance with modern literature,
the clergy are suspiciously prompt to urge the restric
tions imposed by the Index. If they are not prepared
to acquaint themselves with current literature—and a
not unintelligent colleague of mine once frankly
admitted that he could not read even the pellucid
essays of Mr. Huxley—they take care that their flock
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does not outstrip them. I once heard a professor of
dogmatic theology contend that the Nineteenth Century
is on the Index, and should be forbidden to Catholics;
yet so curious is the procedure of the Church, that
it was reserved for a Catholic writer (Mivart) to
procure for it, by his contributions, a place in the
distinguished gallery of the condemned. At any rate,
a priest who is not inclined to study finds in the
elasticity of the Church’s policy ample justification for
literary tyranny.
The manner in which the clergy exercise their
literary responsibility tries the patience of the educated
layman. The priest, and especially the friar, has very
little acquaintance with fiction (which is expressly
proscribed by the monastic constitutions), still less
with science or philosophy, and has very wrong ideas
of history; and, since the majority of condemned
books are not named in the Index, but are simply
involved in the general censure of “ against faith or
morals,” he has to exercise his judgment on a point
of some delicacy. The result is sad confusion. One
priest is delighted with “ The Three Musketeers,”
and permits Dumas—unconscious that Dumas is
expressly on the Index. Ouida is much disputed,
even amongst the Jesuits. The high-principled works
of George Eliot are condemned unread; she was an
agnostic, and lived with Lewes. Mrs. Lynn Linton,
Mrs. Humphry Ward, Sarah Grand, Marie Corelli,
George Meredith, Thomas Hardy, Hall Caine, Eden
Phillpotts, Jerome K. Jerome, Anthony Hope, H. G.
Wells, and most of our leading novelists are either
deists or agnostics. Even Mrs. Craigie and Dr. Barry
give anxiety at times. The poor Catholic is perplexed
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before the list of modern novelists, and so reads them
all. So it is with science and philosophy. The best
English and German exponents are heterodox, and
when the priest pays his visit and sees their works
lying about, he not infrequently demands that they
be destroyed. Hence it is that Jesuit and other
“ Catholic Truth Society ” writers find it possible to
foist on the Catholic body the lamentable garbling
of history and science which one finds in their publica
tions. Their readers are forbidden to read the other
side, and Catholic reviews of antagonistic literature
are quite unscrupulous, at least in such journals as
the Catholic Times.
The priest’s conversation is rendered insipid and
uninviting by the same dearth of knowledge and
narrowness of judgment. On biblical criticism,
sociology, and a host of prominent questions, the
priest is either painfully dogmatic on points that the
educated world has long ceased to dogmatise about,
or else he is just as painfully confused. But even on
a number of questions on which the world has formed
a decided opinion years ago, he is strangely timid and
conservative. Rome itself showed much caution in
responding to an inquiry about hypnotic phenomena,
and such eminent modern theologians as Lehmkuhl
and Ballerini seem convinced that in its more abstruse
phenomena hypnotism embodies a diabolical influence.
Even table-turning, of which Carpenter gave a lucid
explanation ages ago, is gravely called in question by
the Roman decrees and the casuists, and, naturally,
by the majority. In fact, the author whom I was
directed to use in teaching philosophy, Mgr. E. Grand claude, a widely popular modern author, gravely
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attributes the more curious manifestations of som
nambulism to the same untiring and ubiquitous agent.
On almost every question the priest is found to be
ignorant, antiquated, tyrannical.
Naturally, then, the conversations with their
parishioners, which occupy most of their time, are
not of an intellectual type. In the morning the friar
rarely visits, except in cases of sickness, but he is
much visited. In every monastery there is a section
marked off near the door—usually the hall and a few
small parlours—to which ladies are allowed access.
Into the monastery proper women (except the queen,
who cannot be excluded) are never admitted under
any circumstances, even to visit a dying son or brother,
under pain of excommunication. I have known a
mother to sit in tears in the waiting-room while her
son, a young priest, was dying in the infirmary almost
above her head. In these parlours, however (which, I
hasten to add, are fitted with glass doors), the friars
spend a good part of the morning. The rest of the
forenoon is supposed to be spent in reading or prepar
ing sermons in the cells; but it goes very largely in
chatting in each other’s cells, or in the library, or
over the daily paper—all of which is entirely illicit.
After dinner, recreation, and early tea, the friars
exchange their brown habits for ordinary clerical attire
and proceed to visit their parishioners. They are
directed to return to the convent at seven, but they
usually arrive much later.
Apart from the care of the sick and the dying, and
the occasional necessity of reproving wandering sheep,
the duty of “ visiting,” which is almost their only
function on the six appointed days of labour, is far
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from laborious. The parish is divided into districts,
of which one is committed to the care of each priest,
and he is directed to visit each family once in three
months. The object is, of course, to strengthen the
bond between clergy and laity and to secure individual
fidelity to the Church. Naturally, however, what
really happens is that a few agreeable families are
selected for frequent visits, which differ in no respect
from the visits of ordinary unconsecrated people (in
fact, the priest would hardly be welcome who paraded
his profession too much); sometimes they are unusu
ally generous benefactors, sometimes merely families
of ordinary social attractiveness, very frequently
merely young and amiable ladies whose husbands or
fathers are at business. In any case, the poor and
uninteresting are forgotten; the favourites are visited
weekly or oftener, and the visits are sometimes pro
tracted to two or three hours. Much jealousy ensues
amongst the favourites (who watch each other’s
houses), and counter visits, teas, dinners, parties, &c.,
have to be accepted. Thus the week is easily and not
uncongenially absorbed, and a priest often finds that
he is scarcely able to prepare a sermon for the Sunday.
Since most of the visits are made in the afternoon
and on week days, it follows that they are almost
exclusively made to ladies; one result of which is that
our English friars are found to be much less
misogynous than their continental or their medieval
brethren, who have or had no parishes to superintend.
Many Protestant husbands forbid the admission of a
priest into the house in their absence. On the whole,
the priests are discreet, and an excellent control is
exercised over all concerned by a comprehensive system
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157
of jealousy. The priests are jealous of each other, and
strongly resent any intrusion in each other’s district
or parish; the ladies honoured with the visits are
jealous of each other; and a numerous non-Catholic
population is jealously surveying the whole. In the
Franciscan rule there is, besides the vow of chastity,
a special grave precept enjoining the friars to avoid
“ suspicious intercourse ” with women, and it is not
uncommon for a superior publicly to denounce an
inferior for that fault. Two or three cases happened
at Forest Gate in my time, but the accusation clearly
sprang from jealousy on the part of the superior. In
private, mutual accusation, especially of frequenting
by preference the society of young women, was very
common, and was not without foundation. Another
rule that tended to prevent disorder was that all
letters were |o be given open to the superior to be
forwarded, and he was supposed to read all the letters
he received for his inferiors. But the superior who
followed out this rule in dealing with the correspond
ence of any but the juniors would have an unenviable
position; and, of course, the priests were out every
day themselves and could easily post their letters.
There was also a regulation—the only one in our
constitutions (which, unlike “ the rule ” written by
St. Francis, the friar does not solemnly vow to observe,
and which are only disciplinary) that was enforced
under a grave moral obligation—forbidding us to take
any intoxicating drink within the limits of our own
parish. The rule, which merely aimed at preventing
scandal, led to curious incidents and many transgres
sions. One old Belgian friar, who was afflicted with
chronic thirst and did not find the monastic allowance
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sufficient, used to take the tram regularly to some hotel
just outside the limits of the parish (at Stratford in
East London). A dispensation could only be obtained
by calling together the elders of the community and
asking their collective permission. They were, of
course, always willing to oblige each other and, to do
them justice, even the juniors. In my later monastic
days, when faith waned, I appreciated the arrange
ment. There were friars, however, who drank where
they willed and ignored the rule. Like all other
rules, it was susceptible of many ingenious interpreta
tions, and, finally, the opinion was started that the
whole of the constitutions were invalid.
The mutual intercourse of the friars was limited,
in theory, to the hour’s recreation after dinner. Wine
was only granted by the constitutions about once per
month, and whisky was entirely prohibited. In point
of fact, there were friaries (Manchester, for instance)
in which whisky was given almost every day, and
sometimes three times per day. In most friaries it
was given every Saturday and Sunday evening. At
Forest Gate, partly from greater sobriety, partly (and
very much) from greater poverty, and partly on account
of the presence of students, we only drank wine or
spirits three or four times per week; whisky was
discountenanced, but one friar found port to injure his
tonsils, another complained of liver, another of heart,
&c., so that it was the favourite drink. Smoking also
was prohibited in the monastery; but it was not
difficult to obtain a medical recommendation to smoke,
and the local superior could always distribute cigars
when he willed.
The nature of the recreation has been mentioned
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159
in a previous chapter. We sat and talked over our
coffee for half-an-hour, then discoursed in the garden
for half-an-hour. In some monasteries dominoes,
bagatelle, skittles, &c., were introduced to escape the
necessity for conversation. Cards were forbidden, and
chess was discountenanced (with complete success) on
the ambiguous ground that the friars had no cerebral
tissue to waste on intellectual games.1
The conversation only deserves a word on account
of the curiosity which seems to prevail with regard to
it. Two types of monastic conversation are known
to the general public: the spiritual talk recommended
by monastic writers and the jolly intercourse so dear
to the artist. Both types, and especially the former,
are infrequent in the real life of the friary. Mr.
Dendy Sadler’s pictures of jolly friars may serve to
illustrate their high festivals, but the ordinary con
versation was dull and depressing. Politics had the
largest share in it. All the friars were keen politicians,
though they dare not openly manifest any political
sympathy. They were all Liberals, but for the sake
of argument one or other would attack or defend some
point in an uninteresting way for an hour or so. One
daily paper is allowed in the friary, but no weeklies
or monthlies. Then casuistry gave much matter for
discussion, and points of ritual and canon law were
often debated. Here and there some friar of a higher
intellectual type might broach questions of living
interest, but in those cases the conversation was apt
1 It is a remarkable and mysterious fact that cards were, as far
as my experience went, never seen in a monastery. Speaking quite
literally, I may say that this was the only one of our rules which
we seriously observed.
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to degenerate into a pedantic and not very accurate
monologue. But a vast amount of time was spent,
as has frequently been suggested of them, in the most
painful puerilities. Their sense of humour seems to
undergo an extraordinary degeneration, and the more
rational of them frequently express their disgust at
the character of their “ recreation.” There are one
or two strong personalities who habitually tyrannise
over the friaries in which they are found, and even
contrive at the elections to keep near them one or
two less gifted brethren whom they may bully and
banter at will. As they are men of high authority
and influence, their victims find it expedient to submit
patiently to this constant flight of rudely fashioned
shafts for a year or two; in the end they usually
find themselves elevated to some position to which
their intrinsic merit could hardly have raised them.
For throughout the length and breadth of the
Franciscan Order (and every other order) ambition
and intrigue of office are the most effectual hindrances
to fraternal charity. All officials are elected and fre
quently changed, so that the little province is as
saturated with jealousy and intrigue as a South
American Republic. Every three years a general
election is held, at which the General from Rome is
supposed to preside. The usual course is for the
General (whose real name is “ general servant ” of
the fraternity, but it is usually preferred in the
abbreviated form) to send a deputy to the province
which is about to hold its elections. The deputy,
or “ visitator,” visits all the monasteries in succession
and affords each friar an opportunity, in private con
versation, to submit his personal grievances or his
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161
knowledge of general abuses. Of the former, how
ever, the visitator takes little notice, referring them
to more immediate superiors, and he is usually quite
powerless to correct any general abuse. One of our
English friars was deputed to visit the Irish province
on the occasion of its election some years before my
secession. He did not disguise his intention of making
a special effort to check the flow of whisky in that
province, as he considered it the source of all evil in
modern monastic life; his own particular vanity was
port. We were not a little surprised to find on the
return of our zealous crusader that he had himself
been converted to the seductive spirit, and only the
too openly manifested delight of his numerous enemies
—whom he had persistently denounced at Rome for
ten years as “ whisky-drinkers ”—prevailed upon him
to return to port.
When the visitator has completed the circuit of the
province he summons the members of the higher
council, or “ definitors,” to the monastery where the
election is held. The superiors or “ guardians ” of the
various monasteries then send in their resignations,
together with a declaration on oath by their priests
(if they can get all the signatures), that they have
fulfilled their duty to their community and a full
account of their financial transactions. The guardians
themselves arrive on the following day, and proceed
by a secret ballot to the election of a new provincial,
and his council of five definitors. The guardians then
disperse, and the newly elected council proceeds to
appoint new guardians with their subordinate officers.
Everything is conducted with the utmost secrecy, the
voting papers being burned and pulverised in the
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presence of the voters, and every friar present being
put under oath not to reveal the proceedings. Public
prayers are also commanded for weeks in advance, and
the election opens with a solemn High Mass to the
Holy Spirit; an oath is also taken by the electors that
they will choose those whom they consider the most
worthy.
That is the admirable theory of the election; its
actual course is somewhat different. Before the
solemn imploration of the light of the Holy Spirit
on the election morning the whole scheme has been
practically settled. The province is really an oligarchy,
not an elective democracy. A few abler or older men
form the Definitorium, and there is a sufficiently clear
understanding 1 between them and the guardians to
insure that the guardians will re-elect them and they,
in their turn, will reappoint the guardians. There is
a slight struggle from one or two young Radicals, and
perhaps a new aspirant to a place on the council, but
changes rarely occur. The old definitors are prac
1 The following extracts from a letter written by one monastic
superior to another may be instructive :—
“ . . . they are trying to force me to do what I don’t think fair or
just to my successor . . . but I will not do anything that I deem in
principle mean or unjust to my successor. I say mean, for I deem
it such when guardians to please their superiors send them gifts
which the papal Bulls call bribes, and which several Popes strictly
forbid. But I absolutely refused until compelled by obedience to do
such. Of course I was threatened by the ‘ powers that be ’ that I
would pay for it, etc. ; but I told them over and over again, ‘ I
fear only God and my conscience.’”
Unfortunately there were many who had not the firmness, honesty,
and deep religious spirit of the writer of that letter. [As the writer
is now dead, I will add that the letter was written by the Very Rev.
Father Jarlath, 0. S.F., to myself a few weeks before I left. Second
edition.']
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163
tically sure of re-election, and so on the night before
the electors arrive they have arranged all appointments
under no other spiritual influence than that of a cigar
and a glass of whisky.
For the higher position of provincial—a quasi
episcopate—the intrigue runs much deeper. Votes
are practically bought, by means of minor appoint
ments and other bon-bons, years in advance, and the
province is really severed into factions headed by the
different candidates. There are many friars to whom
these proceedings are very repugnant, but others use
them more or less unscrupulously. I once took a
prominent friar to task for his indulgent treatment of
a notoriously unworthy official. He answered frankly
that the man “ had a vote ”—going on to explain how
necessary it was for the good of the fraternity that
he himself should take the helm at the next election,
however reluctant he felt to do so.
When these facts are considered, in addition to the
jealousy which naturally arises in connection with
preaching, penitents, and the esteem of the laity
generally, it will be understood that life in a friary
is not one of paradisaical monotony. Open conflicts
are rare, but the strained relations between rivals and
their followers frequently find expression in conversa
tion and conference. In fact, the constant suspicion
and caution sometimes lead to very unexpected
phenomena. Thus, a colleague of mine seemed to me
in uncomfortable relations with a large number of friars,
and of one of them he told me a strange story. He
had entered his cell during the friar’s absence and
found a revolver, which he abstracted and destroyed;
he even added that he kept a secret lock on his own
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bedroom door at night, for the ordinary lock is open
to a superior’s master-key, and the friar in question
was a superior and a priest of high reputation.1
Besides the triennial election, called a chapter,
there is a half-chapter every eighteen months in which
many changes take place. The friars do not, how
ever, as a rule, appreciate the variety which is thus
afforded them, for they soon find attachments in a
mission which they are loth to break off. But quite
apart from elections a friar is liable to be ordered off
to a different monastery at any moment. It is related
of the celebrated Duns Scotus that when he received
the order to go from Paris to Cologne, he happened
to be away from the Paris monastery. He at once
set off on foot for Cologne without returning even
to bid good-bye to his brethren. The modern friar
is not so precipitate. His “ obedience,” as the formal
order to remove is called, allows three days to reach
his destination; so that the friar has ample time to
collect his luggage (for in spite of his vow of poverty
every friar has a certain amount of personal property),
and perhaps elicit a testimonial from his pious admirers.
Needless to say, the friar no longer makes his jour
neys on foot, as the founder of the order intended.
There is a precept in the rule that forbids “ riding ”
under pain of mortal sin, and commentators are much
at variance in their efforts to apply it to modern
1 This incident somewhat startled me on re-reading it, but I now
recollect it quite clearly. The two men were two of the most dis
tinguished preachers at our Forest Gate friary, and each tried to
turn me against the other. I leave it to the reader to settle whether
the one who spoke to me of revolvers and secret locks was merely
lying. Third edition.
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165
means of locomotion. Most of them say that the
horse is still gravely prohibited—to ride, that is to
say, for in Belgium we more than once had the
pleasure of eating it; the ass and the camel are not
to be mounted without necessity; and a ship may be
used when the friar has not to pay for his sail. The
railway is a subject of grave theoretical controversy,
but the majority of the pundits are agreed that it may
be used when necessary ; which is a convenient solution.
i In point of fact, the English or American friar takes
1 his cab or ’bus or train without giving a thought to
his rule. He has, at least once in three years, a
holiday of two or three weeks’ duration, and he has
I odd days in the country or at the seaside. He cannot,
I however, leave his own country without special per
mission from Rome.
| The “ obedience,” or formal order to travel, is at
I the same time a mark of identity for the friar when
he arrives at a strange convent. He is always bound
to seek the hospitality of his brethren if they have a
I convent in the town, and the superior’s first care is
to demand his “ obedience,” on which his destination
is marked. This is enjoined as a precaution against
| apostates, and especially against frauds. For even
monastic hospitality has been taken advantage of by
impostors. In Belgium some years ago the imposition
I was attempted on a large scale at one of our friaries.
| A bishop and his secretary presented themselves for
a few days’ hospitality, and were received and treated
I by the friars with the courtesy and attention which
I befitted their rank. There was nothing unusual in the
I occurrence, and the friars were always glad to receive
iso flattering a guest. His lordship said mass daily
G
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with correct episcopal ceremony, and had all the
requisite paraphernalia. After a time, however, a
suspicion was aroused, and when his lordship had
casually mentioned the name of the cardinal who had
consecrated him, a telegraphic communication was
made with Rome, with the result that the impostors
were handed over to the civil authority. At London
we had visitors from all parts of the world, and it
would be difficult to detect an impostor. I remember
one whom we turned out of the monastery after a
few weeks’ hospitality, and no one knows to this
day whether he was a genuine friar or not. He was
a Spaniard, an old man with our brown costume in
his possession, who represented himself as a laybrother from our province of Mexico. He hinted
that a secret Government mission had brought him
to London. He spoke French fluently, and was a
most interesting conversationalist, representing that he
had at one time been a private secretary of Don Carlos
and an active figure in Spanish politics. However,
Fra Carpoforo’s business in London seemed unduly
protracted, and our suspicious superiors politely
recommended him an hotel in the city.
Impostors find great difficulty in penetrating into the
order as novices in modern times, for there are
numerous formalities to comply with. Not only are
his baptismal certificate and a letter from his bishop
necessary, but inquiries are made as to whether there
is any hereditary disease, or insanity, or heresy in his
family, whether he is single and legitimate, and so
with a host of other qualifications. In olden times
anybody who presented himself was admitted to “ the
habit of probation ” without inquiry, and it is a well-
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167
known fact that women have thus obtained entrance
into the monastery and remained in it until their
neath. Several such women are recorded in the
official Martyrology of the Order : a book in which the
memory is preserved of holy friars who have not
attained the supreme rank of canonisation. Their
names were read to us annually.
An amusing case of imposture occurred at Forest
Gate a few years before my secession. A young man
of very smart appearance presented himself at the
monastery and intimated a desire to enter the order
as a lay-brother. He had no credentials, but mentioned
casually one or two friars in other monasteries “ whose
masses he had served.” He represented himself as a
cook, saying that he had been at Charing Cross Hotel
and other places. Without a single inquiry he was
received into the monastery, where he remained for
three weeks, cooking for the brethren and maintaining
a very modest and satisfactory demeanour. On the
third Sunday, however, he vanished with the whole
of the money that had been collected in the church on
that day, and a quantity of clothing, &c., which he
had borrowed. As the Sunday was one of the great
festivals, on which a special collection had been taken
for the friars, the anger of the superior may be
imagined. The police smiled when we gave them a
description of our “ novice.”
G2
�CHAPTER IX
OTHER ORDERS AND THE LONDON CLERGY
It will be readily perceived that the less attractive
features of the life of the Grey Friars, which I have
described, are not due to circumstances which are
peculiar to that order. They are the inevitable result
of forcing a mediaeval ideal on temperaments and in
circumstances that are entirely modern. It will be
expected, therefore, that other monastic congregations,
at least, will present much the same features. The
rules and constitutions of different orders differ as
much as their costumes, and their specific aims—for
each order is supposed to have a distinctive aim to
justify its separate foundation—also differ. But again,
the difference is rather theoretical than practical.
Through the exigencies of their missionary status in
England and the United States,1 they have been
1 As I have mentioned, the hierarchy and the parochial system
are not in their normal condition in ‘ ‘ heretical ” countries. Hence
Dr. Temple was, from the canonical point of view, more correct
than he knew when he-styled the Church of Borne in England
“ the Italian Mission.” The conditions are so exactly parallel in
England and the States, and in the greater part of Canada, that
my experiences may be freely used in estimating monastic life in
America. The American friars I have met were, if anything,
further removed from the ideal of St. Francis than my immediate
colleagues.
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169
brought down to one common level of parochial
activity. Their work differs little from that of the
secular clergy, or the non-Catholic clergy; and the
same curious and half-hearted efforts are made to
maintain their ritual and ascetical peculiarities in the
privacy of the convent as have been described in the
case of the Grey Friars.
It was well known by my colleagues that I was
deeply concerned at the unpleasant condition of my
surroundings for many years before my secession. I
frequently spoke with one distinguished friar on the
subject, and he professed to be in entire accord with
me on the point, and used to deprecate it in even
stronger terms than I. However, suspecting that I
would on that account be tempted to procure a release
from the Franciscan rule and pass to some other order
(for which permission could be obtained), he would
go on to assure me—and he was a man of knowledge
—that every other order, and the secular clergy too,
was in a similarly unsatisfactory condition. As time
went on I found many reasons to acquiesce in the
opinion he gave me. Catholic priests have two weak
nesses in common with the gentler sex—vanity and
love of scandal. One cannot move much in clerical
circles without soon learning the seamy side of different
orders and dioceses. The different dioceses of the
secular clergy are more or less jealous of each other,
and the secular clergy are, as a rule, strongly opposed
to the regulars. Nine secular priests out of ten hate
all monks, and nine priests (of either kind) out of ten
hate the Jesuits. One meets many priests who are
willing to accept the extreme Protestant version of
Jesuitism. Only a few years ago a drama was
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OTHER ORDERS
presented in a theatre at Barcelona, in which were
embodied the bitterest and gravest charges against the
Jesuits; and when the delighted Spaniards called for
the author, a priest in his clerical dress walked to the
footlights. In the presence of laymen, of course, every
branch of sacerdotalism is treated as little less than
angelic; a priest will then, as I have heard them do,
praise a priest he hates. But a few years’ attentive
intercourse with different orders and with the clergy
of several dioceses has taught me to regard all priests
as very human, neither more nor less.
For instance, there were in my time, as was ex
plained in the second chapter, three distinct branches
of the Franciscan Order in England; and the three
sections were as jealous, hostile, and mutually depre
ciatory as three rival missionary societies. A few
years before I left the French colony of friars at
Clevedon advertised for cast-off clothing for their
youthful aspirants for the order; our authorities imme
diately wrote to Rome and got their action reproved
as derogatory to the dignity of the order—the order,
it will be remembered, being a mendicant order, indeed
the most humble of all mendicant orders. The French
friars in their turn disturbed the peace of my colleagues
by securing the patronage of the Duchess of Newcastle
and pitching their tent within a few miles of Forest
Gate; not even inviting us to the foundation of their
church. Another day our friars were exalted at the
news that their Capuchin brethren (the bearded Fran
ciscans) had been forced to sell their Dulwich monas
tery to the Benedictines, and again at the rumour that
the Capuchins (amongst whom, it was said, there had
been a general scuffle and dispersion and that several
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171
of their best men had departed for the American
missions) were likely to be starved into selling their
house at Olton. Both these monastic bodies had the
same manner of life as ourselves, and are, indeed, now
amalgamated with my late colleagues.
Other historic bodies, such as the Dominicans,
Benedictines, and Carmelites, bear much the same
relation to their primitive models, though their mem
bers are more cultured and refined, on the whole, than
my colleagues were. The Protestant surroundings
are held to prevent them from being entirely faithful
to their rules, and once the thin end of the wedge
is in it penetrates very deeply. The modern friars
have too much sense to attempt a full revival of the
thirteenth century. There is a poetry and romance
about the retention of the costume, but its asceticism
and crude religious realism are as antiquated as
feudalism. In olden times every monastery had
quite an armoury of spiked chains, bloody scourges,
thigh-bracelets, hair shirts, &c. In all my experience
I have only seen one such instrument of self-torture.
It was a thigh-bracelet, a broad wire chain, each link
ending in a sharp point that ran into the flesh. It
was rusty enough, though not from the blood of
victims, and it excited as much interest and humorous
comment in the party of monks who were examin
ing it as does a Spanish instrument of torture in the
Tower of London in the crowd of Protestant visitors.
St. Aloysius, the great model of the Jesuits, was so
modest in his relations with the dangerous sex, that he
did not even know his own mother by sight. To shake
hands with a woman is condemned by all monastic
writers as a very grave action. Most Catholic young
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ladies are aware that the modern monk—above all,
the Jesuit—is not at all misogynous.
The Dominicans have several peculiar precepts in
their rule which they are much tempted to think
lightly of; they are entirely forbidden flesh-meat, and
they are always forbidden to talk over dinner. I
have had the pleasure of dining at their large house
at Haverstock Hill on several festive occasions, and
I noticed that they trim the constitution a little by
adjourning to the library for dessert and wine; in
fact, my estimable neighbour did keep up a sotto voce
conversation with me throughout dinner. I heard
a much bolder feat of another Dominican convent.
Their precept directs, I understand, that flesh-meat
must not enter the refectory or dining-room; the good
friars, however, wearied of the daily fish, but saved
their consciences on the days they took meat by
dining in another room. It reminds one of the pious
fraud of the Dublin Carmelites. They secured an
excellent site for a church, but had to surmount an
obstacle raised by a former proprietor. He, it appears,
did not wish a church to be erected on the spot, so
he stipulated that the land should only be sold to a
person or persons agreeing to build a house thereon.
That was too wide a net for a theologian; the Car
melites bought the land, erected a fine church on it,
and a house on top of the church!
I met another curious illustration of this theological
ingenuity at one time in London. A Dominican friar
had been commissioned to raise funds in England for
the conduct of the process of canonisation of a French
priest. He had with him a number of small patches
of black cloth, which were said to be portions of the
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cassock of the holy man. He could not sell these—
the sale of relics is a grave sin in theology—but he
was, like the Spanish Church with its indulgences,
prepared to give one to every Catholic who gave him
ten shillings for the cause. My colleagues made a
friendly calculation that the relics which were being
thus distributed all over the Catholic world were so
large and numerous that they would make a consider
able number of cassocks. Possibly the cloth had
grown, as the Holy Cross did in pre-critical days;
but we further noted that the relics were pieces of
excellent stuff, whereas it was recorded as a particular
proof of the saint’s piety that he always wore an old
and ragged cassock. All this criticism was passed
at the time by priests, for it must not be supposed
that the clergy are as credulous as they like the laity
to be. They know that the manufacture of relics is
a lucrative ecclesiastical industry. The Dominican, in
fact, admitted to us that his relics had merely touched
the original cassock of the saint, and we forced him,
under threat of exposure, to return a half sovereign
a lady had given him.
The Jesuits are the most flourishing body of regular
clergy in England and America, and in every other
civilised or uncivilised nation. The reason of their
success is not far to seek. St. Ignatius bade them*
from the start cultivate the powerful and wealthy and
found colleges for the young. They have been more
than faithful to this part of his teaching, and they
draw numbers of youths from their fine colleges. To
a good supply of men and money they add a rigorous
discipline, and the elements of success are complete.
A famous Roman caricature hits off very happily the
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characteristic feature of the Jesuits and of three other
orders by a play on the words of Peter to Christ.
A Franciscan, Dominican, Augustinian, and Jesuit are
seated at a table of money; the Franciscan repels it
with the words “ Behold we have left all things,”
the Dominican imitates him, “ And we have followed
thee,” the Augustinian strikes an argumentative atti
tude, asking, “ What then? ” and the Jesuit gathers
in the spoils, with the rest of the text, “ remains
for us.”
At the same time they are characterised by a
remarkable esprit de corps which leads to an intense
isolated activity. The glory of the society is para
mount, and always coupled with the glory of the
Church; they never co-operate with other orders, but
they freely cut across the lines of, and come into col
lision with, other ecclesiastical forces. Hence there is
a very strong feeling against them amongst the clergy
and in higher quarters; indeed, one would be sur
prised to find how many priests are ready to agree
with Kingsley and Zola with regard to them. In
considering the accusations that are so commonly
brought against them one must remember how far
the acknowledged principles of Catholic casuistry can
be extended. It is true that the maxim, “ The end
justifies the means,” is denounced by all the theo
logical schools, including the Jesuits, but the rejection
is at times little more than a quibble. An act which
remains intrinsically bad cannot be done for a good
purpose, they say, but every theologian admits that
the “ end ” of an action enters into and modifies its
moral essence; and the act must be a very wicked
one which cannot be hallowed by being pressed into
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the service of the Church Catholic—or of the Society
of Jesus.
Such quibbles as Kingsley attributes to them in
“ Westward Ho! ” are certainly defensible on Catholic
principles and are constantly perpetrated by priests; 1
and I should not be at all surprised if a Jesuit were
to argue himself into accepting the commission which
George Sand attributes to the Jesuit tutor in “ Con
suelo.” Many priests would admit that M. Zola’s
account of their activity, in “ Rome,” is probably cor
rect. I once heard F. Bernard Vaughan, S.J., preach
a sermon on the title “ What is a Jesuit? ” With his
accustomed eloquence he summed up the traditional
idea—the historian’s idea—of a Jesuit, and, in refuta
tion, contented himself with detailing the spiritual
exercises through which the Jesuit so frequently
passes. Although, aided by F. Vaughan’s great thea
trical power and by the operatic performances which
preceded and followed it, the sermon produced con
siderable effect, it was in reality merely a trick of
rhetoric. No one contends that the Jesuit is violating
his conscience in his plots, intrigues, and equivoca
tions; regret is usually felt that he should have been
able to bring his moral sense into such an accom
modating attitude. Every ecclesiastic claims to be
unworldly in ultimate ambition; yet even a pope
would think a lifetime well spent in diplomatic intrigue
for the restoration of his temporal power. All such
activity is easily covered by the accepted principles
of Catholic casuistry.
Still, whatever may have been the policy of Jesuits
1 See afterwards, p. 209.
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in past ages their activity in England at the present
day is patent. In London they have no parish, but
they are continually seeking out the wealthier Catholics
in various parishes and endeavouring to attach them
to their congregation at Farm Street, or send them to
help their struggling missions at Stamford Hill and
Wimbledon. They even penetrated to Forest Gate
in this “ poaching ” spirit, and my colleagues were
greatly agitated when a Jesuit was known to be
about. We usually lost a well-to-do parishioner.
They have thus excited much hostility amongst the
rest of the clergy, but four centuries of bad treatment
from clergy and laity alike have sufficiently inured
them, and only made them more self-contained and
independent. Apart from such petty intrigues for
the advancement of the society there does not seem
to be any deep undercurrent of Jesuit activity in
England at the present time; at Rome, of course,
every congregation and every individual must partici
pate in the great struggle for canonical existence.1
Besides the great orders there are innumerable
minor congregations of regular or monastic priests
represented in London—Oblates of Mary, Oblates of
the Sacred Heart, Oblates of St. Charles, Servites,
Barnabites, Vincentians, Fathers of Charity, Marists,
Passionists, Redemptorists, &c. Most of them have
been founded in recent times by priests who were
eager to promote some particular devotion, and, by
influence or money, succeeded in getting permission
to found congregations embodying their idea. As a
1 See Count Hoensbroech’s “ Fourteen Years a Jesuit ” for some
scathing observations on the English Jesuits.
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rule their ideal is not very ascetic, so that there is
less hypocrisy in their lives; but they also are gener
ally too hard pressed in the inere struggle for existence
to pay much attention to the particular features and
objects of their respective congregations. I knew
little of them, but used to hear my older colleagues
tell with pleasure how Cardinal Manning scornfully
spoke of the Brompton Oratory as “ the hen-coop,”
and how the Benedictines were rent with factions (as
one of them afterwards described in the Pall Mall
Magazine).
Besides the great number of regular clergy—who
would be more aptly styled the “ Irregulars,” both for
a disciplinary reason and in view of their canonical
relation to the rest of the clerical army—there are
the ordinary secular or non-monastic clergy. The
seculars are those who live in the world (sseculum)
and the regulars those who live in convents, under a
rule (regula). The seculars have a similar life to
that of the ordinary non-Catholic clergyman; it has
been fully described in the preceding chapter, for it
is similar to that of the monastic clergy who under
take parochial duties. On Sunday their work is long
and laborious. During the week they visit their
parishioners, and the more attractive amongst their
neighbour’s parishioners (which dangerous practice is
called “ poaching,” and is watched accordingly); take
tea and supper and play cards with them; visit, dine,
and wine with each other; and picnics, parties, enter
tainments, meetings, special services (with luncheons),
visits to the cardinal (after a polite and chilling
invitation called a compareat), and occasional holidays,
help to fill up the inside of the week. They are
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forbidden under pain of suspension to enter a theatre,
or witness theatrical performances of any kind.
They cordially detest the monastic clergy—who
have secured most of the best parishes of the diocese
—but do not object to dining with them on their
festivals. I remember hearing one at a dinner (or
near the close of a dinner) in a friary belonging to
our Franciscan rivals, unburden his mind about monks
in general and our friars in particular, in a way which
would have been w’armly approved by the most loyally
Protestant body. With nuns they are usually on very
good terms; they find pupils and novices for the
convent, and in return are invited to the innumerable
special services, luncheons, entertainments, distribu
tions of prizes, &c., which are equally gratifying to
them and the sisters.
Their circumstances, naturally, differ very widely
in different parishes; as a rule they are not rich. I
have known a priest to reduce his living expenses to
nine shillings per week, and I should think there
are few who have £150 per annum. However, they
live in hopes of better days. The State grant to their
schools has meant a material increase in their personal
income. They, of course, claim it as a relief to their
parishioners, but in point of fact the special collections
they make for their schools are and always were
insignificant.
The cardinal usually assists the poorest missions,
in some of which, as at Ongar in my time, there are
not a score of Catholics; at least Cardinal Manning
did, though Cardinal Vaughan withdrew most of his
predecessor’s allowances. They were more afraid of
having money taken from them by Cardinal Vaughan
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\ than of the contrary, and they filled up their statistical
papers with much ingenuity. Cardinal Manning took
little interest in the incomes and expenditures of his
clergy, but as soon as Vaughan arrived they all re
ceived a detailed form to fill in and return, giving
an account of their receipts and expenses. Unfor
tunately the cardinal made a canonical slip in sending
the same paper to the secular and to the monastic
clergy; the latter are not responsible to him for
their conduct qua monks, but only qua parish priests.
They therefore held an indignation meeting and pro
tested, with the result that a new form had to be
printed which distinguished between their parochial
property and income and their monastic affairs, and
only demanded an account of the former. Needless
to say, the replies were very discreet; it is said that
the Dominicans returned a blank sheet.
On the whole the relation of the secular clergy to
their archbishop 1 may be described as one of goodnatured tolerance. He was not popular in the north,
and he is not popular in the south. He is kind and
affable, and always leaves a good impression after a
visit to a priest. Not so inflexible as his predecessor
—in fact, it is complained that he is too easily influ
enced—he is a prelate of unquestionable earnestness
and sincerity. But he had the misfortune to step
into the shoes of a great man, and he has acted
unwisely in endeavouring to tread in his predecessor’s
footsteps instead of confining his attention to the
1 It is, perhaps, of interest to leave in the text this lengthy
reference to Cardinal Vaughan. It must be understood, however,
that it does not refer to the present Archbishop, of whom I know
nothing. Third edition.
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administration of the archdiocese. The intense activity
which has kept him continually on the move since
he entered the diocese, and which has so rapidly aged
him, has had little or no palpable result, and has
certainly not deepened the attachment of his clergy.
His predecessor remained day after day in his little
room at Carlyle Place; the world came to him and
sought his influence.
Yet with all his activity and the perpetual flutter
ing of aristocratic wings in his vicinity he cannot give
the financial aid to his clergy which his predecessor
did. One of his first cares was to change the existing
financial arrangements, cutting off many allowances
and commanding new contributions. He had a perfect
right to do so; but when, after so many economical
measures, he confessed in his Trinity Sunday pastoral
that he could not reach the income of his predecessor
his clergy felt little sympathy. In the same pastoral
he preached a panegyric of the aristocracy which gave
great offence, and he gave a comparison of the con
tributions of five West End churches and five East
End churches, which was not quite accurate, was
hardly fair, and was certainly impolitic. However,
he has made many wise changes in the distribution
of his clergy and other improvements that Cardinal
Manning had strangely neglected. When the time
comes it will not be a light task to find a worthy
successor to Cardinal Vaughan/
1 The Vaughan family is a remarkable one ; of the seven brothers
six became prominent ecclesiastics. Roger died Archbishop of
Sydney ; Herbert is cardinal; Bernard, the Jesuit, is the first
Catholic preacher in England; Jerome is the founder of a new
order ; Kenelm is a world-wide missionary : John is a monsignore.
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The same may be said of the education of secular
priests as of that of regulars; in fact, the observations
in the preceding chapter apply to the clergy generally.
The classical and mathematical training of the seculars
is slightly better than that of the friars; otherwise
the curriculum is much the same. Their philosophical
and theological studies in the seminary have been
equally disorderly and precipitate. They have had
no serious introduction either to the thought of past
ages (beyond the thirteenth century) or to the living
thoughts of our own day. They read little and know
little beyond the interminable Anglican controversy.
The laity are coerced into literary apathy, and con
sequently the stimulus to study is absent.
About five years ago the cardinal realised that his
priests were not up to date, and that they were really
unable to bring themselves adequately in touch with
modern thought, so he instituted a kind of intellectual
committee to sit upon modern questions, and report
to the majority. A dozen of the better-informed
London priests constituted it, and they met occasion
ally to discuss, especially social questions and the
biblical question. I remember procuring a large
amount of socialistic literature for certain members
who wished to study both sides. When the members
of this new Areopagus had come to a few decisions,
they were to enlighten their less studious or less
leisured brethren by a series of small books. Those
It is said that John attempted a smart aphorism on the family ; he
himself represented thought, Bernard word, and Herbert deed.
When Bernard heard it he caustically added, “ and Jerome
omission." The allusion is to the Catholic classification of sins—
sins of thought, word, deed, and omission.
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books have not yet appeared. The fact that the pro
posed writers (to my knowledge) dare not print their
true ideas on the above problems at present may not
be unconnected with the delay. A Jesuit writer,
about the same time, began a series of explanatory
and very dogmatic articles on the critical question
in the Tablet, but he was immediately cut to pieces
by other Catholic writers. The Jesuits have also
published a series of volumes of scholastic philo
sophy in English. The student will find in them an
acquaintance with modern science and philosophy
which is rarely found in the scholastic metaphysician.
Unfortunately they are little better on the main
lines of argument than a translation of the discarded
Latin manuals. They follow disused shafts of thought
much too frequently to be of value. The more im
portant volumes seem to have been entrusted to the
less important men; and whilst there is much acute
criticism of minor topics, the treatment of the more
profound problems is very unsatisfactory—such theses
as the spirituality of the soul and the existence and
infinity of God being merely supported by the old
worn-out arguments.
What has been said of the perpetual intrigues of
the monastic clergy does not apply so forcibly to the
secular priests. Each monastery is a small world in
itself, and contains nearly as many officers as privates;
to the secular clergy the number of possible appoint
ments is very slight in proportion to their numbers,
and thus the fever of ambition is less widespread.
There is naturally a certain amount of intrigue for
the wealthier parishes, but few of the priests have
any ambition beyond the desire to settle down as
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rector of some comfortable and respectable congrega
tion. In a witty French book a benevolent parent
gives as a supreme counsel to his son who has become
a priest, “ Arrondissez-vous.” A few may then aspire
to the dignity of dean of their district, or to the title
of “ missionary rector.” But so far there is no differ
ence from the clergy of any other denomination; the
genuine Roman fever only begins with the narrow
circle of those who presume to aspire to the title of
monsignore, or even of canon of the diocese. The
dignity of monsignore is not a very significant one;
it may or may not be a reward of merit. Any wealthy
priest of good family may receive it as a mere com
pliment. I know one monsignore who received his,
purple because he had given a few thousand pounds
to my colleagues, and another (a very worthy man, but
painfully commonplace) who got it for his attentions
to a distinguished visitor from Rome.
Even canons, as a rule, are very feeble and harm
less conspirators; they are generally old men, who
are more conspicuous for quantity than quality of
service, but have usually sufficient discretion left to
know that they are not expected to aspire any higher.
In matters of ordinary administration their long ex
perience is often useful to the bishop, with whom
they form the chapter of the diocese, but otherwise
they have not a very grave responsibility. The same
may be said of the titular bishops, or those whose
titles are in partibus infidelium—the “ suffragans ” 1
of the Anglican hierarchy. The cardinal (or any
1 The word has a different meaning amongst Catholics ; a suffragan
is any bishop under an archbishop. All the bishops of England
are suffragcmi to the cardinal-archbishop.
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important bishop) has a number of advisers quite
outside his chapter, experts in canon law, professors
of theology, &c., who are generally mutually hostile
and contradictory, and from their opinions he finally
deduces a course of action.
There is little excitement or intrigue over the
election to an unimportant bishopric. A private
income is as good a qualification as any where the
diocese is small and poor, and no great energy is
required for its administration. When the bishopric
of Clifton fell vacant a few years ago, it was laugh
ingly whispered in clerical circles that the first con
dition required in the candidate was the possession
of the modest private income of <£250 a year. When
an important see is vacant there is more wire-pulling,
both in the locality and at Rome; for the diocese has
not a decisive vote in the election of its bishop. The
canons meet and decide upon three names to send
to Rome as dignissimus, dignior, and dignus. But
the Pope frequently changes the order, and sometimes
(as in Manning’s election) entirely disregards the
ternum.
Thus it is that every prominent ecclesiastic, whether
he be bishop, priest, or monk (for a monk may be
raised to the episcopate without intermediate stages),
is a continuous object of jealous observation and
intrigue, in view of the possible cardinals’ hats or
bishoprics. The state of things described in Purcell’s
“ Life of Manning ” is only exceptional in that the
Church in England is not likely again to have such a
number of able men simultaneously. The jealousy,
hostility, meanness, and persecution therein described
are familiar incidents in the life of every “ great
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'ecclesiastical statesman,” as Manning is most aptly
called. And it must not be imagined that the picture
is at all complete—it is not by any means as darkly
shaded as the reality. No Catholic could in conI science tell all that is handed down in clerical circles
with regard to the relations of Manning, Newman,
Ward, the Jesuits, &c. And although the author
has made a generous concession in the cause of hisI torical truth, the public have not had the full benefit
I of his sincerity. If the book could have been pubI lished in its original form, it would have been much
more interesting, but after spending two years in
purgatorial flames as it did, we must take it with
’ discretion. Some of my colleagues were intimate with
the author’s brother, and gave us continual reports
of the painful progress of the work. About two
I years before its appearance we were told that it was
j finished, and some very spicy letters and anecdotes
' were promised. Then there were rumours of war;
Ithe defenders of Manning, the supporters of Ward,
the Jesuits, and others threatened legal action, and
I the work was much “ bowdlerised.” On the whole,
1 the impression of those who seemed to be in the secret
i was that Newman had been treated by all parties in
J a manner that dare not be made public, and that
■ there were documents kept back which would throw
much discredit upon all other prominent Catholics of
| the period. We must not suppose, however, that
’ Newman was the meek victim of all this intrigue.
| Bishop Paterson, who knew him well, once described
if | him in my presence as “ a tiger by nature, an angel
& B by grace.”
However undesirable such a state of things may
±
J
1 Cl
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be, it is no other than any disinterested person would
expect. The Church cannot change its character in
a day, and its past history, like the history of every
priesthood under the sun, is throughout marred by
such weaknesses. The life of Cardinal Pie in France,
though written by a Catholic for Catholics, gives one
the same impression; the relations of the Irish pre
lates (one of whom is “ primate of Ireland,” and
another “ primate of all Ireland,”) and of the American
prelates are quite analogous; and Rome itself is a
school of diplomacy and intrigue of no gentle charac
ter. Such things are inevitable, and it is a clumsy
device to attempt to conceal them and support the
idea that ecclesiastical dignitaries are only guided by
preternatural influences.
The condition of Catholicism in London is a matter
of anxious discussion, even in clerical circles. As will
be explained subsequently, grave doubts are expressed
as to whether the Church is making any progress at
all in England, and especially in London. Catholic
journals are not unlike Egyptian monuments; they
write large (and in good round numbers) the con
quests of their Church, but they do not see the need
for chronicling its losses. Of converted Anglican
ministers they speak with warmth and eloquence; of
seceding priests they are silent—until some incident
brings them into public notice, when they publish a
series of reckless attacks on them and refuse to insert
their explanations. Once or twice, however, notices
of meetings have crept in at which the opinion has
been maintained by priests that the Church is really
losing, instead of making that miraculous progress
which the average layman believes. Great numbers
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of Catholics imagine that as soon as the Church of
England is disestablished 1 and thus thrown directly
upon the support of the people it will vanish almost
immediately. I once heard Bishop Paterson explain
that it was undesirable to work for disestablishment
just yet, because we Catholics really had not nearly
sufficient accommodation for the vast flood of converts
that would ensue; we should be quite disorganised.
In point of fact there should be now about a quarter
of a million Catholics in London, whereas the Daily
Nezes census shows that only 90,000 attend church,
and the total number cannot therefore be more than
120,000. Throughout England the ratio of the
Catholic population is about 1 in 20, but it is much
higher in Lancashire, much lower in London and other
places. In Cardinal Manning’s time the figures were
vague and disputable. When Cardinal Vaughan came
down in a hurricane of zeal a census was made of the
archdiocese; but the exact figures only established the
truth of the pessimistic theory. It wras thought that
Catholicism did not really know its strength, and that
it would be well to proclaim its formidable statistics
to the world; but when the result of the census was
known, it was whispered indeed from priest to priest,
but with a caution that the cardinal did not wish to
see it in print.
I have not seen the exact figures—I do not suppose
they ever passed the archbishop’s study in writing—■
but I was informed by reliable priests that out of the
small Catholic population of London between 70,000
1 A Catholic is bound in conscience to desire—to work for, if
possible—the disestablishment of the Anglican Church: then he is
equally bound to work for the establishment of his own.
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and 80,000 never went near a church—had practic
ally abandoned the Church. I have explained that
the positive ceremonial obligations (to hear mass) of
a Catholic are so grave that a continued neglect of
them puts a man outside the pale of the Church.
Most priests can ascertain with some confidence how
many nominal Catholics there are in their district—
that is to say, how many ought to be Catholics by
parentage, baptism, education, &c. By subtracting
from this the average number of attendances at mass
on Sunday (an obligatory service) they should have
the number of renegades. So, also, the priest can
make a minimum calculation from his school-children
—multiply the number of children by five, and you
have the population (though in some places many
Catholic children attend Board Schools); and the
number of marriages affords a maximum indication.
Disagreeable as the general statement is, a few
details will show that it must be rather under than
over the truth. The priest, as a rule, likes to give as
roseate an account as possible of his flock, so that in
the aggregate there is probably a great loss in point
of accuracy. In the parish of Canning Town in East
London there are about 6000 nominal Catholics; 5000
of these never come near the church. I was dining
with F. Hazel the day the form to be filled arrived,
and saw him write it. We measured the church and
found that, filling the doorsteps and arch ledges, it
would not contain more than 400; certainly not a
thousand, mostly children, came to mass on Sundays,
and Easter confessions were proportionate. A question
was asked, How many of your youths (15-21) attend
their duties? About five per cent, was the answer.
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The income of the parish was deplorable; the vast
territory it embraces is full of poor Irish families
who live less religiously and not more virtuously than
pagans.
At Barking there are more than 200 children in
the schools, and the number is not at all complete,
and there are not more than fifty adults who attend
church; at Grays there is the same condition. A
few years ago a zealous priest, F. Gordon Thompson,
determined to start a mission in a neglected part of
East London—Bow Common ; his aim was necessarily
small, he could only hope to take care of the children
of nominal Catholics. In the first three streets he
visited he found 120 such children, and could go no
further; their parents he could not attempt to gather.
He told me that there were several other localities in
East London in precisely the same condition. In fact,
every parish in East London counts at least hundreds
of drifted Catholics. The circumstance is by no means
confined to poor districts, but it is more noticeable
in them; ecclesiastics are naturally slow to undertake
and prosecute such unremunerative toil.
In the light of these details it will not be wondered
that there is so great a leakage from the Church that
the “ converts ” do not nearly fill the vacant space.1
I have thought for many years, and have been confirmed in the opinion by many colleagues, that for
1 I have since made careful research into the matter, and more
than established the truth of this. My conclusions are given in an
article in the National Review for August 1901, and especially in
my “ Decay of the Church of Rome ” (1909), where I have shown
that the Church of Rome has lost at least two million and a
quarter followers in England alone during the nineteenth century.
Third edition.
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OTHER ORDERS
the last twenty years at least the Church of Rome
has made no progress in England, but has probably
lost in numbers, taking into account, of course, the
increase of a generation, The Church has made a
considerable number of converts, and it would be
foolish to question the earnestness of a large propor
tion of them. At the same time the majority of them
are of such a class that the change has no deep
religious significance. There are thousands of ordinary
people whose only convictions, such as they are, regard
certain fundamental points of Christianity, and who
are drawn into one or other sect by the merest accident
•—by contact with a zealous or particularly affable
proselytiser, by the influence of relatives, by kindness,
taste, and a host of non-religious considerations. In
fact it is only too clear (and not unnatural) that many
associate with the Church of Rome out of purely
aesthetic considerations. It is well known that many
of the much vaunted converts of Farm Street and of
Brompton are simply aesthetes, who are attracted by
the sensuous character of the services.
Matrimonial considerations are also very powerful
agents in the cause of the Church. Many Catholic
priests and families insist upon “ conversion ” before
admitting a non-Catholic to matrimonial relation.
The only “ convert ” I am responsible for was a young
lady who was engaged to be married to a Catholic;
she drank in my instructions like water, never find
ing the slightest intellectual difficulty; and a few
years afterwards, being jilted by him, she happily
returned to Anglicanism with the same facility. One
of my colleagues was summoned to attend a Catholic
who was seriously ill. The wife met him at the door,
�OTHER ORDERS
191
tai and asked him to “ be careful, because her husband
J was only a marriage-convert.” When inter-marriage
Jis allowed, the Church exacts several promises in her
i!favour; all children of the marriage must be brought
l III up Catholics, the non-Catholic partner must promise
i at not to interfere in any way with the religion of the
! Catholic parent and children—and then the Catholic
is separately bound to do all in his or her power to
convert the other.
Schools, too, are proselytising agencies. In board
ing-schools kept by nuns, to which Protestant girls
J are frequently sent, it is regarded as a sacred duty to
»q influence the children as much as possible, no matter
tljwhat promises are made to the parents. Elementary
,d public schools are not only the most effective guardians
J of their own children, but also help to extend Catholic
.^influence. Like the consideration which has been pre>i|viously mentioned, it is not one to which the clergy
iggive political prominence, but it is certainly an
jbimportant item in their secret programme.
�CHAPTER X
COUNTRY
MINISTRY
After four years’ experience of the life which has
been described in the preceding pages, I was not un
willing to find some means of escape. Besides the
uncongenial environment in which I found myself, my
religious troubles had increased every year, until at
length I found myself consciously speculating on the
possibility of being ultimately forced to secede. The
prospect was naturally very painful and alarming, and
I resolved to use every honourable means to avert it.
However, in the increasing cares of the ministry I
could not secure the necessary time for sustained
study. I was relieved from monastic duties, and also
from parochial work, on account of my professorship :
I never visited or received visitors until the last six
months of my monastic career. Still, as preacher,
confessor, instructor, and professor, I was continually
distracted and failing in health, and I eagerly grasped
an opportunity of retiring from London.
The authorities of our province had at length
decided to take action for the improvement of our
studies, and F. David was directed to found a new
college for the preparatory studies. He had a large
but vague idea that the college was ultimately to be
192
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
193
connected with Oxford University, and sent down a X
friar of high reputation for economy to make inquiries
in that region. However, no land could be obtained
at their price nearer than Buckingham, and there the
friar established himself.
The friar lived in the vicinity during the progress
of the building, which was erected principally on
borrowed funds, as is usual with Roman Catholic in
stitutions. Knowing that the financial prospects of
the college were precarious, the good friar set himself
to live with great economy and store up a little against
the opening of the establishment. He had an excel
lent reputation for economy already : he knew all the
halfpenny ’buses in London, and patronised shops
where a cup of tea could be had for a halfpenny.
However, he surpassed himself at Buckingham. He
read by the light of a street lamp which shone in at
his window (thus saving the cost of oil), had no
servant, and achieved the fabulous feat of living on
sixpence per day 1 during a long period. Being forced
at length to keep a lay-brother he chose a poor little
ascetic who, he knew, was only too eager to find a
superior who would allow him to starve himself on
orthodox principles.
When at length it was deemed expedient to remove
the zealous friar to another part of England, he had
saved the sum of <£100. This he left to his successor,
who, accordingly, in recording his disappearance in the
“ Annals ” of the new college, added that he deserved
great praise for the efficient state in which he left the
mission. But the newcomer had quite a different
1 The diet was bread, beer and coffee, and tinned meat. Foi
feast-days he used a special meat which cost a penny per tin more.
�194
COUNTRY MINISTRY
theory of life. He agreed with Francis of Assisi that
it was irreverent to make provision for the morrow;
and so he made himself comfortable in the little
cottage they had rented, and religiously trusted to
Providence for the future of the college. The income
was also doubled through a kind of chaplaincy to the
Comte de Paris which he undertook, yet when I suc
ceeded him my legacy consisted mainly of wine and
spirit bills (paid) and empty bottles.
In the meantime the councillors were again at
loggerheads over the choice of a rector. F. David
had asked me to volunteer for the post, and, for the
reasons already given, and from a sincere desire to
help in reforming our studies, I did so. Subsequent
proceedings, however, disgusted me to such an extent
that for a time I refused to take it, and several
authorities, knowing that I would now have to work
in the face of much intrigue and secret opposition,
wished to save me from it. I was finally appointed,
and entered upon my duty willingly and with earnest
and honest purpose. I had incurred the bitter but
secret hostility of those who were ostensibly respons
ible for my financial success; I knew that the province
was almost universally hostile to the new foundation;
my parish, of some twelve miles in extent, contained
only three poor Catholics; and I had eight pupils who
paid between them the collective sum of <£80 per
annum. I had now entered the troubled waters of
ecclesiastical intrigue, and I give a few details in
illustration of that interesting experience.
Immediately after my arrival the cabinet ministers
of the fraternity—who had prudently sent me a ten
pound note in advance—came to the college to hold a
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
195
two days’ conference. During those two d«iys the
little college resounded with loud but, unhappily, in
articulate discourse. When it was over I demanded
instructions from the provincial, a worthy but obtuse
old friar, who, by some curious freak of diplomacy,
had been pushed into the highest position. He blandly
replied that he had no instructions for me. I (aged
twenty-seven) was to be chief professor and rector,
superior of the house, instructor of the lay-brothers,
parish priest—everything, in short; with carte blanche
to make any regulations, programme of study, or
domestic discipline that I desired. I was even free
to adopt or not the “ closure ” (excluding ladies). I
then turned to the delicate financial question, and was
promptly assured that the whole of this responsibility
had been undertaken by one of the definitors. I
afterwards ascertained that neither the provincial nor
the other councillors had any idea of the financial con
dition of the institution. I warned him that the
definitor in question was known to be anxious for my
ruin and humiliation (for my spiritual good), and that
the others could not shift their responsibility. He
smiled, shrugged his shoulders, and departed. I never
saw him again.
Under these auspicious circumstances I opened the
college of St. Bernardine, a large and handsome build
ing, in spacious grounds just outside Buckingham, in
October 1895. During the five months I remained
there I received no help from the friar of whom they
had spoken; at the end of the time he stood in my
debt. I knew that he had another and more docile
candidate waiting for the rectorship, and that he had
openly expressed his intention of letting me “ sink.”
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COUNTRY MINISTRY
However, other friars came to my assistance, and I
left the college comparatively prosperous when I
abandoned it.
I had one associate in teaching, a young and kindly
but ignorant priest, so that a curious assortment of
classes fell to my lot. I taught Latin grammar,
French, Euclid, algebra, physics, and a little Greek.
And the difficulty of educating the boys was increased
by my complete ignorance of the term they were to
remain under me. I remonstrated with the authorities
in vain; they were in utter discord themselves, and
left everything to chance. Some of them hoped that
the institution would fail. To enliven still further
the monotony of our country life there was a revolt of
the two servants or lay-brothers, occasioned by my
checking their beer accounts. They were both older
than myself, selfish, unsympathetic, and impatient
of discipline. The authorities refused to remove
them.
At the same time the bishop of the diocese was
piteously calling my attention to the condition of the
district, and putting a new charge on my shoulders.
There was evidently more duplicity on this point. I
was informed that there was no parish attached to
the college; the bishop understood that there was,
and had promised me a map of it. It mattered little,
for the “ parish *’ would consist of an enormous extent
of territory containing three Catholics known and three
or four suspected. The town of Buckingham (con
taining 3000 inhabitants) boasts of one Roman Catholic,
who, with rustic diplomacy, attended early service at
the parish church and mass afterwards at the college.
He was my gardener. The whole diocese of North
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
197
ampton is a spiritual desert to the Catholic mind. It
is the most extensive in England, yet contains only
a few thousand Catholics.
At Buckingham I was expected to re-kindle the
light of the ancient faith in a very short time. My
predecessors had left glowing accounts of the ripeness
of the harvest. But I soon found that the easy
tolerance, if not cordiality, of the townsfolk had quite
a different meaning. The presence of the French
soi-disant royal family had done much to remove the
unreasonable prejudice against Catholics which is
found in many agricultural districts. Stowe House
had been the chief support of the little town; and
when the Orleanist family departed, after the death
of the Count, the town was prepared to receive with
open arms any institution that would help to fill the
void in its commerce. The college was built just at
that moment, and as my colleagues predicted for it
a rapid and unlimited growth, it was warmly wel
comed by the inhabitants, who, no doubt, religiously
steeled their hearts at the same time against its assumed
proselytising purpose. In fact, I found that one or
two men who had been noted by my predecessors as
likely to prove the first and easiest converts were con
firmed agnostics who had keenly enjoyed the simplicity
of my predecessors. It was soon felt that I was not
of a proselytising disposition—apart from the insecurity
of my own position, I am afraid that I never sufficiently
realised the gravity of the condition of our Anglican
neighbours—and the college worked in complete
harmony with the Protestant clergy and laity of the
vicinity.
Of my own diocesan colleagues I hardly made the
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COUNTRY MINISTRY
acquaintance. The nearest priest of my own diocese
was at a distance of twelve miles to the south; the
next, fourteen miles to the north; and there, as else
where, the secular clergy do not fraternise with monks.
I was now, however, bound to put in an appearance
at the casuistry conferences which are held periodic
ally, as has been explained. A diocese is divided into
deaneries, and the rectors are summoned every month
to a conference at the dean’s residence. A programme
is printed for each year in which a casus—an incident
for moral diagnosis and prescription—is appointed for
each conference; a few questions are added which
serve to elicit the principles of casuistry on which the
“ case ” must be solved. A priest is appointed to
read the case, solve it, and answer the questions at
each meeting; all are then invited by the dean or
president to express their opinions in turn, and, as the
casus is usually very complicated, a long discussion
generally follows.1 Nearly every point in casuistry is
disputed, and arguments are abundant in the modern
Latin manuals—Lehmkuhl, Ballerini, Palmieri, &c.
The final decision rests with the president.
A conference in a populous diocese is a very exciting
ceremony; rival schools of theology are represented,
1 The casus are always in Latin : the following may serve as
a specimen :—Titius steals a watch from the person of a cleric in
church. This he sells to Caius, and nothing further is heard of
him. The priest at length identifies his watch in the possession of
Caius and claims it, satisfactorily proving it to be his property.
Caius refuses to return the watch until his money is returned and
the thief cannot be traced.
Q. 1. How many kinds of sacrilege are there ?
Q. 2. How many sins did Titius commit ?
Q. 3. How is the case to be solved ?
Such a case would provoke hours of controversy.
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
199
young priests are pitted against old ones, and the
more ambitious are eager to make an impression. But
at Northampton our conference was very tame. Only
t ten priests could be assembled out of a very wide
territory, and they were far from being brilliant theo
logians. A desultory and not very instructive con
versation ensued after the case had been read, and in
the middle of it the bell rang for lunch, which seemed,
of the two, to be the more important function for
which we were convened.
The life of a priest in a country parish is usually
very dull and monotonous; in our diocese it was not
unlike the life of a foreign missionary, so few Catholics
there were in the vast territory. I had one parishioner
in the town, a poor ignorant creature whose faith was
very closely connected with his works; another at a
distance of four miles, who was a doubtful acquisition
to the Church; a third, five miles away, who patiently
submitted to being called a Catholic; and a fourth, or
rather an excellent family, about eight miles away,
who had been effectually scared from us by my prede
cessors. The three or four mythical Catholic harvest
I men and washerwomen, whom a diocesan tradition
& located somewhere within the limits of my twelve-mile
district, I never met in the flesh. Most of the other
priests in the diocese had rather more souls to care
af for, but rarely sufficient to provide a maintenance.
SThey were poor, and could not travel much; they had
few parishioners with whom they could have congenial
intercourse; they were widely separated from each
other, and had neither books nor inclination to study.
The life of an Anglican clergyman in a small country
parish is not one to be envied: a priest has the
1
H 2
�200
COUNTRY MINISTRY
additional disadvantage of no family, and usually
hostile neighbours.
When I had at length introduced a certain amount
of method into the college and of discipline into my
small community, my thoughts reverted to the per
sonal object I had in view in leaving London. Surprise
is often expressed that the number of seceders from
the Roman Catholic priesthood is not higher. Apart
from the fact that few people know the number of
seceders, as will appear presently, a little reflection
on two points, which I have already adduced, will
help to explain the matter. In the first place, the
philosophical and theological studies of the priest have
been stunted, one-sided, and superficial. Very few
of the clergy have continued the work at a university,
and even there the studies would again be narrow and
superficial. They plunge into active parochial work
immediately after their ordination; they have no
stimulus to, and little continuous time for, study—
except a little casuistry—while, on the other hand,
there is ample opportunity and pressing invitation to
dissipate their time and wits in agreeable trivialities.
Under such circumstances they feel disposed to regard
Wellhausen and Kuenen (or even Sayce and Cheyne),
Huxley and Spencer, White and Draper, and even
Protestant divines, as so many literary hedgehogs.
Their scholastic system was plausible enough when the
professor urged it upon them, and they give no
further thought to the subject. Add to this the fact
that most of them are Irish, and the buoyant Celtic
temperament does not take religious doubt very
seriously; no one knows into what depths of study
or seas of trouble it may lead. In the educated lay-
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
201
x | man that temperament is sceptical enough, though it
i i is a careless, lighthearted scepticism, not obtrusive and
not very consistent; in the priest the same disposition
11 leads to a natural reluctance to take any steps that
may involve a violent dislocation, and carries with it a
habit of deprecating a Quixotic effort to attain mathenj matical precision and consistency of thought.
And if it happens that doubts do enter into the
minds of the clergy (and in familiar intercourse with
them one soon finds that they are not uncommon—1 I have sometimes heard priests openly express the
CT most cynical scepticism), what time has the ordinary
$ priest to make a sincere and protracted study of his
<) opinions? With all my privileges and opportunities
il for study, it cost me the better part of ten years of
ct constant reading and thought to come to a final and
ct reliable decision. The fact that the actual seceders
dj from the Church are usually men who have had
special opportunity and a marked disposition for study
si is significant enough; the fact that few emerge from
I| the ordinary ranks of the clergy with convictions firm
!1 enough to face the painful struggle of secession should
)fl not be surprising. Active external occupation banishes
» doubt from consciousness. To deliberately resort to it
oj for that purpose would be dishonest; few men would
uj subscribe to the Catholic rule, that doubt must be
suppressed at once, yet it is the ordinary fate of the
I clergyman. I experienced a relief myself during the
initial labours for my college, but once my work
dropped into some kind of routine, the old questions
reappeared, and I determined to answer them, cost
what it might.
My doubts were of a philosophical and fundamental
I
1
�202
COUNTRY MINISTRY
character. I had felt that, until the basic truths of
religion were firmly assented to, the Anglican con
troversy had little interest for me, and even the biblical
question was of secondary importance. Accordingly
most of my time from my first introduction to philo
sophy was spent, directly or indirectly, in investigating
the fundamental problems. I had read all the litera
ture which could possibly be of use to me in forming
my judgment, and I had been guided (as far as he
could do so) by a man who is thought most competent
for that purpose. All that remained was to survey
the evidence as it had accumulated in my memory, and
form a severe and well-weighed decision upon it. I
drew up on paper the points round which my doubts
centred, and added from memory all the arguments I
had met in my protracted search. I was not at all
influenced by hostile writers, of whom I had read very
little, and I had never discussed the questions with
any non-Catholic. The sole question was, Is the evi
dence I have collected satisfactory or not? During
the Christmas vacation I settled resolutely to my task,
and uninterruptedly, all day and half the night, I
went solemnly back over the ground of my studies.
Point by point the structure of argument yielded
under the pressure. Before many days a heavy and
benumbing consciousness weighed upon me that I was
drifting out into the mist and the unknown sea. And
it was on Christmas morning, 1895, after I had cele
brated three masses, while the bells of the parish
church were ringing out the Christ-message of peace,
that, with a great pain, I found myself far out from
the familiar land—homelessly, aimlessly drifting. But
the bells were right, after all; from that hour I have
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
203
been wholly free from the nightmare of doubt that
had lain on me for ten years.
The literature that I had studied during the preced
ing years was principally Latin and French. I had,,
naturally, looked for evidence in the vast arsenal of
Catholic apologetics, and though my study has been
greatly extended since, I am not sure that any dia
lectically firmer evidence is available. The Kantist and;
Hegelian philosophies, and all that is grounded on;
either or both, Green, Fiske, Lotze, Royce, Caird, have?
left me untouched. The philosophy of the Scotch
school, from Reid to Hamilton, is only plausible in so*
far as it is Aristotelic, and therefore a repetition of
the scholastic system. Martineau also is unwittingly
scholastic in his better passages, and he is too much
disposed to that “ extra-rational ” proof which ap
pealed to Mr. Romanes in his later years : for my part,
I would not take a single serious step in this life on
extra-rational proof, and I fail to see why it is a surer
guide to the next. Thus I came to attach most im
portance to the schoolmen and the writers who adapt
their principles to modern thought. I studied with
extreme care St. Thomas, St. Bonaventure, Scotus,
Suarez, Vasquez, Pontius, Herinx, and a host of other
veterans; also an infinity of smaller modern writers*
Tongiorgi, Sanseverino, Lepidi, Pesch, Moigno,
Zigliara, Rosmini, Lacordaire, Monsabre, Zahn, Het
tinger, &c.
Amongst English Catholic literature there was littleto be read. In my younger days I had been taught
to shelter myself under the authority of the great
Newman: it was a very few years before I found that
that was rather a compromising position for a philo
�204
COUNTRY MINISTRY
sopher. There is an old adage in the schools that “ in
philosophy an authority is worth just as much as his
arguments, and no more.” Newman is the last guide
in the world to choose in philosophical matters. The
key to his line of thought is found in the inscription
(epitaph, one feels tempted to say) of his one philo
sophical work, “ The Grammar of Assent ”—a text
from St. Ambrose, “ Not by logic hath it pleased God
to save His people.” Newman was penetrated with
that edifying sentiment, hence it is not surprising to
find how faithfully he acts upon it in constructing the
existence of God and the divinity of Christ. His one
witness to God’s existence is conscience (he says in
one of his sermons that without it he would be an
atheist), and under his ceaseless attentions conscience
becomes a faculty which few ordinary human beings
will recognise. His treatment of it is anything but
scientific; it is highly imaginative and grossly anthropo
morphic. The text from St. Ambrose is principally
intended as a gauntlet for his rival, Dr. Ward; still,
it is true that Newman had a profound contempt for
metaphysics, and, like most people who much despise
it, had no knowledge whatever of that science. It is
usually assumed that Newman was a traditionalist,1
but his poetical and unscientific method seems rather
attributable to a wholesome dread of Kant; not that
he shows evidence of intimate acquaintance with
Kant’s Critique, but he seems to have been vaguely
convinced that Kant had undermined all metaphysical
1 Traditionalism was an important heresy within the bounds
of the Church, which was effectually extinguished. It reprobated
entirely the use of reason in supra-sensible matters and advocated
authority as the sole guide.
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
205
research, and his own splendid literary power enabled
him to make a plausible defence of his opinions with
out the aid of philosophy. He is obviously no guide
for a serious scientific mind.
His rival, Dr. Ward, also a prominent figure in the
Oxford Movement, was the very antithesis of New
man. Newman used to speak contemptuously of the
“ dry bones ” of Ward’s logic, and evidently con
sidered that his own works clothed them and made
them attractive. Ward was an able dialectician, a
subtle metaphysician, and a vigorous writer. His
“ Philosophy of Theism ” is the best English defence
of the scholastic philosophy, but is incomplete. J. S.
Mill was leading him to the critical points of the
system in a famous controversy, but it ended pre
maturely with Mill’s death.
Dr. Mivart was certainly the most influential writer
on the Catholic side of his day, and the most competent
to discuss the eternal problems in the light in which
they presented themselves to the nineteenth century.
Issuing, as he did, from the Darwinian school, it is
natural to find in him a breadth of view and serious
ness of treatment that distinguish his works from those
of clerical apologists. But Mivart was no meta
physician ; hence his psychological criticism of Dar
winism—his chief original contribution—rests on the
enumeration of striking points of difference between
animal and human faculties which are losing their
force with every advance of science, and may yet be
fully harmonised. On other points, such as the free
dom of the will, the evolution of ethics, and the origin
of the universe, he is extremely feeble; and he has a
disposition to waste his strength upon the criticism
�306
COUNTRY MINISTRY
•of accidental phases and features of monism and
•agnosticism rather than upon their essential destruc
tiveness. He himself unconsciously gave me the key
to his position some time after I left the Church. In
a genial talk at the Oriental Club he admitted that he
•had little or no belief in even the most distinctive
•dogmas of the Church. He literally laughed at the
■doctrine of the miraculous birth of Christ. “ Do they
really teach that in the seminaries? ” he asked. What
the limits of his scepticism were he seemed hardly to
.know himself. Nor was this a mere failure of his
later years; it was a mature and resolute attitude.
Mivart was then (two years before his death) in full
•vigour of mind and will. Yet I hasten to add that his
position was perfectly honest, and I appreciated it, as
he appreciated mine. He thought the Church of
Rome the greatest spiritual force in existence, and so
he would remain in it and help to remove the stress
it lays on belief. There are still many like him in
the Church, even amongst the clergy; there are many
in every Church to-day. But such a position accounts
for the weakness of his arguments on specific doctrines.
Of the Jesuit writers and their series of volumes on
‘scholastic philosophy I have already spoken. Father
■Clarke and Father Maher are able and informed
writers. They have passed some sound criticism on
certain aspects of opposing systems, but they condemn
themselves to futility by their Quixotic defence of the
•arguments of St. Thomas and the medieval philosophy.
'Of the Jesuit popular writers it is difficult to speak
with politeness. Mr. Lilly belongs to the Platonic or
•sentimental group of apologists. Of Father Zahm
•and other lingering representatives of the school for
�COUNTRY MINISTRY
207
harmonising religion and science little need be said
beyond recalling the fate of their predecessors. Car
dinal Manning’s essay in apologetics hardly calls for
mention. He was a man of action, not of speculation
—certainly not a philosopher. His cast of mind is
well illustrated by his words to one who was urging
certain scientific statements in conflict with Genesis;
without listening to them he blandly replied, like the
Anglican bishop whom Mr. Stead consulted about the
statements of the higher critics: “I don’t believe
them.”
I had now exhausted every possible means of con
firming myself in my position, and failed to do so.
Apart from the fact that at that time it seemed to
me that the loss of a belief in immortality made life
irremediably insipid, I had fearful practical difficulties
to expect if I seceded. I had every prospect of suc
cess in my position, or, if I preferred, I could have
passed to the ranks of the secular clergy without diffi
culty. I consulted many friends and strangers, and I
was confirmed in my resolution to terminate my sacer
dotal career, allowing a few weeks for possible change
of thought. As the manner of my secession curiously
illustrates certain features of Roman Catholic methods
and the general question of secession, I describe it at
some length in the following chapter.
�CHAPTER XI
SECESSION
The Catholic layman has usually a fixed belief in
the absolute integrity of his priesthood. He may
entertain a suspicion of avarice, or indolence, or
worldliness with regard to certain individuals, but in
point of faith and morality he is quite convinced of
the invulnerability of his pastors. At wide intervals
a few may be found who are acquainted with the fact
of a secession, but the report is usually confined with
great care to the locality, and the Catholic press—
proof against all the ordinary temptations of the
journalist, when the honour of the Church is at stake
carefully abstains from disseminating the unwelcome
news. Thus there are few laymen who know of more
than one secession, and who are prepared to admit
the possibility of a serious and conscientious withdrawal
from their communion. Indeed, there are few priests
who know that there have been more than a very
few secessions from their ranks, so carefully are such
events concealed wherever it is possible.
The secrecy is, of course, not the effect of accident,
for such incidents are not devoid of public interest,
and are matters of very deep concern to the Catholic
body. The Roman Church claims such a monopoly
of demonstrative evidence that it receives a check when
208
�SECESSION
209
its credentials are rejected by one who is so familiar
with them; it is—or would be, if it were frankly
admitted—a flat contradiction of their persistent teach
ing that their claims only need to be studied to be
admitted. Hence the ecclesiastical policy is to conceal
a secession, if possible, and, when it is made public,
to represent it as dishonest and immoral. My own
position would not for a moment be admitted to be
bona fide. The gentler of my colleagues seem to
think that a “ light ” has been taken from me for
some inscrutable reason, whilst others have circulated
various hypotheses in explanation, such as pride of
judgment, the inebriation of premature honours, &c.
But of some of my fellow-seceders I had heard, before
I left the Church, the grossest and most calumnious
stories circulated; pure and malicious fabrications they
were, simply intended to throw dust in the eyes of
the laity and to make secession still more painful. The
majority of priests, when questioned by Catholics about
a secession, will simply shake their heads and mutter
the usual phrase: “ Wine and women.”
But in the first instance every effort is made to
keep secession secret, even from clerics. I have
mentioned a case in the note on page 60 which is, I
think, known only to a small number of ecclesiastics;
the dignitary in question had not discharged any public
function for some years, hence his disappearance was
unnoticed. I elicited the fact with some difficulty,
and was earnestly begged not to divulge it further.
On another occasion at Forest Gate, I was asked to
accompany a canon, who was giving a mission there
at the time, to a certain address in the district.
Noticing an air of secrecy about the visit, and a desire
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SECESSION
on the part of the good canon that I should remain
outside, I entered the house with him, and found that
it was occupied by an “ apostate ” priest. So much I
learned by accident, but neither the canon nor my own
colleagues would give me the slightest information
about him. I never heard of him before or since,
and know nothing of his character: I merely mention
the incident as an illustration of the concealment of
secessions.
And not only is silence enjoined, but deliberate
falsehoods are told with regard to seceders. One of
our superiors at Forest Gate seceded or “ apostatised.”
My colleagues deliberately told our parishioners that
he had gone on the foreign missions—some of them,
under pressure, giving details as to his destination;
though they knew that he had only retired to Southendon-Sea with the contents of the fraternal purse. I
OA1J.
efPIajned that ^ese are not looked upon
as falsehoods by Catholic theologians. The case given in the text
is a more direct deception than usual; generally they are quibbles
and equivocations which are covered by their remarkably elastic
principles of mental reserve and of the necessity of avoiding scandal.
Here is another illustration
.
I was informed one day at Forest Gate that one of my students
had lodged a complaint against me with certain higher superiors,
lhe accusation was entirely erroneous ; the student had been de
ceived by another, and I desired to undeceive him by explaining
1 accosted him immediately, and asked him if he had been com
plaining about me. He not only emphatically denied it, but
endeavoured, by his manner, to give me the impression that it was
the last thing in the world he would dream of. When I told him
of the superior’s words, he coolly replied that I had no right to
question him, so he was at liberty to deny it. He was a welleducated ma.n of thirty, the son of an Anglican minister, and,
before he joined us, a man of honour and courage. He had been
instructed to act as he did by the priests (hostile to me) with
whom he had lodged the accusation.
�SECESSION
211
was myself informed for a week that he had gone
on the foreign missions, so that I could be relied
upon not to spoil the story. I believe that even the
cardinal was ignorant of the event, as a year afterwards
his brother made inquiries of me as to the fate of the
friar in question, of which he evidently knew nothing.
In these ways is the fiction of the preternatural
integrity of the Catholic clergy maintained. How
many priests have seceded from the Church in England
it is impossible to say, but they are certainly more
numerous than is usually supposed. They mingle
quietly with the crowd, and rarely even come to know
each other.1 Many of them, such as Dr. Washington
Sullivan, Dr. Klein, Dr. Wells, Mr. Addis, Mr.
Hutton, Mr. Law, Mr. Galton, Mr. Sydney, or
Mr. Hargrave, are men of scholarly attainments, and
of high repute in the various bodies with which they
have associated.
If it is thought that the number is not large in
proportion to the number of priests in England, it must
be remembered that their education, literary acquire
ments, and subsequent occupation are not of a nature
to unsettle their minds very seriously. But a still
more serious circumstance is the peculiarly painful
nature of the breach with the Church of Rome. A
1 In the first edition I said that I was “ acquainted with a
dozen, but there may be a greater number.” By this time (1903)
I have heard of from forty to fifty secessions of priests in this
generation in England. I published some research into the point
in the National Review for April 1902. A few weeks afterwards a
further score of names, hitherto unknown to me, appeared in an
ecclesiastical column, and I have heard others since. I will only
say here that my own fraternity—and I know no reason for holding
it to be exceptional—lost twelve per cent, of its priests by secession
within my recollection. Second edition.
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breach with any lifelong communion is attended with
much pain, and this is greater in the case of the
minister of religion who finds himself impelled to that
violent wrench of the affections which conscience
occasionally dictates. He has formed definite habits
of thought and life and innumerable attachments, and
the severing of these is accompanied with a pain akin
to the physical pain of dislocation and the wrenching
asunder of nerves and fibres. In the Church of Rome,
at least, secession means farewell to the past—farewell
to whatever honour, whatever esteem and affection,
may have been gained by a life of industry and merit.
The decree, of the Church goes forth against the
‘ apostate.” He is excommunicated—cursed in this
life and the next and socially ostracised, if not
slandered. The many, the great crowd of admirers,
listen to every idle tale that is hatched against him;
the few, whose moral and humane instincts are too
deep to be thus perverted, can but offer a distant and
stealthy sympathy. He is cast out to recommence
life, socially and financially, in middle age; perhaps
he is homeless, friendless, and resourceless. A descrip
tion of my own experience of the ordeal may be
instructive.
When I was forced at length to acknowledge that I
had lost all faith in my religious profession, I thought
to avail myself of my position as superior to enter
into secular life with more facility. I revealed my
state of mind to several non-Catholic acquaintances—it
would have been fatal to my plans and quite useless
to reveal it to a Catholic—and they agreed that I must
withdraw, after a short time for reflection; only one
man, a prominent public man in London, thought that
�SECESSION
218
I should be justified in remaining at my post.1 I
began, therefore, to make inquiries and preparations
for a new departure. In the meantime I continued to
fulfil my duty to the college conscientiously—as a
matter of common honesty, and in order to give no
ground for subsequent calumny.
For the same reason I resolved to take no money
from the institution, though I felt that I should have
been justified in doing so to some extent. When the
superior of a monastery with which I was connected
left its walls, he took <£50 with him “as a temporary
loan ”; that circumstance did not excite any par
ticular discussion, and certainly there was no question
of prosecution for theft. Another friar ran away
with about £200. My own case, however, was of
quite a different character, and would be treated with
a very different policy. The two friars were not
genuine seceders from the Church. The second was
clearly a case of wanton revolt against discipline; the
first was rather doubtful—he returned to penance after
a fruitless effort to find secular employment. In both
cases it was evidently the policy of the fraternity to
conceal the misdemeanour from the laity. These
two remained priests, and for the credit of the Church
and the prestige of its clergy their faults must be
concealed at all costs. But when a priest really secedes
from the Church the opposite policy is naturally
followed; for the credit of the Church and the con
fusion of its enemies the seceder must be placed in as
unfavourable a light as possible. I was too well
acquainted with esoteric ecclesiastical teaching to be
unprepared, so I determined to give them no handle.
1 That was the opinion of the late Mr. Stead.
Third edition.
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SECESSION
Studies were conducted with perfect regularity; dis
cipline was so severe that my inferiors chafed under
it; my accounts were balanced almost from day to
day.
At length, I was urgently entreated by a lady at
Forest Gate to take her into my confidence, for it
was seen that I was in great trouble. She was a clever,
well-educated person with whom I was particularly
friendly, and I told her of my intention, exacting
strict secrecy, and intimating that a revelation would
do me much injury, and that nothing could now detain
me. I got an hysterical reply imploring me to remain
in the Church, and saying that, in case of refusal, I
should hear no more from her. She had been my
kindest and closest friend in the Church of Rome;
but she kept her word, handed my letter to my
colleagues, and, so far as I know, she has never cared
to learn a word further about the fortunes and bitter
struggles of “ the apostate.”
A council of the fraternal cabinet was summoned
immediately at Manchester, and Father David
obtained discretionary power to act. It was certainly
the intention of my friend, and possibly of the
authorities, that Father David should induce me to
communicate my difficulties and endeavour to remove
them. He himself can hardly have expected that, as
his guidance had been exhausted years before. On
the night of his arrival he chatted amiably enough
with me over the usual glass of wine, but as soon as
he had closed the bank account in the morning, he
curtly informed me that I was deposed from my
position, and ordered to retire to the friary at
Chilworth, in Surrey.
�SECESSION
215
This friary is in a very secluded locality, and
banishment to it was a recognised penal procedure.
It is the novitiate of the fraternity, and in it I should
be compelled to occupy all my time in formal religious
exercises, and should be entirely cut off from the
outside world, besides being expected to put my con
fidence in a superior who knew nothing of philosophy,
and who would much rather burn an agnostic at the
stake than argue with him. It would have been utterly
useless for me to go there, now that my mind was
firmly convinced. I preferred to remain and com
mence my new career with sympathetic friends. To
avoid unpleasantness, however, I said nothing of my
intention, and prepared to leave the college about the
time of the departure of the train; but when formally
asked if I intended to take the train, I refused to
say. Meantime I had packed up my books, &c., and
sent them to a friend’s house. I balanced my books,
and handed the surplus money to Father David, who
was good enough to offer me the fraternal kiss at my
departure; I declined it. I thus turned my back
for ever, as I imagined, on monasticism, and hastened
down to meet one or two kind and sympathetic
friends.
The following morning I strolled down to my
friend’s office, and was surprised to find him closeted
with a friar. It was one of my rebellious lay-brothers
(though he had obtained an interview under a priest’s
name) who had brought a letter from the college. The
letter was to acquaint my friend with the fact that
a certain Mr. McCabe, who had been left in “ tem
porary ” charge of the college, had absconded with a
quantity of valuable property belonging thereto; that
�216
SECESSION
the said stolen property was understood to be on his
premises; and that he was informed, in a friendly
way, that the matter was in the hands of the police.
The writer signed himself M.A., though he had no
degree in arts. He might contend that he was a
“ missionary apostolic.” As a commentary on the
letter, the friar gave my friend a long and interesting
critique of my public character and mental capacity,
and was turned out of the office. As it was impossible
to get immediate legal advice we decided to await
developments.
In point of fact, I knew there were a few books
amongst my own, overlooked in the hurry of departure,
which did belong to the college. I had fortunately
already told my friend of this, and we intended to
return them. But the complaint of my colleagues was
not on this ground at all. Although they did not
communicate with me on the subject—if they had done
so the same arrangement would have been made
without police-intervention—it appears that they
claimed everything I had removed, and even the
clothes I wore, which they expected me to ask of
them as an alms. The claim was ostensibly based
on my vow of poverty or abdication of the right of
property. The fact that the college was just as
incapable of ownership as I (on their peculiar theory)
was ignored, and the new rector, Father David,
claimed them in the name of the college. They were
books and instruments (especially a telescope) which
friends had given me on various occasions (every friar
accumulates a quantity of such presents, which remain
his, for all practical purposes). Legally (for canon
law is happily not authoritative in England) they were
�SECESSION
217
my property, and I had no hesitation in thinking
myself morally justified in retaining them after my
conscientious labours, and especially since most of
the donors were hardly aware of the college’s existence,
and certainly meant the gifts to be personal.
In the afternoon the police-sergeant appeared and
claimed the property which had been “ stolen from
St. Bernardine’s College.” I believe that his proceed
ings were entirely illegal, though I was unfortunately
not sure of it at the time. However, we disputed the
ownership of the property, and he at once retreated.
Then, in order to avoid litigation, I promised to
surrender a large number of books if Father David
would come to claim them. Father David came, again
bringing, to the increasing astonishment of the little
town, the representative of law and order. We effected
a rough division of the books, and the telescope was
referred to the donor, who awarded it to me. The
next day, wearied to death and not a little alarmed,
I returned even the small sum of money I had taken
for travelling expenses, and faced the world without
a penny or the immediate prospect of earning one. It
was a sensation with which I was to become more or
less familiar. But I had narrowly escaped an igno
minious position, which would have increased a thou
sand-fold the difficulty of entering upon a new career.
That was the aim of my colleagues.
Then came the painful desertion of all my late
co-religionists. Even some to whom I was deeply
attached wrote harsh and bitter letters to me; they
were taught as a matter of religious duty to regard
a secession in a moral light, and not as a change of
convictions. Of the effect on the wider circle of
�218
SECESSION
acquaintances made in the course of ministry I have
given one painful illustration, and will give another,
as the truth is all but incredible. I knew what to
expect, yet was loth to admit it myself without a
struggle. So I singled out one layman of exceptional
education and mature age, with whom I had been
familiar for some time, and who, only two weeks
previously, had spoken to me in terms of high esteem
and affection. I wrote merely to ask him to suspend
his judgment until I could send a full explanation of
my action. He replied at once:—
Dear Father Antony,—I am deeply pained to
find you have fled from the harvest field and become
a scatterer—of what type remains to be seen. It is
not for me to reproach you, Father Antony—the
worm of conscience will do that efficiently, God knows
—but it is necessary I should answer your last letter
at once in order to prove my position and give no
countenance to yours. * You ask me to suspend judg
ment on you, which means that I should pass judgment
on Father David forthwith and dub him slanderer, at
the bidding of one who has obviously betrayed a sacred
trust.
“ With reference to your Upton sermon it is true
I suggested its publication for the benefit of your
mission. Unsuspicious of heterodoxy I failed at first
to catch its true import, but quiet reflection after
wards revealed it to me as a subtle attack on Chris
tianity itself, through the doctrine of evolution as
applied to morals and religion.1 How in the face of
He refers to the sermon mentioned on p. 82 ; there were just
two lines in it on the “evolution of morals and religion,” and they
�SECESSION
219
this you can still talk of your ‘ religious opinions ’ is
inexplicable, surely? I can just conceive you as an
agnostic with a shred of honesty remaining—but as
any other odd fish—No! However it may be, God
save you from the lowest depths of unbelief! We
know too well the evolution of the apostate.
“Yet I desire to speak without bitterness [?] and
shall think of you in sorrow only. If at any future
time you think I can give you one helpful word, write
to me, and believe me now to remain in simple truth,
yours sincerely.”
The writer of this letter is considered to be unusu
ally well informed in philosophical matters. I had,
therefore, thought it possible that he would be able
to regard my secession in an intellectual light. After
such perverse misunderstanding and harsh and insulting
language from him I was constrained to abandon all
hope of sympathy from Catholics. Of the 3000 people
of the congregation to which I was attached, as priest
or student, for ten years, and from whom I experienced
nothing but deep respect as long as I was with them,
not a soul has ever written to relieve my distress with
a single word of interest or concern. One only of them
has spoken to me since my secession—one who stopped
me in the street to ask “ if I was not afraid that the
ground would open under my feet.” One only of
were orthodox. The writer it was who came to thank me for the
sermon—a most unusual proceeding—and ask for its publication.
He repeated his praise and his request twenty-four hours afterwards.
It was a plea for the better education of the clergy, and, although it
hit my own colleagues in a tender spot (and on that very account
so much gratified the laity) they congratulated me on it without a
word against its orthodoxy.
�220
SECESSION
my late colleagues has ever written or said a sym
pathetic word to me. At the time of my secession
he wrote me a letter in which the effect of the system
is again visible, pitifully obscuring the kind and
humane temper of the writer. It concluded
“ And now having made my protest, let me say,
my dear Father, that you were quite right in thinking
that I am your sincere friend and brother. . . . You
will never find any friends so true as the old ones [?],
and it is to be regretted that you did not, in. the dark
hours of doubt and temptation, seek help from those
whose prudence and experience might have saved you
from wrecking your life by this false step. Vae soli.
You did not have recourse to those whom you were
bound to consult, but relied upon yourself; or, if you
took counsel, it was rather with unbelievers than with
those of the Faith and of the Order.1
You know well that other and greater intellects
than yours have examined the same questions more
deeply than you can possibly have done, and have
come to an opposite conclusion ” [the writer, as is
usual, disregards the fact that, in this century, the
number of authorities against him is equally high and
brilliant, at least J ; and this ought to have made you
distrust your own judgment, doubt the infallibility of
your own lights, and feel there was much you have
1 The reader is already aware that both these statements are
absolutely inaccurate. I never took counsel with an unbeliever,
whereas for eight years I took counsel with the most competent
friar we had, until his counsel was threadbare. But my corre
spondent, F. Bede, was disappointed that I had not consulted him.
The reason was that, although I had and have the highest possible
regard for his character, he had no knowledge whatever of science
or philosophy.
�SECESSION
221
not been able to see, which, if you could see, would
lead you the opposite way. I fear that this pride
may have contributed to bring about the withdrawal
of the light. What may also have helped is that
bitterness of spirit you have sometimes manifested
towards others, which is not according to the dictates
of charity. Add to that a want of respect for those
in authority, and you have the factors which may
have helped to bring this chastisement from God. I
do not judge you; you must know your own con
science, but I feel I ought to tell you what appears
to me as likely to have been the cause of your mis
fortune. ... As it is, I can only pray earnestly to
God to give you light and grace to see the truth and
submit to it, and to beg our Holy Father not to cast
you off. . . . That shall be my constant prayer, and
one that I confidently hope will sooner or later be
heard.—Believe me, my dear Father, very sorrowfully,
but very sincerely, yours in Christ.”
Here, at last, a kindly and humane feeling reveals
itself, but how hardly it struggles through the narrow
bonds of the dogmatic sense 1 Like the preceding
letter, but much less harshly, it persists in considering
my action in a purely moral light. The writer cannot
entertain the possibility of my being honestly com
pelled by my studies to secede; though he has since,
I am glad to say, expressed an entirely just conception
of my position. One curious effect of his dogmatic
view is seen in his effort to sum up my faults—and he
knew me well. My “ pride ” of judgment is, I trust,
excusable; I was bound to form an opinion. The
charge of disrespect to authority and sarcasm in inter
�222
SECESSION
course with my fellows, which I must fully admit,
will be understood in the light of preceding chapters.
I confess that I have taken some complacency in my
moral character after that summary of it by my
advocatus diaboli. But it is pitiful to see that a clever,
experienced, and humane priest can entertain the
thought that a man will be damned eternally for such
trivialities. His whole attitude is, as in the preceding
case, a significant effect of the system; and it is only
as effects and illustrations of that system that I offer
these details about my secession.
It would be useless to describe all the incidents that
arose at the separation; they were wearisome and
painful repetitions of the same unfortunate spirit.
During my clerical days I had attracted some suspicion
by defending the possibility of honest secession from
the Church, and especially of bona fide scepticism; it
was now my turn to be sacrificed to the system which
I had resented. It has been explained that the Church
is prepared to go to any length to prevent scandal, and
the recognition by the laity of an honourable secession
of one of the clergy would be a serious scandal; hence
little scruple is shown by priests in discussing the
character of a former colleague. In my own case I
believe that nothing very offensive has been invented.1
I must add, with reluctance, and only because it is a material
fact in regard to the Roman system, that, as the years passed and
1 began to write critical works, the same vile calumnies were circulated about me by the clergy as about all other seceding priests.
These things are carefully kept out of print, so that one has no
reJPe(~y j but I have had inquiries about them from all parts
of the English-speaking world. The chief and most flagrant aim
is to connect my secession with my marriage. The Catholic lavman will not trouble to glance at “ Who’s Who ? ” from which lie
would at once learn that I did not marry until three years and a
�SECESSION
223
The favourite hypothesis seems to be that indiscreet
flattery and premature honours have unfortunately
deranged my intelligence—discipline, of course, re
quiring the usual excommunication and social ostracism.
Those of my acquaintances who cannot convince them
selves of my mental derangement are offered the grim
alternative of regarding me as having “ obviously
betrayed a sacred trust ” (to quote my former friend).
Only my own immediate family circle and one other
family, out of a wide circle of friends, seem to regard
me still as a rational and honest human being. As
far as I can gather, the majority of my earlier friends
would have preferred me—whatever my frame of mind
—to remain at their altars. There are many priests
who do so.
Some such violent disruption from the past is the lot
of every seceder from Rome. Add to it the practical
difficulty of recommencing life in mature age, and some
idea will be formed of one great force that helps to
preserve the integrity of the Catholic priesthood.
_ _________ *
___________
_
half after my secession. I was unaware, until two years after I
had left the Church, even of the existence of the lady whom I
eventually married. The whole of these legends are remarkable
for their absolutely reckless mendacity. Third edition.
�CHAPTER XII
CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
Before I proceed to summarise the information regard
ing monastic life which is dispersed through the pre
ceding chapters, and to make it the ground of an
opinion, it will be well to enlarge and supplement it
as far as possible. However interesting these details
may be in themselves, they would throw little light
on the general condition of monasticism if it could
be thought that they only illustrated the life of one
particular order, and still less if they were due to the
abnormal circumstances in which one small branch of
that order chances to find itself. On so narrow a base
only a very restricted opinion could be reared. No
fault, indeed, is more frequently committed by English
and American writers on the Church of Rome than
this of undue generalisation. It is often forgotten that
the Roman Church in England is, after all, merely
a large and active mission in a foreign land. Hence
many writers fail to correct the insularity of their
experience, and thus have not a due sense of the real
proportions of sects and their institutions on the great
world-stage. They likewise fail to make allowance for
the peculiar effect of a missionary status. To escape
this fallacy the preceding description of monasticism
224
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
225
in England, illustrated copiously from the life of the
Grey Friars, needs collateral support from other
countries or national “ provinces ” of that order.
One other province has been described already
at some length. The Belgian province, it must be
remembered, is in an entirely different condition from
the English province. It labours under no financial
difficulties (the seven monasteries of the English friars
bear a collective debt of about £50,000), it has no
scarcity of vocations, it suffers not the slightest civic
or legislative interference with its manner of life. It
may be taken as a typical branch of modern monas
ticism, and is claimed to be such by its adherents.
Yet although it differs considerably in literal fulfilment
of the Franciscan rule, in formal discipline and ritual,
it will be recognised from the contents of Chapter VII.
that it agrees entirely with the English province in
the features which are important to the philosophical
observer. On the whole, its life is sordid and
hypocritical.
A slight allusion has also been made to the condition
of the Franciscan Order in Ireland. So unsatisfactory
fs it, from a monastic point of view, that the Roman
authorities for many years were bent on extinguishing
it. Ireland, one of the most Catholic countries in the
civilised world, is the richest possible soil for monas
ticism ; men who lead the lives of the medieval monks
will receive from its peasantry the deep reverence and
hospitality of the medieval world. Yet the Irish
province was, at the time I left the Franciscan Order,
one of its most enfeebled branches. During the years
of persecution the scattered friars naturally discarded
every monastic feature from their lives, and no amount
�226
CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
of pressure from Rome had been able to reform them.
I hey individually possessed money (thus ignoring the
first principle of the Franciscan rule), wore boots and
stockings, rarely donned their habits, had secular
servants, and were guilty of many other condemned
practices. But in the last few years the province has
been restored to a moderate regularity, and is now a
little better disciplined than the English province.
Another flourishing branch of the order is found
in Holland. Although it is in an “ heretical ” country
it has full civic liberty and is generously patronised;
hence it has grown into a powerful body. During
my sojourn in Belgium I gathered that it fell far
short of the high standard of the Flemish province,
and the fact seemed to be generally confirmed. But
shortly after my return to England I received a
curious confiimation of the opinion. We received
a small pamphlet, written in Latin (for it was not
intended to reach the eyes of the laity), having for its
theme the condition of the Dutch Franciscan pro
vince. It was signed by a Dutch friar, who declared
that he was (and had been for some years) incar
cerated by his colleagues because he would not keep
silence; he had written the pamphlet in his room of
detention, and managed to have it conveyed to friends
in the outer world. He declared that the province
was deeply corrupted; that asceticism was almost un
known, and a gross sensualism pervaded their ranks—
even mentioning isolated cases of friars being brought
home to the monastery “ theologically drunk,” with
the aid of police-stretchers. He further declared that
the superiors of the monasteries bribed their provincial
to overlook the state of things, and that the province
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
227
secured tranquillity by sending large sums of money
to the Roman authorities for their new international
college. The pamphlet was clearly not the composi
tion of an insane person, and none of our friars called
its accuracy into question. It must be remembered
that this pamphlet was written by a Franciscan priest
solely for the perusal of other Franciscan priests.
Again, therefore, we meet the same unfavourable moral
and intellectual features, much more accentuated than
even in the Irish province.
The other branches of the order are only known
to me by conversation with isolated members. The
circumstances of the friars in the United States are
entirely similar to those of the English friars, and
their condition is closely analogous, if not a little less
ascetic. The South American friars, I gathered from
one of them whom I knew, urgently needed reform.
The friars of Spain are fairly well known since the
opening up of the Spanish colonies to civilisation.
The German provinces seem to be slightly better—
a little more industrious and studious, as would be
expected—but, on the whole, do not differ materially
from their Belgian neighbours. The French friars
were very little higher in the spiritual scale, as a rule,
than the Belgians, taking into account the enormous
difference of temperament. France will not be much
the poorer for their loss. The Italian friars, as a
rule, maintain a more rigorous discipline, and are less
material than their northern brethren; but they are
very generally idle, quarrelsome, ignorant, and am
bitious of office. There are, it need hardly be said,
fervent individual monks everywhere, and many fer
vent communities in Italy and Spain. For my purpose
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I must give the broad features. I must say that,
where the profession of asceticism is not a sham,
it can point only to a mechanical and unspiritual
discipline.
I have, in the ninth chapter, said enough about
other religious orders to show that they are in an
analogous condition. Where the rule of life is not
very ascetical, it is observed; where, as in all the
older orders, there is a profession of austerity, the
practice is not in accord with the profession. It is
hardly likely that Rome would tolerate an unusual
corruption on the part of one particular order. In
spite of the great diversity in their aims and charac
ters, the same forces are at work in each. In fact,
the various monastic congregations have so far lost
sight of the special purposes for which they were
founded that, especially in England and the United
States, they differ from the ordinary clergy in little
more than dress and community life and ceremonies.
The orders which, like the Franciscan, were founded
for the purpose of caring for the poor, and embodying
voluntary poverty in their own lives, are found to be
continually seeking a higher social level; vying with
each other for the patronage of the rich, and always
choosing a middle class in preference to a poor con
gregation. The Dominican order was intended to be
an “ Order of Friars Preachers,” but it now has no
more claim to that title than the other semi-monastic
and semi-secular congregations. Carmelites, Servites,
Marists, and Oblates were founded in order to increase
the cult of the mother of Christ; Jesuits for the fight
against heresy and the instruction of the young; Pas
sionists to spread devotion to the Passion. In all of
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
229
them the original object has dropped very much out
of sight, and there is a very close resemblance of life
and activity. It is said that there has been serious
question at Rome of suppressing the majority of them,
and reducing the number to about four, of different
types, which would suffice for vocations of all
complexions.
We are now in a position to answer with some
degree of justice the often repeated question : What
is the ethical significance and the ethical value of
modern monasticism? The slightest reflection on the
origin of the monastic bodies will make it clear that
a high degree of spirituality and a keen faith in the
supernatural are necessary in the earnest votary of
monasticism. The orders have been founded by men
of an abnormally neurotic and spiritual temperament,
men who were capable of almost any ascetical excesses.
Extraordinary actions were their ordinary stimulant,
and they devoted themselves with ardour to that
ascetical rigour of life which the Christian Church
has, from the earliest stages, derived from the teaching
of its founder. It is clear that Christ did lay great
stress on the merit of self-denial; but it seems equally
clear that he did not contemplate the system of
eremitical and cenobitic life which commenced in the
Thebaid a few centuries after his death, and which is
Still rigorously presented in the life of the Carthusians,
and less rigorously in that of the Trappists. However
that may be, St. Bernard, St. Bruno, St. Francis,
St. Dominic, and the other founders, translated literally
into their own lives, under the influence of an excep
tionally fervid religious emotion, the principles of
I
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
Christian ethics, as they were universally expounded
up to the fifteenth century.
In an age when it was thought that one man
could expiate the sins and purchase the pleasures of
another, these saints became centres of great public
interest and attracted many disciples. Then, in an
evil hour, they drew up certain rules of life, which
were only slightly modified versions of their own
extraordinary lives, and bade their followers bind
themselves by the most solemn and indissoluble
obligation to their observance. Such rules could only
be observed by men who shared the same exalted
spiritual temper and imagination; and one needs little
knowledge of life to understand how very scarce such
men are, and how great an error it is to suppose that
any large body of men would observe such rules with
fidelity. In the Middle Ages faith was not overcast
by scientific, historical, and philosophical controversies,
and tradition was a paramount authority. Men were
not only chronologically nearer to the great drama of
the foundation of Christianity, but they accepted the
traditional version with unquestioning confidence.
However, even in the Middle Ages, monasticism
was no purer an institution than it is now. Soon
after the foundation of the several orders there begins
the long history of corruptions, reforms, and schisms
inside the order, and of papal and episcopal fulminations and historical impeachments from without.
Long before the death of Francis of Assisi his order
was deeply corrupted; indeed, his own primitive com
panions had made him tear up, or had torn up for him,
the first version of his rule, and it was only by the
intrigue of certain patrons at Rome that he secured
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
231
~ "I
8
W
fl' F i
T
the papal assent to his second rule. And scarcely
had the supreme command passed, during Francis’s
lifetime, into the hands of Fr. Elias, than a powerful
party of moderates arose, and dissension, intrigue,
and schism threw the entire body into a fever of
agitation. Elias was a clever and ambitious friar, who
had a much wider acquaintance with human nature
and much less ascetical fervour than Francis. The
manner of life which he advocated was, like that of
modern monks, much more sensible; his error was,
also like that of the moderns, to cling to the original
profession. And that struggle of human nature
against the unnatural standard of life it had some
how adopted has never ceased. The many branches
<1 of the Franciscan Order, Capuchins, Recollects, ReVi formed, Conventuals, and Observants, mark so many
f| different schisms over the perpetual quarrel; yet, at
if the present day, they are all once more on a common
level. And, apart from this internal evidence, secular
history gives abundant proof of the periods of deep
fl degradation into which the orders of monks have
periodically fallen.; if secular historians are not trusted,
a a judicious selection of papal decrees and episcopal
'al letters would place the fact beyond controversy.
Hence it is only natural to expect that, in these
uHdays of less luminous and tranquil faith and less
fervid imagination, the spirit of monasticism will be
sal less potent than ever; the more so as a large section
i^of Christianity has now repudiated the ascetical ideal
a entirely, and emphatically dissociated it from the
£ teaching of Christ. Protestantism first fell upon
u monasticism, flail in hand, for its corruption, and
a pearly extinguished it; then it sought theological
I 2
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
justification, and convinced itself that monasticism
was unscriptural. Although there have been many
vain attempts in modern days to reanimate it, the
vast majority of non-Catholics persist in regarding
monasticism as founded on an exegetical error and
humanly unjustifiable; and that conviction, together
with the causes that produced it or occasioned its
formation, has re-acted on the old Church. The
mental attitude which in former ages passed at once
and instinctively from deep fervour to great ascetical
rigour is rarely found to-day amongst educated
people. Not only is faith less confident, but the
growth of the moral sense has affected the tradition.
It is now thought an unworthy conception of God
that he should be held to look down with com
placency on a race of “ self-tormentors ” and should
promise rewards for the sacrifice of the gifts he has
put before us. And the growing sense of the unity
of human nature has made it no longer possible to
suppose that we may enfeeble “ the flesh ” yet
strengthen the spirit. Capacity for work is placed
higher than bloodless debility. To face life manfully
is held to be nobler than to shun it.
The description I have given of modern monastic
life shows that all these changes of the spirit of the
world have penetrated into the cloister. The idyllic
life of the monk, a life of prayer and toil and un
worldliness or other-worldliness, does not exist to any I
great extent outside the pages of Catholic apologists
and a few non-Catholic poets and novelists. The
forms of monasticism remain, but the spirit is almost
gone from them. One is forcibly reminded of that
passage of Carlyle where he speaks of institutions as
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
233
fair masks under which, instead of fair faces, one
catches a glimpse of shuddering corruption. Not
that monasticism, apart from its high profession, is an
object of special moral reprobation; its fault, its title
to contempt, lies rather in its continued profession of
an ideal from which it has hopelessly fallen, and in
its constant effort to hide that discrepancy.
There are, of course, isolated members who are
deeply corrupted in monasteries and nunneries, as in
all other spheres; there are also many individuals of
unusually exalted character. But the great majority
of the inmates of monastic institutions may be
divided, as is clear from the preceding, into two
categories. One is the category of those who are
religiously inclined, but whose whole merit consists
in the equivocal virtue of having bound themselves
to a certain system of religious services, through which
they pass mechanically and with much resignation,
and which they alleviate by as much harmless
pleasure and distraction as they can procure. The
other category, and, perhaps, the larger one, consists
of those who seem to have exhausted their moral
heroism in the taking of the vows; for the rest of
their lives (and one of the most remarkable features
of monks of all classes is the anxiety they show to
prolong their “ earthly exile ”) they chafe under the
discipline they have undertaken, modify and withdraw
from it as much as possible, and add to it as much
“ worldly ” pleasure as circumstances permit. Both
categories lead lives of ordinary morality—but only
ordinary, so that the garments of the saints sit very
incongruously on their shoulders. They seem to
appreciate the good things of this life as keenly as
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
ordinary mortals do, and shrink from death as naively
as if death meant annihilation instead of entrance into
Paradise.
Thus, on the one hand, certain anti-papal lecturers
err in representing monasticism, as a body, as an
institution of a particularly dark character; on the
other hand, the belief of the average Catholic layman
that it is an institution of unusual merit—that con
vents are “ the lightning conductors of divine wrath
from the cities,” &c.—is pitifully incorrect. Monas
ticism has suffered a luxurious overgrowth of sensuous
ness. This is partly due to the idleness, and partly
to the vow of celibacy, of the monks. I have said
enough of their idleness, which is one of the most
constant features of their life in Catholic countries.
Their religious ceremonies do not afford serious occupa
tion of mind. They never undertake manual labour,
and they study little. The amount of work they
are entrusted with does not give occupation to half
the community. Hence results much idleness; and
idleness is, as St. Francis told them, “ the devil’s
pillow.”
Then there is the absence of contact (entire absence
in Catholic countries) with the sex which is, by instinct
and education, more refined, and exercises a refining
influence. In the absence of that influence a natural
masculine tendency to coarseness develops freely,
unless it receives a check in deep spirituality, which
cannot be said to be frequently the case. In point
of fact, most of the founders of orders seem to have
appreciated that influence very sensibly. St. Augus
tine, of course, in his saintly days, does not, for
obvious reasons; but St. Benedict had his Scholastica,
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
235
St. Francis his Clare, St. Francis de Sales his Jeanne
Franfoise, and even the grim St. Peter of Alcantara
had his Teresa. Their modern disciples have also
many “ spiritual ” friendships, but the fact is unable
to counterbalance the effect of their celibate home
life. Their intercourse with women, in the face of
their ascetical teaching, is necessarily either very
limited or hypocritical.
Thus it is that, wherever there is not deep piety,
we find a selfish individualism, which is the root of
all the undignified intrigue, meanness, and dissension
that have been described. Thus it is also that there
is a morbid craving for indulgence in food and drink,
making a mockery of their long fasts and abstinences.
In the midst of a long fast they will celebrate an
accidental feast-day most luxuriously, and at the close
of the fast have quite a gastronomic saturnalia. Still
it must be said that, whilst there is more drinking
than is supposed, there is little drunkenness. There
is usually a constant and liberal supply of drink, if
the convent is in good circumstances, but excess is
rare; it is, however, not treated seriously unless it
has become public.
A third effect of this pious exclusion of women is
seen in the tone of their conversation; it is too
frequently of an unpleasant character—not immoral,
rarely suggestive, but often coarse and malodorous.
Tales which the better class of Catholic laymen would
not suffer to be told in their presence, and which
are more fitting for such books as La Terre and
L’Assommoir, are frequently told in clerical, and
especially monastic, circles.
On the point of immorality in the specific sense I
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
must endeavour to formulate an opinion. My ex
perience has been wide, though not of long duration,
so that I could not rebut an opposite and more
damaging statement of experience. Yet I am con
vinced there has been much exaggeration in this
respect. The evidence of the majority of “ escaped ”
monks and nuns seems to me unreliable. But even
if all their tales were true, it would only prove that,
as everybody expects, there are many isolated cases
of immorality. It is improper to extend the charge
to the whole body. It can only be said that these
cases are numerous. There can be nothing very
startling in that statement. I have no doubt it would
be less true of the clergy than of an ordinary body
of men if their lives were healthier. But as long
as they are indiscriminately and prematurely bound
to celibacy, and to a life which is so productive of
egoism, sensuousness, and indolence, it is the only
possible condition for them.
The same must be said of the vow of celibacy of
the secular clergy. In theory it is admirable for the
ecclesiastical purpose, and it is very graceful to con
template from the standpoint of Christian asceticism.
In practice it is a deplorable blunder, and leads to
much subterfuge and hypocrisy. Like monasticism,
it would probably not be accepted by one-half their
number if they were not involved in an irrevocable
engagement to it before they properly understand it.
Like monasticism, it will probably disappear, as a
universal law, when the Church of Rome is awakened
at length from her conservative lethargy with the din
and roar of a great battle in her ears.
Finally, an answer is also ready to that other
�CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
237
question which is not infrequently heard in these
days: What is the relation of the monastic orders
to Socialism ? Socialising Christians, or Christian
Socialists, frequently hold up the monastic orders as
embodiments of a true social spirit. The argument
rests, of course, on a very superficial analogy; there is
really no parallel between monasticism and Socialism.
On the contrary, they are at the very opposite poles
of economics. Monasticism, in the first place (except
the modified monasticism of the Jesuits), does not
counsel a community of goods; neither in individual
nor in common does it permit ownership. But it
parts company with Socialism very emphatically when
it goes on to impose extraordinary limits on pro
duction. Socialism urges a common use of the con
veniences produced, and urges the production of as
many as possible. And lest it should seem that
monasticism at least sympathises with the Socialists
of simpler life, such as Mr. E. Carpenter, it must be
remembered that it limits production on an exactly
opposite principle. Mr. Carpenter thinks simplicity
conducive to comfort and happiness; monasticism
trusts that it is productive of discomfort and mortifica
tion. In fine, it wishes its votaries to be uncomfort
able in this world, which is the very antithesis of the
Socialistic aim.
In a minor degree its celibacy is anti-socialistic;
whatever relation of the sexes the Socialist may advo
cate, he certainly advocates some form of intimate
relation. And the Socialist would not for a moment
sanction the withdrawal of a large number of citizens
from every civic duty on the plea that they were more
interested in another world. He would not exempt a
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CRITIQUE OF MONASTICISM
large number of able-bodied men from labour on the
plea that they were “ waterspouts of divine grace ” or
“ lightning conductors of divine wrath ” for their sin
ful brethren. He would be impatient of all indolence,
and mendicancy, and parasitism of any complexion.
However, the parallel has never been very seriously
entertained, and does not merit further criticism.
Monasticism has neither interest nor advantage for
the modern world; it is an enfeebled and corrupted
survival of an institution whose congenial environ
ment seems to have disappeared, and it is only main
tained by the scandalous practice of enticing or
permitting boys to undertake life-long obligations of
a most serious character. Even in the stern monas
teries of the Carthusians, where it still retains its full
rigour of ascetism and solitude, it loses the sympathy
of the modern world; merit is now thought to consist
in the fulfilment of the whole duty of man, in works
that produce visible fruit, and that tend to remove
the actual evils of life. But, for the majority of the
monastic bodies, with their indolent withdrawal from
life’s difficulties and duties, without any real compen
sating virtue, or with their pitiful compromise between
external occupation and their antiquated theories of
detachment, one cannot but feel a certain contempt.
At the best, a monk would merely have the merit of
making himself a part of a great penitential machine.
As it is, his profession of extraordinary virtue and
unworldliness is an insincere formality.
�CHAPTER XIII
THE CHURCH OF ROME
There is at the present time a profound struggle in
progress over fundamental religious questions. Dur
ing three centuries Europe has resounded with the
din, and even been watered with the blood, of con
flicting sects. At length the sections of Christianity
have been distracted from their civil war by the
advent of a common enemy—anti-sacerdotalism, if not
a yet more revolutionary force that has been called
naturalism—and they are eager to unite under a com
mon banner against it. No one who is at all familiar
with modern literature can ignore that struggle. Dur
ing the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries the number
of powerful writers and thinkers who have withstood
the traditional religious authority in England, France,
and Germany, is deeply significant. There is in our
day a comparative lull in the storm of controversy—
a comparative dearth of eminent thinkers on both sides
—but one still finds unmistakable traces of the conflict
in every page of every branch of literature. A great
number of influential writers advocate one or other
form of naturalism; it is hardly too much to say that
the greater number of the eminent exponents of
literature, science, and art depart in some measure
from the orthodox path. It is usually said that women
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THE CHURCH OF ROME
are the more reliable support of clericalism. We have
at the present day in England a number of brilliant
women writers, but though few of them (for reasons
which may be left to the psychologist) profess extreme
naturalism, very few of them adhere strictly to the
orthodox sacerdotal institutions. The issue of the
struggle is, therefore, the object of much anxious
speculation.
The place which the Church of Rome is destined
to occupy in this struggle is a matter of much inter
est, and it is usually expected that it will be a very
prominent position. The Church itself, of course, with
that buoyant confidence which is one of the most
patent symptoms of its “ perennial youth,” predicts
the ultimate absorption of all other forms of Chris
tianity into itself, and proclaims that the final conflict
will be between Rome and Rationalism. And Roman
Catholics boast, with much truth, that their prediction
is confirmed by many independent observers; Macau
lay’s vision of the undying glory of the Papacy rising
through the mists of future ages over the ruins of
England (and, presumably, Anglicanism) finds many
sympathisers. Mr. H. G. Wells has lent the force of
his expert prophetic faculty recently to the “ anticipa
tion ” that Catholicism will outlive Protestantism.
But it is not usually noticed that there is a great
difference in the ground of the prediction in the two
cases. Rome prides herself on the intellectual value
of her credentials, and thinks that time is sure to
bring about their universal acceptance. On the other
hand, those non-Catholic writers who talk of an ulti
mate struggle between Rome and Rationalism are under
the impression that Rome does not appeal to reason
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
241
at all. They divide men into two categories—rational
and extra-rational—and think that the final trial of
strength will be between reason and authority, which
they identify with Rome. There is a curious mis
understanding on both sides. Roman theologians per
versely represent Rationalists as men who reject
mysteries, miracles, &c., on the mere ground that they
are supra-rational, and without reference to their
credentials; and most Rationalists are under the impres
sion that Rome professes an irrational method, rebukes
and demands the blind submission of reason, instead of
offering it satisfactory evidence, and preaches authority
from first to last. Under that impression it is not
surprising that the Church of Rome is selected as the
fittest to survive of the Christian sects. But the
impression is wrong.
Just as the Rationalist does not reject supra-rational
theorems if they are not contra-rational, and if there
is satisfactory evidence in their favour, so neither
does the theologian reject the demands of reason for
logical satisfaction. The Catholic scheme claims to
be pre-eminently logical, and does precisely appeal
to the intellect of the inquirer; indeed, it is taught
that the “ convert ” from Rationalism must have a
natural rational certitude before he can receive the
“ light of faith.” The system has been described in
an earlier chapter, but the process would be of this
character. The inquirer (if beginning from scepticism)
would be offered rational evidence of the existence
and personality of God, and (usually, though not neces
sarily) of the immortality of the soul; if that evidence
did not satisfy him there would be no further pro
gress. If convinced on those points he would be
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THE CHURCH OF ROME
offered evidence, still of a purely rational character,
of the divinity of Christ and Christianity, and of the
authenticity of the Scriptures. Then he would be led,
on historical grounds, to accept the divine institution
of the Church of Rome, its infallible magisterium
and its indispensable ministerium, and the prerogatives
of its supreme pastor. He is now prepared to accept
statements, logically, on authority, and the rest of
the dogmas are, consequently, proved from Scripture,
tradition, and the authority of the Church.
But even here reason is not abandoned; not only is
it continually sought to confirm statements by rational
and historical analogies, but it is admitted as a prin
ciple that every dogma must meet the negative test
of reason. If any dogma contains a single proposition
which offends against reason the whole system must be
rejected. That is the teaching of the Church. Hence
much ingenuity is shown in averting the rationalistic
criticism of such thorny dogmas as the Trinity and the
Eucharist, it is claimed that the accusation of absurdity
is disproved, and therefore reason may confidently
take them on authority. And again, when it is said
that there is a living infallible magisterium in the
Church, this must be accepted in a very narrow sense.
The overwhelming majority of the bulls, decrees,
encyclicals, &c., which the Popes have issued, have
only a disciplinary effect. It is piously believed by
many that Providence takes a minor interest in them;
but most priests take little notice of them, and the
doctrine of infallibility has been carefully drawn up
not to include them. The great dogma simply
amounts to this, that the Pope (or the Church) can
teach no new doctrine, but he has special guidance
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
243
in his solemn declarations (which are few and far
between) that certain doctrines are contained in the
deposit of revelation. There have only been two such
definitions in the nineteenth century. Neither Leo
XIII. nor Pius X. has given any. Hence it will be
understood how great an error those Protestants make
who go over to Rome for the sake of its infallible
voice (as if they were to have an infallible Times at
breakfast every morning), and also how untrue it is
that Rome is the antithesis, the professed opponent,
of reason, and only preaches submission.
No, the Church of Rome does not profess to be the
refuge of the timid and the sentimental in a subver
sive age. Its strength must be sought in its distinctive
methods and institutions, not in a position that would
make it the centre of all forces opposed to Rationalism.
These advantages have been described in the course
of my narrative. In the first place, it has a very
superior organisation to that of any other Christian
sect, or any other religion whatever. Its constitution
embodies all the several advantages of an elective
monarchy and an oligarchy (indeed canonists dispute
whether it is to be called monarchic or oligarchic);
and at the same time it escapes the instability incident
on democratic forms by dogmatically dissociating its
power from the civil power and claiming a supernatural
source for it. Its hierarchy, of which the centre is
a figure about whom a vague supernatural halo is set,
and who is now always a commanding and venerable
personage, lends a rigid unity to its 200,000,000 adher
ents. Rome, the heir of the tact, ambition, and
vigour of the Caesars, the richest treasury of art, and
a veritable hive of lawyers and diplomatists, controls
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THE CHURCH OF ROME
and utilises the talent, the ambition, and the jealousy
or its great sacerdotal army, and with easy confidence
commands the attention of the civilised world.
k.,Thenrthe comPleteness, the unity, and the plausi
bility of its theological system must be considered,
rrom the days of St. John Damascene until the sixteenth century almost all the talent of the civilised
world has contributed to the formation of that system •
it is a truism to say that it is plausible. Enduring
almost unchanged through ten centuries, and eliciting
the veneration of almost the entire intellectual world,
it presents an imposing contrast to the theologies of
more recent growth. Moreover, even in recent times
it las been accepted by many great writers who have
left the impress of their genius upon it, and accom
modated it to minds of every cast.
And side by side with the elaboration of its own
system must be classed an instrument which it uses
very adroitly for the same purpose, the Index Expurgatonus, or list of condemned books. In England and
America there is little explicit mention of the Index
for economical reasons, but every Catholic is given
very clearly to understand the depravity of reading
books against faith or morals.” The restriction is
cleverly represented to be a moral, not a disciplinary
prescription, and thus the end of the Index is practic
ally achieved without mentioning the odious word.
Non-Catholics are gravely reminded that it is ethically
imperative to study both sides of every religious
question. Catholics are told in the same breath that
it is sinful for them to read the works of opponents,
because they are already in possession of the truth
and must not run the risk of losing it.
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
245
At the same time Catholics are indulged to some
extent in their wayward anxiety to know what oppon
ents are saying by having their objections formulated
for them in their own apologetical literature—with
satisfactory solutions appended. Here again the
peculiarity of the Catholic controversial method tells
in its immediate favour. As one would expect, most
of the objections have been carefully prepared for the
express purpose of refutation. No Catholic writer
ever gives an accurate version of hostile criticism.
Newman is usually said to be the most satisfactory in
this respect. In fact it is claimed that he formulates
the opinion of an adversary more lucidly than the
original writer. But take, for instance, the exposition
of Gibbon’s five causes of the spread of Christianity in
the appendix to the “ Grammar of Assent ” and com
pare it with the classical chapter of Gibbon. It is
utterly inaccurate and unworthy. And not only are
the opinions of critics garbled and mutilated, but their
personal characters are too lightly aspersed. Anglicans
are allowed some precarious hope of ultimate salvation.
But when we come to deeper sceptics the credit of
bona fides is stopped. All the theological manuals
grossly affirm that there is no such thing as honest
agnosticism, and it is firm Catholic doctrine that none
but a believer in personal theism can ever enter heaven.
Thus the most puerile stories—as that Julian died cry
ing out, “ Vicisti, Galilaee,” and that Voltaire died
raving for a priest, and so on—are generally accepted;
and the most dishonourable motives are imputed to the
bnemies of the Church. If a modern Inferno were
written it would describe a brilliant literary circle.
So also the results of philosophical, historical, and
�246
THE CHURCH OF ROME
scientific research are accommodated to pious purposes.
For several years geology and palaeontology suffered
great torture at the hands of Genesiac interpreters;
history and archaeology and philology then yielded
marvellously convenient results; ethnology was racked
to support a biblical chronology which is now aban
doned ; even chemistry, embryology, psychophysics,
and a host of innocent sciences were pressed into
service and pressed out of shape in the process.
Of another institution which the Church formerly
used for the same high purpose of guarding its flock
against intellectual wolves—the Inquisition—little need
be said. If it were truly a dead and discarded pro
ceeding, like persecution on the Protestant side, it
would not merit notice; it seems unprofitable to
reproach the Church of Rome continually with the
many and dark sins of the past of which it has really
repented. However, it is not at all clear that the
Church has repented of this particular outrage upon
morals and humanity. The principles on which the
Inquisition was founded are still part of the Church’s
teaching; and if it were possible to conceive a return
of the ecclesiastical supremacy of former days, there
is little doubt that the same policy would be urged.
Happily for many of us, civil governments are be
coming more and more reluctant to be guided by
ecclesiastical principles and wishes in the discharge of
their function to the community. Logical and candid
writers like Dr. Ward admit this. It is said that
he found Huxley once examining his premises, and
was asked by him “ where he kept his stake for*
heretics! ”
A second great source of strength in the Roman
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
247
Church is its impressive use of aesthetic agencies. . The
subject has been treated already, and hardly needs to
be enlarged on. In Protestant countries, where the
reaction against Roman corruption has reduced the
worship to a state of spiritual nudity, this attraction
of the Catholic services is very powerful. A com
parison of the percentage of converts in various
parishes with the sensuous attractiveness of their
services would yield interesting results.
Other forces which are peculiarly at work in the
Church of Rome can only be briefly mentioned. Its
vast and imposing diplomatic body of legates, &c.,
and its incessant political intrigue, have no parallel
in any other religion; nor has the great wealth it
gathers every year by means of an organised collec
tion throughout the world. Owing to its profound
antiquity and its comprehensive range it can enumer
ate a long series of humanitarian works which have
been done by men who happened to be ecclesiastics;
these become an imposing record of the Church’s
wondrous benefits to humanity in art, science,
sociology, and philanthropy. So even in ethics the
Church of Rome professes a more effective promotion
of the welfare of humanity than other Churches,
though in this department its claim of special power
does not seem difficult to impugn on the test of fruits.
Such would seem to be the peculiar strength of the
Church of Rome in the religious struggle, as distin
guished from all other Christian sects. The influences
at work for its extension and consolidation are un
doubtedly effective, but side by side with them it has
many characteristic weaknesses which seem to give
less assurance of its fabled immortality. In the first
�248
THE CHURCH OF ROME
place, seeing that it does not shrink from and repudiate
the rational criterion which the new-born age is
applying to every existing institution, its very vast
ness is a source of danger; it presents a broader front
to the keen rationalistic attack. If the mysterious
dogmas which are common to all Christian sects invite
criticism, nothing is gained in point of security by
adding to them that microcosm of miracles—Transubstantiation—or the seven sacraments, or the vaguely
floating tradition of an Immaculate Conception. Then,
too, the Church of Rome is so dogmatic in its teaching,
and has so frequently to abandon very positive posi
tions. In other sects the privilege of private judgment
and the absence of an authoritative magisterium give
greater elasticity under hostile pressure.
Again the ideal of a higher life which the Church
of Rome puts forward brings it into conflict with
modern moralists. Self-torment will never again be
recognised by the world at large as the supreme virtue,
yet the saints of the Roman calendar are honoured
principally for that practice. One of the most recent
models that the Church has raised up for the venera
tion of humanity, Benedict Joseph Labre, shows the
exemplary record of having avoided labour and lived
by mendicancy, and having deliberately cultivated the
most filthy habits. Usefulness to humanity is now
held to be the highest virtue, and the Church pays
little heed to that in canonisation. In fact, the very
essence of its ethical teaching is entirely at variance
with modern views. It teaches conformity with an
external standard (about which there are innumerable
controversies) and this for the sake of conciliating a
Supreme Being and escaping his presumed vindictive
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
249
ness. There is a growing tendency to regard actions
that spring from such motives as non-ethical.
In fine, the very methods from which its strength
is now derived will one day prove grievous sources
of offence, for the simple reason that they are incon
sistent with its real function as a purely religious
organism. Diplomatic intrigue and the exercise of a
purely temporal power may serve for the moment to
extend and strengthen its influence; but they are
agencies of a very questionable character in the hands
of a spiritual body, and have more than once inspired
an effective protest against Rome. And it need hardly
be said that its literary exclusiveness, its Index, its
tyranny, its wilful calumniation of great opponents
and distortion of their criticisms, are very vulnerable
parts of its system. As yet they are effective methods
of preserving the integrity of the Church. But in the
better educated nations they are already being dis
carded. Laymen are now taking the polemical work
on their own shouldersj and interpreting the strictures
of theologians at their own discretion. The result will
be an impatient rejection of the literary restrictions
which have so long insulted their intelligence and
moral courage.
Such, then, are the strength and the weakness re
spectively of the Church of Rome in the present stage
of its conflict. During its protracted existence it has
! encountered and triumphed over many kinds of opposi| tion. It emerged victorious from its secular struggle
| with polytheistic Rome and with the destructive neoI Hellenism of Alexandria; it met confidently and rose
upon the flood of barbarism that poured out over
I Southern Europe; it guided its fortunes safely through
g
a
I
�250
THE CHURCH OF ROME
the age of iron that followed, and then controlled the
fierce intellectual activity of the twelfth and thirteenth
centuries; it subdued and repressed the Renaissance
and almost compensated its losses in the great Re
formation. But the Church has never had so varied
and so powerful a host of adversaries to encounter as
it has at the present day. Apart altogether from the
rival Christian sects—and in point of fact these seem
more disposed to friendly alliance with it than to a
continued conflict—the number of opposing forces of
every character, intellectual, ethical, political, and
aesthetical, is a matter of grave consideration.
In the first place, there is Rationalism—taking the
term in its broad sense so as to include not only
“ naturalism,” but also that attenuated theism which
rejects orthodox Christianity in virtue of the results
of the Higher Criticism. In that sense the term does
not designate a single and homogeneous system, but a
huge collection of distinct and militant bodies—
Materialism, Agnosticism, Positivism, Pantheism,
Secularism, Theism, and Unitarianism. They may
all be safely grouped under the banner of anti-sacer
dotalism, and described as a formidable intellectual
movement directed against orthodox Christianity in
general and the Church of Rome in particular, the
most dogmatic, conservative, and unyielding section
of Christianity, led by the most powerful and most
skilfully organised priesthood the world has ever seen.
Non-Catholic sects have no stereotyped profession;
they yield and adapt themselves to pressure, as is so
well illustrated in Mr. Mallock’s “ New Republic.”
The revolutionary movement finds its chief antagonist
in the Church of Rome, which wages with it appar
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
251
ently a guerre a outrance. How extensive that move
ment is—embracing, as it does, all who accept the
results of philosophical, scientific, historical, and bibli
cal criticism—and how powerfully represented in every
branch of literature, is too well known and too fre
quently pointed out by clerical writers themselves to
need enlarging upon.
Then there is a distinctively modern force of an
ethical character which militates against the authority
of the Church. In the United States, England, and
Germany especially, a number of Ethical Societies
have been founded and propagated with much zeal.
They do not profess hostility to ecclesiastical institu
tions, but the mere fact that they advocate the trans
ference of ethical life to a non-theological basis marks
them out as enemies. The Church of Rome, in par
ticular, regards herself as the only effective guardian
of morality, and the ethical function of its priests is
their most prominent service. It will never submit
to the transfer of ethical interests to a secular institu
tion ; otherwise it would be reduced to the condition
of the Greek or Roman priesthood—a condition which
would not last long in modern times. Yet the Ethical
Societies rapidly grow in importance.
In the political world the Church has met with
harsh treatment from time immemorial, and its own
diplomatic power has grown keen in the long contest.
But the political anti-clerical movement of modern
times is in a very different position from the violent
movements of that character which are dispersed
throughout history. Until the last century the anti
clerical politician or diplomatist had no great antitheological system to fall back upon. Now, the large
�252
THE CHURCH OF ROME
body who are ever ready to spring up in reaction
against the Church’s political encroachments have a
powerful philosophy to appeal to. Formerly the
Church’s troubles generally came from a few sceptical
individuals; now they spring from large political
bodies, such as the Liberals of Spain and Belgium,
the Libres-Penseurs of France, and the Freemasons
of Italy. To the same great force must be added
(from the present point of view) a new and anxiously
regarded power—Socialism. The Church is very
sensible of approaching danger from this quarter; and
therefore, instead of its traditional practice of fiercely
opposing every new movement, we find it attempting
a compromise by patronising “ Christian Socialism.”
This sociological force does not spend much time in
discussing the Church’s credentials. The thinkers of
the modern world, it says, are fairly divided about the
religious problem, and that problem has, under their
attentions, assumed portentous dimensions; hence we
busy people must be content with a mild scepticism,
and if the Church crosses our path in reforming this
world so much the worse for it.
A fourth influence of a less tangible and definable
character may be set down under the head of Erotism.
It may be thought that this is no new danger, but the
world-old revolt of human nature against Christian
ethics. But there are two considerations which make
that influence present rather a new aspect. The first
is the enfeeblement of the popular faith in the super
natural. The fourteenth, fifteenth, and eighteenth
centuries were marked by great outbreaks of that
influence, or by the spread of public immorality; but
a keen faith still lurked in the popular mind, and the
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
253
Church could successfully appeal to it. A Savonarola
could meet and stem a veritable tide of Hellenism.
In the present division of the world of thought, and
seeing the imposing opposition to ecclesiastical teach
ing, that simple faith must be, and is, deeply affected;
and erotism gains proportionately in power and
stability. The second consideration is that this erot
ism, or revolt against traditional ethics, has become
speculative and ratiocinative, and seeks to organise its
votaries and systematise its protest. What is called
literary decadence is, perhaps, midway between
practical and organised immorality ; it is a great literary
power, very widespread in France, and on the increase
in England and Germany. The free-love movement
has also assumed important proportions, and counts
some eminent literary exponents. There is, further,
an aesthetic and Hellenistic school which will prove a
serious adversary of traditional ethics. In practice it
adheres to a severe Puritanism; in theory it is revolu
tionary. It cherishes the higher Greek ideal of love
(as found in Plato); venerates the writings of Whit
man, Nietzsche, and Carpenter; has all the fervour of
youth and the fanaticism of ascetics.
Such are the forces which the Church of Rome finds
opposed to it at the beginning of the twentieth century.
I hesitate to enter on the path of prophecy, but a few
observations may be offered as to the direction in which
we may seek development. In the first place, I wholly
dissent from Mr. H. G. Wells when he anticipates “ a
great revival of Catholicism,” and thinks it will out
live Protestantism. The Protestant or Puritan religious
temperament is as natural and enduring as the Catholic
or Ritualist. I do not believe either will survive the
�254
THE CHURCH OF ROME
other, though the Protestant sects are likely to relax
the sternness of their exclusion of the ministry of art
from the temple. And from what I have already said
in this chapter it will be clear that I do not accept
the current rationalistic feeling that Rome will survive
because of its doctrine of authority.
But so shrewd and informed an observer as Mr.
Wells has probably built on existing movements rather
than on theories, and here, it seems to me, he has
really even less support. There is every indication
that the Church of Rome has reached, and is already
falling away from, its high-water mark. Germany is
perhaps the only country where the Church has made
genuine progress in the last few decades 1; and against
this must be put the “ away from Rome ” movement
in Austria, the secession of many hundreds of priests
and a corresponding number of the laity to the
evangelical movement in France, and heavy losses in
the industrial northern provinces of Italy and Spain
and all over Belgium. But observers are misled chiefly
by the apparent advance of Roman Catholicism in the
English-speaking world. One might almost dismiss
that phenomenon with one word—the Irish dispersion.
The population of Ireland should be to-day, if it had
had a normal growth, about 17,000,000. It is actually
less than four millions and a half. The missing twelve
millions, mostly Roman Catholics, are in England,
Australia, and the United States. If the Roman
1 Again I must make a correction; and it is singular to note
that, wherever I erred in the first edition, I erred in favour of the
Church. I have shown in my ‘ ‘ Decay of the Church ofRome ” that it
is, on the confession of its own clergy, losing ground all over the
world. It has lost a hundred million followers in a hundred years.
Third edition.
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
255
Church in England had retained the population it had
at the beginning of the nineteenth century, as well
as the million of Irish immigrants, it should have to
day, apart from any conversions, about 2,500,000 souls.
I have proved (National Review, August 1901) that it
has not more than 1,250,000. In other words, its
losses are enormously larger than its gains. What I
have said of Catholicism in London and the provinces
will confirm this. I will add one other illustration.
There is a long strip of the Lancashire coast called
the Fylde which curiously retained the faith down to
the nineteenth century. But I was told a few years ago
by a priest who has worked for years in that district
that the old Catholic families are falling away to-day
in a remarkable manner. The last census taken in
Australia pointed to a distinct decrease of Catholicism
in that country. Recent inquiries in New York have
put that city on a level with London; against the great
parade of wealthy converts must be put immense losses
amongst the poor Irish and their descendants. The
overwhelming majority of the 12,000,000 Irish who
are missing from their country to-day are in the
United States; and they have made mixed marriages,
under the usual stringent conditions, on every side.
To these must be added a great immigration of Italian
and German Catholics. With these elements the ap
parent growth of Catholicism in the States is easily
explained. I will add one further observation on
Catholicism in France. It is acknowledged that French
men do not favour the Church. But when we remem
ber that the Church forbids the use of contraceptives
iunder pain of mortal sin, and then find the French
[population so long nearly stationary, and learn that
Kb
RE8»'
d
�256
THE CHURCH OF ROME
there are in France only some 200,000 women with
more than six children, we are forced to question
the authority of the Church even over the women.
Thus on patient consideration of the condition
of each country the proud Catholic claim of having
250,000,000 followers collapses like an inflated bladder.
The area of the Church’s influence is shrinking
yearly.
In former ages it compensated home losses by mis
sionary conquests; its actual paltry missionary profits
are little more than financial transactions. I have
spoken with missionaries from every one of the great
fields, and they all confirm the opinion. On public
platforms, of course, they deliver optimistic speeches,
at the end of which a collection is made; but in the
genial atmosphere of the sitting-room afterwards they
unbend, and unequivocally represent “ conversions ”
of natives as money matters.
And when we turn to consider the movements of
thought within the Church we seem to have another
indication of the coming development. If we cannot
admit either that Catholicism will in time absorb its
rivals, or will itself be superseded by them, there is
only one alternative. Its distinctive features will
gradually disappear, its rigid walls will cyumble away,
until at length it pours its historic stream of spiritual
effort into the broad unsectarian spirit of a later day.
By its distinctive features I do not understand the
famous “ four notes of the true Church—unity, holi
ness, universality, and apostolicity ”—which are in no
sense distinctive of the Church of Rome to-day. Its
characteristics are rather—asceticism, excessive dog
matism, elaborate ritual, and the Papacy. It seems
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
257
to me that these features are visibly altering, and that
we may confidently look forward to their complete
disappearance or transformation.
If one thing may be claimed to be established in
the preceding chapters it is that the ascetic spirit is
rapidly decaying in the Church of Rome. Here and
there a group of Carthusian monks 1 cling more or less
to the medieval idea, but throughout the monastic
world generally voluntary austerities are no longer
' practised, and the austerities enjoined by rule are
evaded, or compensated, as much as possible. When
this is true of the monks it is superfluous to discuss
the laity. The law of abstinence from flesh-meat on
certain days, the only ascetic practice now imposed
on them, is relaxing year by year. Before the century
is out Rome, too, will have quietly abandoned the
ascetic ideal. The decay of the dogmatic feeling
amongst Roman Catholics is less patent, but hardly less
real. Beneath the outward uniformity, which the
Vatican is still able to exact or to persuade, there is
the same difference of thought and feeling as in every
other sect. A considerable number of cases have
lately come to my knowledge of priests who are quite
as liberal as Dr. Mivart; in some cases as sceptical
as myself. They intend to remain in the Church,
and work for the removal of the emphasis from belief
to conduct. The twentieth century will witness most
considerable modifications in this respect. As the
1 I have repeatedly spoken of the asceticism of the Carthusian
monks. It is only fair to the reader to say that this is not beyond
. question. A friend of mine told me of certain personal experi
ences at the Grande Chartreuse in France, which made it clear that
at least a good part of the monks were far from ascetic. Third
edition.
�258
THE CHURCH OF ROME
Catholic ritual is only the artistic presentment of its
doctrines some changes in this are bound to ensue,
but—as we see so well in the decay of the old Roman
religion—forms and ceremonies may long survive the
beliefs that originally inspired them. There will also
be a ritual advance in the other Christian Churches,
so that here, too, the distinguishing feature tends to
disappear. Before many decades Latin will cease to
be the universal liturgical language; though in such
forms as the mass—a symbolic sacrifice which the
people only witness—it may remain indefinitely. And
the Papacy will be proportionately modified. In the
coming age of increasing centralisation and organisa
tion it is not at all likely that the Roman Catholics
will part with their magnificent polity. But the
Vatican will see strange changes. For a time the
aesthetic sense will persuade the new Catholicism to
tolerate the glitter and the stage-lightning of the
papal court. But it will gradually approximate to
the model of the actual Free Church organisation.
The president of the Church Catholic in the year 2000
will have as little resemblance to Leo XIII. in his
Sedia gestatoria as the president of the German
Republic of that date will have to William II.
To conclude by borrowing a fine metaphor from
Mr. Wells; it would be hazardous to say when the
Catholics may be expected finally to extinguish the
sectarian lantern by which they have so long guided
the steps of men. The day is fast breaking, and one
by one the old lights will disappear. But if our social
evolution is to be unequal—if we are content to leave
vast areas such as the workers, or women, in mental
obscurity—Catholicism may last indefinitely. If the
�THE CHURCH OF ROME
259
new light is to penetrate to every part of our social
structure, it cannot be many centuries before the last
faint flicker of the historic lamp will die out, nay,
will even be voluntarily extinguished in the blaze of
the coming day.
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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 Ethical Society
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Title
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Twelve years in a monastery
Description
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Edition: Third and revised ed.
Place of publication: London
Collation: ix, 11-259 p. : ill. (port.) ; 16 cm.
Series title: R.P.A. Cheap Reprints (New series)
Series number: No. 51
Notes: Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. First published, London: Smith, Elder, 1897. Publisher's advertisements inside front cover, and inside and on back cover. List of works by, or translated by, McCabe on preliminary pages.
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McCabe, Joseph [1867-1955]
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Watts and Co.
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1912
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N458
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Catholic Church
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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 (Twelve years in a monastery), 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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English
Joseph McCabe
Monasticism and Religious Orders
NSS
Roman Catholic Church
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KJ 4^
MODERN SCIENCE
AND MODERN THOUGHT
BY
S. LAING
AUTHOR OF “PROBLEMS OF THE FUTURE," »A MODERN ZOROASTRIAN,” “HUMAN ORIGINS,’’ ETC.
WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE ON THE AUTHOR BY
EDWARD CLODD
*
■
*
(ISSUED FOR THE RATIONALIST PRESS ASSOCIATION, Ltd.)
LONDON
WATTS AND CO., 17, JOHNSON’S COURT, FLEET STREET, E.C.
��INTRODUCTORY NOTE
The career of the author of this book was long, varied, and distinguished.
His father, Samuel Laing, after service in the Peninsular War, became, on the
death of an elder brother, Malcolm Laing, who was author of a meritorious
“ History of Scotland,” owner of the family estates in Orkney, where, for a time,
he developed the kelp industry with success. He is remembered as the author of
“Travels in Sweden and Norway,” which may still be read with advantage for its
trustworthy sketches of the general conditions of life in Scandinavia sixty years
ago. But, from the standpoint of scholarship, he did more valuable work in
translating the “ Heimskringla,” or chronicles of the kings of Norway, compiled in.
the twelfth century by an Icelandic poet-historian, Snorri Sturleson. The lyrical
portions of this old saga were translated by the subject of this brief notice.
After some vicissitudes of fortune, the father settled in Edinburgh, where
Samuel Laing was bom on 17th December, 1811. That is the date given by his
friend Mr. C. C. Macrae, in a privately-printed memoir issued in 1899, and may
be accepted as against the date 12th December, 1812, which is given in the
“ Dictionary of National Biography.”1 His education.was begun at Houghton-leSpring Grammar School, whence he passed as a “ pensioner” (the term means one
who pays for his commons out of his own income) to St. John’s College, Cambridge.
He graduated as second wrangler and second Smith’s prizeman, and in 1834 was
elected a Fellow of his College. For three years he was a mathematical “ coach,” and
in June, 1837, was called to the bar, where his acumen seized an opening as counsel
in connection with the many railway schemes then agitating the community. The
place and prominence which he thus secured led to his start in political life as
secretary to Mr. Henry Labouchere (afterwards Lord Taunton) who was then
(1839) President of the Board of Trade, and in the following year he was appointed
Counsel to the newly created Railway Department of that Board. Insistence on
the detail of the enormous volume of work which this involved is needless here,
but an example of its onerous nature may be cited from Mr. Macrae. “ In one
session, 1845, the Board reported on 331 separate Bills for various railways, and
on these no less than 240 separate reports were presented, each of which, supplying
’In the ninth edition of “ Men of the Time” (1875) the date 1810 is given.
�vi
INTRODUCTORY NOTE.
exhaustive analyses and criticisms, was entirely drafted by Mrs Laing.” His
reputation as a great railway administrator was yet to be made, but his influence
was manifest in many ways, notably in securing the daily running of the
“ Parliamentary ” or penny a mile trains, and it is admitted that had his counsels
been heeded, the results of the crisis which followed the wild railway speculation!
of that time would have been less disastrous.
In 1848, he accepted the Chairmanship and Managing Directorship of the
London, Brighton, and South Coast Railway, a position which, in the first instance,
he held till 1855. Three years before his retirement therefrom he entered Parliament
as Liberal member for Wick, but in 1857 his farsighted and creditable opposition
to the war against China cost him his seat. Two years afterwards he regained it,
becoming in June, 1860, Financial Secretary to the Treasury, a position which was
exchanged for the important post of Finance Minister of India, in succession to
the eminent economist James Wilson, father-in-law of Walter Bagehot, a man
never to be named without words of regret for the grievous loss to literature and
economics which his early death involved. Wilson had been carried-off by
dysentery in August, 1860, and Samuel Laing’s reputation marked him as the
fittest man to continue the task of reform rendered necessary by the financial
disorganisation into which the Mutiny and other serious causes had thrown the
revenue and expenditure of India. By prudent economies and readjustment of
taxes, Laing converted a deficit into a surplus, but the laborious work so told upon
his health that his return to England was compulsory. In 1865 he re-entered
Parliament, and in 1867 resumed his old position as Chairman of the Brighton
Railway, from which he retired only three years before his death, which occurred on
the 6th August, 1897. He lost his seat in 1868, and four years passed before he
was back at St. Stephen’s; this time as representative of Orkney and Shetland, for
which constituency he sat until his final retirement from political life in 1885.
It was then, when most men have warrant for margin of rest as fringe to
an active career, that Samuel Laing began the writing of a series of volumes
popularising the discoveries of modern science and the conclusions based on
those discoveries. Of these, “ Modern Science and Modern Thought ” was the
earliest, and remains the most acceptable. The veteran author wrote with no
prentice hand. .From time to time he had published pamphlets on political and
social questions ; his long training in the drafting of reports, and in the clear and
compendious presentment of abstruse matters, was enviable qualification for the
self-imposed task of his old age. Hence his skilful disentanglement of essentials
from accidentals, and of the general from the particular, rendered his books as
useful as they were opportune. Some twenty years before this he had done good
and original work in science. Under the title of “ Prehistoric Remains in
Caithness,” he published, in 1866, an account of stone implements, rude pottery,
human and other bones found in “kists ” in burial mounds, and in “middens ” or
shell-refuse heaps, in the neighbourhood of Keiss Castle. To this Professor Huxley
�INTRODUCTORY NOTE
vii
added a supplement of fifty pages, describing and illustrating the human skulls,
nine in all, and other portions of skeletons, some of which were grouped as
Thaymn or pre-Celtic. Mr. Laing expressed an opinion, warranted by the split
bones discovered among miscellaneous witnesses of feasting, that “ these aboriginal
savages were occasionally cannibals.
His interest in science was, therefore, no new-born thing, and the prominence
given to the human theme in all his books was the sequence (interrupted by
the claims of important commercial undertakings on his time) of years of
observation, of reading, and of reflection.
The main part of the book now
reprinted deals with man physically and psychically, and the titles of three out of
its four successors—namely, “A Modern Zoroastrian ” (1887), Antiquity of
Man” (1891), and “Human Origins” (1892)—evidence what a foremost place
the large question of man’s evolution and destiny filled in his mind.
The first part of “ Modern Science and Modern Thought ” is now sub
jected only to such revision as is required by the advance of knowledge during
the last seventeen years. The portions thus affected are those dealing with the
continuity of Palaeolithic and Neolithic man in Continental Europe; with the
recent discovery of remains, probably of an intermediate form between man and
ape, in Java ; and with the remarkable discoveries in Babylonia, which appear to
accord to that empire an earlier civilisation than that of Egypt. But the general
conclusions, as stated by the venerable author, are strengthened by the newer
evidence. In the second part, only a few verbal corrections have been made,'
since the arguments which are therein advanced against the theory of the
supernatural origin of the several documents making-up the New Testament, and,
consequently, against the claims as to revelation advanced on its behalf, need
neither addition or revision. And for the rest, we have the author’s confession of j
faith, and sage remarks on motives to right conduct, making appeal to minds of
the most opposite beliefs in a spirit which must ensure sympathy, if it does not
win assent.
The writer of this note had not the advantage of Samuel Laing’s personal
acquaintance, and it is, therefore, permissible to draw upon Mr. Macrae’s memoir
for some presentment of the man.
“He had the healthy body as well as the healthy mind; from youth till
advanced age he delighted in all field sports. He was fond of good art and music ;
his tastes in both were classical and old-fashioned.
Beethoven and the Italian
Operatic composers were his favourites; ‘ but he could not tolerate the formless
ness of the modern school led by Wagner.’ His conversation had distinction; he
detested gossip and idle talk. He had a retentive memory, and- ‘his accuracy,
even to historical details, was astonishing.’ His favourite authors were Scott and
Tennyson; in latter life, however, his reading was mainly restricted to scientific
books. His charities, always unostentatious, ‘ were, in proportion to his means,
liberal,’ and their variety manifested his toleration. Open-minded, he harboured
�INTRODUCTORY NOTE
viii
never a prejudice : nor was his equanimity ever ruffled, ‘ so that the idea of a Stoic
sage had become with him a habit of daily life and conduct.’ ... ‘He believed
in the people—in the masses—in their broad common-sense and honest judgment on
large questions which they understood, and it was mainly to their instruction
that he looked in the books that he wrote. His ideals were a plain, simple manner
of life, manly conduct and honest- work. His own long life was throughout an
example of these things, and as he had lived, so he continued to the end.’ ”
Edward Clodd.
June 21 st, 1902.
�AUTHOR’S PREFACE
The object of this book is to give a clear and concise view of the principal
Jesuits of Modern Science, and of the revolution which they have effected in
Modern Thought. I do not pretend to discover fresh facts or to propound new
theories, but simply to discharge the humbler though still useful task of present
ing what has become the common property of thinking minds, in a popular shape,
which may interest those who lack time and opportunity for studying special
subjects in more complete and technical treatises.
I have endeavoured also to give unity to the subjects treated of, by connecting
them with leading ideas; in the case of Science, that of the gradual progress
from human standards to those of almost infinite space and duration, and the
prevalence of law throughout the universe to the exclusion of supernatural inter
ference; in the case of Thought, the bearings of these discoveries on old creeds
and philosophies, and on the practical conduct of life. The endeavour to show
how much of religion can be saved from the shipwreck of theology has been the
main object of the second part. Those who are acquainted with the scientific
literature of the day will at once see how much I have been indebted to Darwin,
Lyell, Lubbock, Huxley, Proctor, and other well-known writers. In fact, the
first part of this book does not pretend to be more than a compendious popular
abridgment of their works. I prefer, therefore, acknowledging my obligations to
them once for all, rather than encumbering each page by detailed references.
The second part contains more of my own reflections on the important sub.
jects discussed, and must stand or fall on its own merits rather than on authority.
I can only say that I have endeavoured to treat these subjects in a reverential
spirit* and that the conclusions arrived at are the result of a conscientious and
dispassionate endeavour to arrive' at the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth.”
��CONTENTS
PART I
MODERN
SCIENCE
CHAPTER I
PAGE
1
Comets, and Meteors—Has acted through all Time.
CHAPTER II
8
Modern Thought.
CHAPTER III
19
Sd Motion-Conservation of Energy-Electricity, Magnetism, and Chemical Action
_ Dissipation of Heat—Birth and Death of Worlds.
CHAPTER IV
29
L
-n
f
t
<51Tnr>lpqt Form Protoplasm—Monera and Protista—Animal and
VeZabh°f ?'ri“
'T’f or
Supernatural Theory-Zoological Provinces-Separate Creations-Law ’::
OpHs
MSde-DarwSn Theory-Struggle for Life-Survival of the Fittest-Development
and Design—The Hand—Proof required to establish Darwin s Theory as a Law
Species—Hybrids—Man subject to Law.
CHAPTER V
39
ANTIQUITY OF MAN..........................................................................................................
.
„
„
a
,
■Rplipf in Man’s Recent Origin—Boucher de Perthes’ Discoveries—Confirmed by
moth, etc.—Human Types—Neanderthal, SPY’^^^^Dwdfings^lacia^
—Bronze Age—Neolithic—Danish Kitchen-middens—Swiss Lake-Dwellings Glacial
Period—Traces of Ice—Causes of Glaciers-Croll’s Theory-Gulf Stream-Dates of
Glacial Period-Rise and Submergence of Land-Tertiary Man-Eocene PenodMiocene—Evidence for Pliocene and Miocene Man—Conclusions as to Antiquity.
�xii
CONTENTS
CHAPTER VI
man’s place in nature...............................................
Origin of Man from an Egg—Like other Mammals—Development of the EmbryoBackbone—Eye and other Organs*of Sense—Fish, Reptile, and Mammalian Stages—
Comparison with Apes and Monkeys—Germs of Human Faculties in Animals—The
Dog-Insects—Helplessness of Human Infant-Instinct-Heredity and EvolutionThe Missing Link—Races of Men—Leading Types and Varieties—Common Origin
Distant-Language-How formed-Grammar-Chinese, Aryan, Semitic, etc.-Con
clusions from Language-Evolution and Antiquity-Religions of Savage RacesGhosts and Spirits—Anthropomorphic Deities—Traces in Neolithic and Palaeolithic
limes—Development by Evolution—Primitive Arts—Tools and Weapons-Fire—
Hint Impiements—Progress from Paleolithic to Neolithic Times—Domestic Animals
—Clothing—Ornaments—Conclusion, Man a Product of Evolution
PASS
65
<
PART II
MODERN
THOUGHT
CHAPTER VII
MODERN THOUGHT
....................................................................
83
Lines from Tennyson-The Gospel of Modern Thought—Change exemplified by
Carlyle, Renan, and George Eliot—Science becoming Universal—Attitude of
Orthodox Writers—Origin of Evil—First Cause unknowable—New Philosophies and
Religions—Herbert Spencer and Agnosticism—Comte and Positivism—PessimismMormonism—Spiritualism—Dreams and Visions—Somnambulism—Mesmerism.
CHAPTER VIII
Q2
MIRACLES..............................................
Origin of Belief in the Supernatural—Thunder—Belief in Miracles formerly Universal
—St. Pauls Testimony—Now Incredible—Christian Miracles—Apparent Miracles—
Beal Miracles—Absurd Miracles—-Worthy Miracles—The Resurrection and Ascension
mK tU/^e °* ®v’^ence required—Inspiration—Prophecy—Direct Evidence—St Paul
—The Gospels—What is Known of Them—The Synoptic Gospels—Resemblances and
Differences—Their Origin—Papias—Gospel of St. John—Evidence rests on Matthew,
Mark, and Luke—What each states—Compared with one another and with St John
—Hopelessly Contradictory—Miracle of the Ascension—Silence of Mark—Probable
Early Date of Gospels—But not in their Present Form.
CHAPTER IX
CHRISTIANITY WITHOUT MIRACLES........................................................................................................................
Practical and Theoretical Christianity—Example and Teaching of Christ—Christian
Dogma—Moral Objections—Inconsistent with Facts—Must be accepted as Parables—
Fall and Redemption—Old Creeds must be Transformed or Die—Mahometanism_
Decay of Faith—Balance of Advantages—Religious Wars and Persecutions_ In
tolerance—Sacrifice—Prayer—Absence of Theology in Synoptic Gospels—Opposite
Pole to Christianity—Courage and Self-reliance—Belief in God and a Future LifeBased mainly on Christianity—Science gives no Answer—Nor Metaphysics—So-called
Intuitions—Development of Idea of God—Best Proof afforded by Christianity—
Evolution is Transforming it—Reconciliation of Religion and Science.
CHAPTER X
PRACTICAL LIEB........................................................................................................................................................................
Conscience—Right is Right—Self-reverence—Courage—Respectability—Influence of
Press—Respect for Women—Self-respect of Nations—Democracy and Imperialism—•
Self-knowledge—Conceit—Luck—Speculation—Money-making—Practical Aims of
Life—Self-control—Conflict of Reason and Instinct—Temper—Manners—Good Habits
in Youth—Success in Practical Life—Education—Stoicism—Conclusion.
113
�MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
PART I.—MODERN SCIENCE
CHAPTER I
SPACE
Ideas—Natural Standards—Dimensions of the Earth— Of Sun and Solar
System—Distance of Fixed Stars—Their
Order and Size—Nebulae and other Universes—The Telescope and the Infinitely
Great—The Microscope and the Infinitely
Small—Uniformity of Law—Law of Gravity
-«-Acts through all Space—Double Stars,
Comets, and Meteors—Has acted through
all Time.
The first ideas of space were naturally
taken from the standard of man’s own
impressions. The inch, the foot, the cubit,
the fathom, were the lengths of portions
of his own body, obviously adapted for
measuring objects with which he came in
direct contact. The mile was the dis
tance traversed in 1,000 double paces; the
league the distance walked in an hour.
The visible horizon suggested the idea
that the earth was a flat, circular surface
like a round table; and as experience
shewed that it extended beyond the
limits of a single horizon, the conception
was enlarged and the size of the table
increased so as to take in all the countries
known to the geography of successive
periods.
In like manner the sun, moon, and
stars were taken to be at the distance at
which they appeared ; that is, first of the
•visible horizon, and then of the larger
circle to which it had been found neces:sary to expand it. It was never doubted
that they really revolved, as they seemed
to do, round this flat earth circle, dipping
under it in the west at night, and re,appealing in the east with the day. The
conception of the universe, therefore,
was of a flat, circular earth, surrounded
by an ocean stream, in the centre of a
crystal sphere which revolved in twenty*
four hours round the earth, and in which
the heavenly bodies were fixed as lights
for man’s use to distinguish days and
seasons. The maximum idea of space was
therefore determined by the size of th#
earth circle which was necessary to takein all the regions known at the time, with
a little margin beyond for the ocean
stream, and the space between it and the
crystal vault, required to enable the latter
to revolve freely. In the time of Homer,
and the early Greek philosophers, this
would probably require a maximum of
space of from 5,000 to 10,000 miles. This
dimension has been expanded by modern
science into one of as many millions, or
rather hundreds of millions, as there were
formerly single miles, and there is no sign
that the limit has been reached.
How has this wonderful result been
attained, and how do we feel certain that
it is true ? Those who wish thoroughly
to understand it must study standard
works on Astronomy, but it may be
possible to give some clear idea of the
processes by which it has been arrived
at, and of the cogency of the reasoning
by which we are compelled to accept
facts so contrary to the first impressions
of our natural senses.
The fundamental principle upon which
all measurements of space, which are
beyond the actual application of human
standards, depend, is this : that distant
objects change their bearings for a given
change of base, more or less in propor
tion as they are less or more distant.
�2
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
Suppose I am on. board a steamer’ sailing
down the Thames, and I see two churches
on the Essex coast directly opposite to
me, or bearing due north, the first of
which is one mile, and the other ten miles,
distant. I sail one mile due east and
again take the bearings. It is evident
that the first church will now bear north
west, or have apparently moved through
45 , i.e., one-eighth part of the circumfer
ence of a complete circle, assuming this
circumference to be divided into 360 equal
parts or degrees ; while the more distant
church will only have altered its bearing
by a much less amount, easily determined
by calculation, but which may be taken
roughly at 5° instead of 45°.
The branch of mathematics known as
Trigonometry enables us in all cases,
without exception, where we know the
apparent displacement or change of bear
ing of a distant object produced by taking
it from the opposite ends of a known base,
to calculate the distance of that object
with as much ease and certainty as if we
were working a simple sum of rule of
three. The first step is to know our base,
and for this purpose it is essential to
know the size and form of the earth on
which we live. These are determined by
very simple considerations.
If I walk a mile in a straight line, an
object at a vast distance like a star will
not change its apparent place perceptibly.
But if I walk the same distance in a semi
circle, what was originally on my left
hand will now be on my right, or will
have changed its apparent place by 180°.
If I walk my mile on the circumference
of a circle of twice the size, I shall have
traversed a quadrant or one-fourth part
of it, and changed the bearing of the
distant object exactly half as much, or
90°, and so on, according to the size of
the circle, which may therefore be readily
calculated from the length that must be
travelled along it to shift the bearing of
the remote object by a given amount,
say of 1°.
’
If, for instance, by travelling 65 miles
from north to south we lower the ap
parent height of the Pole star 1°, it is
mathematically certain that we have
travelled this 65 miles, not along a flat
surface, but along a circle which is 360
times 65, or, in round numbers, 24,000
miles in circumference and 8,000 miles in
diameter. And if, whenever we travel
the same distance on a meridian or line
drawn on the circumference from north
to south, we find the same displacement
of 1°, we may be sure that our journey
has been in a true circle, and that the
form of the earth is a perfect sphere of
these dimensions.
�SPACE
Now, this is very nearly what actually
occurs when we apply methods of scientific accuracy to measure the earth. The
true form of the earth is not exactly
spherical, but slightly oval or flatter at the
poles, being almost precisely the form it
would have assumed if it had been a fluid
XftMS rotating about a north and south
axis. But it is very nearly spherical, the
true polar diameter being 7,899 miles,
and the true equatorial diameter 7,926
miles, so that for practical purposes we
may say roughly that the earth is a
spherical body, 24,000 miles round and
8,000 miles across.
This gives us a fresh standard from
which to start in measuring greater
distances. Precisely as we inferred the
distance of the church from the steamer
in our first illustration, we can infer the
distance of the sun from its displacement
caused by observing it from two opposite
ends of a base of known length on the
garth’s surface. This is the essential
principle of all the calculations, though
when great accuracy is sought for, very
refined methods of applying the principle
are required, turning mainly on the
extent to which the apparent occurrence
of the same event—such as the transit of
Venus over the sun’s disc—is altered by
observing it from different points at
known distances from one another on
the earth’s surface. The result is to show
that the sun’s distance from the earth is,
in round numbers, 93,000,000 miles. This
is not an exact statement, for the earth’s
orbit is not an exact circle, but the sun
and earth really revolve in ellipses about
the common centre of gravity. The sun,
however, is so much larger than the earth
that this centre of gravity falls within
the sun’s surface, and, practically, the
earth describes an ellipse about the sun,
the 93,000,000 miles being the mean distance, and the eccentricity or deviation
irom the exact circular orbit, being about
one-sixtieth part of that mean distance.
This distance, again, gives us the size of
the sun, for it is easily calculated how
large the sun must be to look as large as it
does at a distance of 93,000,000 miles.
The result is, that it is a sphere of about
865,000 miles in diameter. Its bulk, there
fore, exceeds that of the earth in the pro
portion of 1,300,000 to 1. Its density, or
the quantity of matter in it, may be
calculated from the effect of its action on
the earth under the law of gravity at the
3
distance of 93,000,000 miles. It weighs
as much as 332,000 earths.
The same method gives us the distance,
size, and weight of the moon and planets;
and it gives us a fresh standard or base
from which to measure still greater dis
tances. The distance of the earth from the
sun being 93,000,000 miles, and its orbit
an ellipse nearly circular, it follows that
it is in mid-winter, in round numbers,
186,000,000 miles distant from the spot
where it was at midsummer. What
difference in the bearings of the fixed
stars is caused by traversing this enor
mous base ?
The answer is, in the immense majority
of cases, no difference at all; i.e., their dis
tance is so vastly greater than 186,000,000
miles that a change of base to this extent
makes no change perceptible to the most
refined instruments in their bearings as
seen from the earth. But the perfection
of modern instruments is such, that a
change of even one second, or g/g^th part
of one degree, in the annual parallax, as
it is called, of any fixed star, would
certainly be detected.
This corresponds to a distance of 206,265
times the length of the base of 186,000,000
miles, or of 20,000,000,000,000 miles,
a distance which it would take light)
moving at the rate of 186,000 miles per
second, three years and eighty-three days
to traverse. There is only one star in
the whole heavens, a bright star called
Alpha, in the constellation of the Centaur,
which is known to be as near as this. Its
annual parallax is 0'976", or very nearly
1", and therefore its distance very nearly
20 millions of millions of miles. All the
other stars, of which many millions are
visible through powerful telescopes, are
further off than this.
There are about eight other stars which
have been estimated by astronomers to
give indications of an annual parallax of
less than half a second, and therefore
whose distances may be somewhere from
twice to ten times as great as that of
Alpha Centauri. From the quantity of
light sent to us from these distances,
some approximation has been made to
their intrinsic splendour as compared
with our sun. That of Alpha Centauri
is computed to be nearly 2| times ; that
of Sirius, the brightest star in the
heavens, 393 times ; greater than that of
the sun. These figures may or may not
represent greater size or greater intensity
B 2
�4
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
of light, and they are quoted only to give
some idea of the vastness of the scale of
the universe of which our solar system
forms a minute part.
Nor does even this nearly fathom the
depth of the abysses of space. Telescopes
enable us to see a vast multitude of stars
of varying size and brilliancy. It is com
puted by astronomers that'there are at
least one hundred millions of stars within
the range of the telescopes used by
Herschel for gauging the depth of space,
and a thousand millions within the range
of the great reflecting telescope of Lord
Bosse. As many as eighteen different
orders of magnitude have been counted,
and the more the power of telescopes is
increased the more stars are seen. Now,
as there is no reason to suppose that this
extreme variety of brilliancy arises from
extreme difference of size of one star
from another, it must be principally
owing to difference of distance, so that a
star of the eighteenth magnitude is pre
sumably many times further off than any
of the first magnitude, the distance of
the nearest of which has been proved to
be something certainly not less than
20,000,000,000,000 miles. In fact, these
stellar distances are so great that in
order to bring them at all within the
range of human imagination we are
obliged to apply another standard, that
of the velocity of light. Light can be
shown to travel at the rate of about 178
millions of miles in 16 minutes, for this
is the difference of the time at which we
see the same periodical occurrence, as for
instance the eclipses of Jupiter’s satel
lites, according as the earth happens to
be at the point of its orbit nearest to
Jupiter, or at that farthest away. The
velocity of light is therefore about
186,000 miles per second, a velocity which
has been fully confirmed by direct ex
periments made on the earth’s surface.
These enormous distances are reckoned,
therefore, by the number of years which
it would take light to come from them,
travelling as it does at the rate of
186,000 miles a second. The nearest fixed
star, Alpha Centauri, is seen by a ray
which left it three years and eighty-three
days ago, and has been travelling ever
since at the rate of 186,000 miles per
second. Sirius, the brightest of the fixed
stars, if the determination of its annual
parallax, is correct, is six times further
off, and is seen, not as it exists to-day,
but as it existed nearly twenty years
ago ; and the light we now see from some
of the stars of the eighteenth magnitude
can hardly have left them less than 2,000
years ago.
Even this, however, is far from ex
hausting our conception of the magnitude
of space. Beyond the stars which are
near enough to be seen separately, power
ful. telescopes show a galaxy in which the
united lustre of myriads of stars is only
perceptible as a faint nebulous gleam.
And in addition to stars the telescope
shows us a number of nebulae, or faint
patches of. light, sometimes globular,
sometimes in wreaths, spiral wisps, and
other fantastic shapes, scattered about
the heavens. Some of these are resolved
by powerful telescopes into clusters of
stars inconceivably numerous and re
mote, which appear to be separate
universes, like that of which our sun and
fixed stars form one. Others again
cannot be so resolved, and are shown by
the spectroscope to be enormous masses
of glowing gas, or cosmic matter, out of
which other universes are in process of
formation.
We are thus led, step by step, to enlarge
our ideas of space from the primitive
conception of miles and leagues, until
the imagination fails to grasp the infinite
vastness of the scale upon which the
material universe is really constructed.
If the telescope takes us thus far
beyond the standards of unaided sense in
the direction of the infinitely great,
the microscope, aided by calculations as
to the nature of light, heat, electricity,
and chemical action, takes us as far in
the opposite direction of the infinitely
small. The microscope enables us actu
ally to see magnitudes of the order of
Too&ooJh of an inch as clearly as the
naked eye can see those of Wth. This
introduces us into a new world, where we
can see a whole universe of things both
dead and alive of whose existence our
forefathers had no suspicion. A glass of
water is seen to swarm with life, and be
the abode of bacteria, amoebae, rotifers,
and other minute creatures, which dart
about, feed, digest, and propagate their
species in this small world of their own,
very much as jelly-fish and other humble
organisms do in the larger seas. The air
also is shown to be full of innumerable
germs and spores floating in it, and ready
to be deposited and spring into life,
�SPACE
5
wherever they find a seed-bed fitted to periods, in obedience to the same law.
receive them. Given a favourable soil in Clouds of meteoric dust revolve in fixed
the human frame, and the invisible seeds orbits, determined by the law of gravity
of scarlet fever, cholera, and small-pox as surely as the moon revolves round the
ripen into full crops, just as the germs of earth, and the earth round the sun.
This is a conclusion of such funda
a fungus invade the potato crops of a
whole district, and lead to Irish famines mental importance that it is desirable to
fejMt the extermination of more than a give the uninitiated reader some clear
idea of what it means, and how it is
yaillion of human beings.
The microscope also enables us to see arrived at. Newton’s great discovery,
the very beginnings of life and watch its the law of gravity, is this—that all
primitive element, protoplasm, in the matter acting in the mass attracts other
form of a minute speck of jelly-like matter directly as the amount of attract
matter, through which pulsations are ing matter, and inversely as the square
constantly passing, and we can watch the of the distance. That is, 2 or 2,000,000
transformations by which an elementary tons attract with twice the force of 1 OF
cell of this substance splits up, multi- 1,000,000 tons at the same distance, but
plies, and by a continued process of with only one-fourth, of the same force
development builds up with these cells at double, and one-ninth at triple _thfe
all the diversified forms of vegetable and distance.
How is this law proved 1 This will be
animal life.
But far as the microscope carries us best answered by explaining how. it was
Sown to dimensions vastly smaller than discovered. The force of gravity^ or
those of which the ordinary senses can attraction of the earth on bodies at the
take cognizance, the modern sciences of earth’s surface, is a known quantity^
light, heat, and chemistry carry us as The whole matter in a spherical body
much farther downwards, as the telescope attracts exactly as if it were all collected
parries us upwards beyond the boundaries at the centre. The force of gravity at the
of our solar system into the expanses of earth’s surface is, therefore, that of the
stars and nebulae. We are transported earth’s mass exerted at a distance of
Into a world of atoms, molecules, and about 4,000 miles, and this can be easily
iight-waves, where the standard of measured by observing the space fallen
Measurement is no longer in feet or through, and the velocity acquired,
Inches, oreven in one-hundred-thousandth by a falling body in a given tim^ such
part of an inch, but in millionths of as 1".
Does the same force act at the distance
Millimetres, i.e., in
of an
inch. The dimensions are such that, as of the moon, or 238,850 miles 1 This was
we shall see when we come to deal with the question Newton asked himself, and
matter, if the drop of water in which the the answer was got at in the following
Microscope shows us living animalcula way. If we swing a stone in a sling round
were magnified to the size of the earth, our head, it describes a circle as long.aS
the atoms of which it is composed would we keep the string tight, and its pull in
appear of a size intermediate between wards just balances the pull of the stone
to fly outwards, i.e., to use scientific
that of a rifle-bullet and a cricket-ball.
This, then, is Nature’s scale of space, language, as long as the centripetal just
from millionths of a millimetre up to balances the centrifugal force. But if
millions of millions of miles. Through we let go the string the stone darts off in
out the whole of this enormous range of the direction in which, and with the vel®^
city with which, it was moving when the
space the laws of Nature prevail.
Mattei’ attracts matter by the same law centripetal force ceased to act.
The moon is such a sling-stone re
of gravity in the case of double stars revolving about each other at a distance at volving about the earth. At each instant
which a base of 186,000,000 miles has it is moving in the direction of a tangent
long since become a vanishing point, and to its orbit, and would move on m a
in the case of atoms which form the sub- straight line along this tangent if it were
stance of a gas, as in that of an apple not deflected from it by some other force.
falling from a tree at the earth’s surface. That is, if the moon were now at Mt, it
Comets, darting off into the remote would, after a given interval of time, be
regions of space, return after long at M2 if no force had acted on it. But
�6
modern science and modern thought
in point of fact it is not at M2 but at M3.
Therefore it has been pulled down from
M2 to M3, or, if you like, fallen through
the space M2 M3 in the
time in which it would
have travelled over Mx
M2 with its velocity at
Mj. How does this space
correspond with the
space through which a
heavy body would have
fallen in the same time
at the earth’s surface ?
It corresponds exactly,
assuming the law of
gravity to be that it
. decreases with
the
square of the distance.
This may be taken as the first appro
ximation, but the more accurate and
universal proofs of the law are derived
from mathematical calculations of what
the nature of the attractions must be, in
the case of the sun, earth, moon, and
planets, to. make them describe such
elliptic orbits and observe such laws, as
from Kepler s observations we know
actually to be the case. The answer here
again is the law of gravity, and no other
possible law, and this is confirmed in
piactice. by tlie fact that we are able, by
calculations based on it, to satisfy the
requisite of safe prophecy—that of know
ing beforehand, and to predict eclipses,
comets, transits, and occultations, and
generally to.compile Hautical Almanacs,
by which ships know their whereabouts
in pathless oceans.
. This, then, affords us a first firm stand
ing-point in any speculations as to the
nature of the universe. One great law,
at any rate, is universal throughout all
space, and, as we shall see later, suns,
stars, and nebulae are composed of the
same matter as the earth and its in
habitants.
In like manner comets and meteors,
though presenting in other respects
phenomena not yet fully understood, are
proved to obey the same laws and to
consist . of the same matter. Comets
are bodies which revolve round the sun,
and are attracted by it and by the
planets, in obedience to the ordinary law
of gravity, though their density is so
slight, that although often of enormous
volume, they produce no perceptible
effect on the planets, even when en
tangled amidst the satellites of a planet,
as Lexell’s comet was amongst those of
Jupiter.
Their dimensions may be judged of
when it is stated that the comet of 1811
had a tail 120 millions of miles in length
and 15 millions of miles in diameter at
the widest part, while the diameter of the
nucleus was about 127,000 miles, or more
than 15 times that of the earth. In order
that bodies of this magnitude, passing
near the earth, should not affect its
motion or change the length of the year
by even a single second, their actual
substance must be inconceivably rare.
If the tail, for instance, of the comet of
1843 had consisted of the lightest sub
stance known to us, hydrogen gas, its
mass would have exceeded that of the
sun, and every planet would have been
dragged from its. orbit. As Proctor says :
“A jar-full of air would probably have
outweighed hundreds of cubic miles of
that vast appendage which blazed across
the skies to the terror of the ignorant
and superstitious.”
. The extreme tenuity of a comet’s mass
is also proved by the phenomenon of the
tail, which, as the comet approaches the
sun, is thrown out sometimes to a length
of 90 millions of miles in a few hours.
And what is remarkable, this tail is
thrown out against the force of gravity
by some repulsive force, probably elec
trical, so that it always points away from
the sun. Thus a comet which approaches
the sun with a tail behind it, will, after
passing its perihelion, recede from the
sun with its tail before it, and this
although the tail may be of the length of
200 millions of miles, as in the comet of
1843. In the course of a few hours,
therefore, this enormous tail has been
absorbed and a new one started out in an
opposite direction. And yet, thin as the
matter of comets must be, it obeys the
common law of gravity, and whether the
comet revolves in an orbit within that of
the outer planets, or shoots off into the
abysses of space and returns only after
hundreds of years, its path is, at each
instant, regulated by the same force as
that which causes an apple to fall to the
ground; and its matter, however atten
uated, is ordinary matter, and does not
consist of any unknown elements. The
spectroscope shows that comets shine
partly by reflected sunlight and partly
by light of their own, the latter part
being gaseous, and this gas, in most
�SPACE
comets, contains carbon and hydrogen,
■possibly also oxygen, in the form of
Kydrocarbons or marsh gas, cyanogen
and possibly oxygen compounds of carbon. One comet has recently given the
line of sodium, and the presence of iron
is strongly suspected.
As regards meteors, which include
shooting stars and aerolites, it has been
long known, from actual masses which
have fallen on the earth, that they are
composed of terrestrial matter, princi
pally of iron, which has been partially
fused by the heat engendered by the
friction of the rapid passage through the
air. The recurrence of brilliant displays
at regular intervals, as for instance those
of August and November, when the whole
sk'y often seems alive with shooting stars,
had also been noticed ; but it was re
served for recent times to prove that
these«meteor streams are really composed
of small planetary bodies revolving round
the sun in fixed orbits by the force of
gravity, and that their display, as seen
by us, arises from the earth in its revolu
tion round the sun happening to intersect
some of these meteoric orbits, and the
friction of our atmosphere setting fire to
and consuming the smaller meteors which
appear as shooting stars. This shows
the enormous number of meteors by
which space must be tenanted. It is
proved that the earth encounters more
than a hundred meteor systems, but the
chance of any one ring or system being
intersected by the earth is extremely
small, as the earth is such a minute speck
in the whole sun-surrounding space of
the solar system. On a scale on which
the earth’s orbit was represented by a
circle of 10 feet diameter, the earth itself
would be only about T|oth of an inch in
diameter, so that if, as astronomers say,
the earth encounters about a hundred
meteor systems in the course of its
annual revolution, space must swarm
with an innumerable number of these
minute bodies all revolving round the
sun by the force of gravity.
Has this law of gravity been uniform
through all time as it undoubtedly is
through all space ? We have every
reason to believe so. The law of gravity,
which is the foundation of most of what
we call the natural laws of geological
action, has certainly prevailed, as will be
shown later, through tin enormous periods
of geological time, and far beyond this
we can discern it operating in those
astronomical changes by which cosmic
matter has been condensed into nebulae,
nebulae into suns throwing off planets,
and planets throwing off satellites, as
they cooled and contracted. Double stars
at a distance exceeding 20 millions of
millions of miles revolve round their
common centre of gravity by this Jaw.
Atoms and molecules almost infinitely
smaller than millionths of millimetres
derive from it their specific weights with
as much certainty as if they were pounds
or hundredweights.
We cannot speak with quite the same
certainty of infinite time as we can
of infinite space, for we have.no tele
scopes to gauge the abysses of time, and
no certain standards, like those of th©
known dimensions of our solar system,
to apply to periods too vast for the
imagination.
But we can say this with certainty,
that the present law of gravity must
have prevailed when the outermost
planet of our system, Neptune, was con
densed into a separate body and began
revolving in its present orbit, and that it
has continued to act ever since; while,
as a matter of probability, it is as nearly
certain as anything can be, that the law
by which the apple falls to the ground is
an original condition of matter.
What space and matter really may be,
we do not know, and if we attempt to
reason about the limits of the one and th©
origin of the other, if origin it had, we
get into the misty realms of metaphysics,
where, like Milton’s fallen angels, we
Find no end in wandering mazes lost.
�&
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
boulders and coarse gravel, sometime!
shingle, sand, or fine mud, and, carrying
CHAPTER II
this material sometimes to a greater and
* TIME
sometimes to a less distance, according
to the velocity of the stream.
Evidence of Geology—Stratification—Denu
Ages hence, when the lake has been
dation—Strata identified by Superposition
converted into dry land, it will be as
—By Fossils—Geological Record shown by ceitain, whenever a pit is dug or a well
Upturned Strata—General Result—Palaeosunk in it, that it was the work of a
ane and Primary Periods—Secondary—
river flowing into a lake, as it is to-day,
lertmry—Plme required-Coal Formation
—Chalk-Elevations and Depressions of when we can see them at work.
Band—Internal Heat of Earth—Earth T 1 nd 7r!at is tr^e of the Rhone and the
quakes and Volcanoes-Changes of Fauna if+ k of Geneva, is true on a larger scale
®md P lora—Astronomical Time—Tides and of the Ganges, the Mississippi, and of
every sea or ocean, with every river or
the Moon—Sun’s Radiation—Earth’s Cooltorrent pouring into it.
\nrSrGem?Sy and Astronomy-BearingS on
Modern Thought.
Again, the sea is perpetually wearing
the
of
Geology has done for time what as- awaycliff's coasts soft all lands, and, where
the
are
and the tides and
ti onomy has for space—it has expanded currents strong, at a very rapid rate,
the limited ideas derived from natural
lhe materials swallowed-up are rolled as
impression and early tradition into those shingle, ground into sand, or floated as
of an almost infinite duration. This 1
Jnud, an
result is so important that it is desirable laid down at d all finallyofassorted and
the bottom
the sea, not
that all educated persons, without being in a confused heap, but in regular sucprofessed geologists, should have some
clear idea of the nature of the con ^^n- Gn some of them generations
of shell-fish and other marine creatures
clusions and of the evidences on which live and die, and their remains are
they rest.
covered over by fresh sands or clays, and
This I will endeavour to give.
preserved for future geologists. All this
When we come to examine the struc is
examine
ture of the earth-or rather of the outer thegoing on now, and when we the same
find that precisely
erust of the earth which we inhabit— sort rocks we has been going on from the
of
with the care and precision of scientific newest thing
to
methods, we find that it is not of uniform exception the oldest strata. With the
Composition, but consists mainly of dis amount of of a comparatively small
igneous rock, which has
tinct layers, or strata, lying one over the
other. This is true not only of the boiled-up from deep sources of molten
larger beds, or distinct formations, but matter, and been poured-out in sheets of
lava, or
porphyry,
°! ,. details of each formation, many granite, masses of trap,the amountand
according to
of
of which are built up as regularly as the pressure it has undergone and the time
layers of the Great Pyramid, while others it has taken to cool and crystallise, all the
are made up of layers no thicker than e&rth s surface may be said to consist of
the leaves of a book.
Now consider what this fact of strati stratified matter, showing clear signs of
fication implies. In the first place it having been deposited from water. Some
implies deposit from water, for there is of the oldest rocks, such as gneiss, may
no other agency by which materials can be a little doubtful, as they have clearly
be sorted out and thrown down in hori been subjected to great heat under great
zontal layers, while this agency is now pressure, until they became plastic
doing the same thing every day and all enough to crystallise as they cooled, and
over the world. The Rhone flows into thus destroy any fossils embedded in them
the Bake of Geneva a turbid stream, and and obliterate most of the ordinary signs
tiows out of it as clear as crystal. AU of stratification. But the opinion of the
the matter it brings in is deposited at best geologists is that they were originthe bottom of the lake, and in course of a iT stratified, and have become what is
time will fill it up. This deposit varies called metamorphic,” or changed by
with every alternation of flood and heat and pressure into the semblance of
igneous rocks. But even
drought; the river depositing sometimes included, enough remains if these are not
to justify the
�TIME
general assertion that th® outer crust of
the earth, as known to us, is made up
mainly of stratified materials which have
been deposited from water.
Now this implies another most im
portant fact, viz., that there must, have
been waste or denudation of existing
land corresponding to the deposit of
Stratified materials under water. Water
cannot generate these materials, and
every square mile of such strata, say 10
feet thick, implies the removal of 10 feet
from a square mile of land surface by
rains and rivers, or of an equivalent
amount of cubical content in some other
way, as by the erosion of a coast line.
This is a very important consideration
wThen we come to estimate the time re
quired for the formation of such a thick
ness of stratified beds as we find existing.
There must have been a fundamental
crystalline rock as the earth cooled-down
from a fluid state and acquired a solid
©rust, and this rock must have been worn
down by primeval seas and rivers as the
progressive cooling admitted of the con
densation of aqueous vapour into water.
The waste of this primitive crust must
have been deposited in strata at the
bottom of those seas in thick masses,
covering the original rock, and these
again must have been partly crystallised
by heat and pressure, and over and over
again upheaved and submerged, and
themselves worn down by fresh erosion,
forming fresh deposits which underwent
a repetition of the same process.
A third important inference from the
fact of stratification is that all strata
must have been originally deposited
horizontally, or very nearly so, and in
such order that the lowest is the oldest.
Suppose we fill a jar with water, and
put some white sand into it, and when
that has subsided to the bottom and the
water is clear, some yellow sand, and
again some red sand, it is clear that we
shall have at the bottom of the jar three
horizontal deposits or strata, one white,
one yellow, and one red, and that by no
conceivable means can the order in which
they were deposited have been other
than first white, secondly yellow, and
lastly red. This law, therefore, is invari
able, that wherever it is possible to trace
a series of strata lying one above the
Other, the lowest is the oldest, and the
highest the youngest in point of time.
If, therefore, all the great formations,
9
from the old Lauren tian up to the newest
Tertiary, had been deposited uniformly
all over the world, and had remained
undisturbed, and we could have seen
them in one vertical section in a dift
twenty-five miles high—for that is about
their total known thickness—we should
have been able without further difficulty
to determine their order of succession
and respective magnitudes.
But this is plainly impossible, for the
deposits going on at any one time are of
very different character. For instancy
we have at present the Globigerina ooze
gradually filling the depths of the
Atlantic with a deposit resembling chalk;
the Gulfs of Bengal and Mexico silting
up with fine clay from river deposits;
vast tracts in the Pacific, Indian Ocean,
and Red Sea, covered with coral and tire
debris of coral-reefs. How could these, if
upheaved into dry land and explored.by
future geologists, be identified as having
been formed contemporaneously 1.
Suppose that coins of Victoria had
been dropped in each of them, the geo
logist who discovered these coins would
have no difficulty in concluding that th®
strata in which they, were found were
all formed in the nineteenth century,
The petrified shells and other remains
found in geological strata are such coins.
Every great formation has had its own
characteristic fauna and flora, or aggre
gate of animal and vegetable life, vary
ing slowly from one geological age to
another, and linked to the past and
future by some persistent types and,
forms, but still with such a preponder
ance of characteristic fossils as to enable
us to assign the rocks in which they
occur to their proper place in the volume
of the geological record. Innumerable
observations have shown that we can
rely, with absolute confidence, on the
fossils embedded in the different strata
of the earth’s crust as tests of the period
to which they belong, however different
the strata may be in mineral composi
tion.
The next question is how we can ascer
tain the thickness and order of succes
sion of these strata. We have seen that
all stratified rocks are due to the action
of water, and therefore were originally
deposited horizontally. Had they remained so, in the first place, the process
of forming stratified rocks must long ago
have come to an end, for all the land
�modern science and modern thought
surface must have been worn down to
the sea level, and, with no more land to
be denuded, deposition must have ceased
at an early period of the earth’s history.
In the second place, we could have known
nothing more of the earth’s crust than
we saw on the surface, and in the shallow
pits and borings which we could sink
below it. But earthquakes and volcanoes
and the various fractures and pressures
due to subterranean heat and secular
contraction and cooling, have been at
work counteracting the effects of denu
dation, and causing elevations and de
pressions by which the inequalities of
s
have been renewed
thp balance between sea and land maintained, and strata, originally horizontal
at the bottom of the ocean, upheaved
until sea-shells are found at the top of
high mountains, so that we can walk for
miles over their upturned edges.
Any one who wishes to understand
how geologists have been able to measure
such a thickness of the earth’s crust has
only to take a book open at page 1 and
lay it flat before him. He can see
nothing but that one page; but if he
turns up the pages on the right-hand side
of the book until their edges become
horizontal, he can pass over them and
count perhaps 500 pages in the space of
a couple of inches.
This is precisely what geologists have
been able to do at various points of the
earth s surface where the upturned edges
°* j n PaSes
history are exposed,
and they come out, one behind the other
in the due succession in which they were
written by Nature. For instance, in
travelling from east to west in England
we pass continually from newer to older
formations—Chalk comes in from below
tertiary ; Oolite and Lias from below
Chalk; then Permian or New Red
Sandstone ; Carboniferous, including the
Coal Measures; Devonian or Old Red
bandstone ; Silurian, Cambrian, and in
xv ®^Ireme north-west of Scotland and
the Hebrides, oldest of all, the Laurentian.
There are some omissions and inter
polations, but, in a general way, it may
be said that within the bounds' of the
British Empire we have such a view of
Nature’s volume as would be got, in the
case I have supposed, by travelling over
its upturned edges from page 1 to page
500. And if each of the great formations
be taken as a separate chapter, each
chapter will be found to be made-up of
a number of pages, each with its own
letterpress and illustrations, though con
nected with the pages before and after
it by the thread of the continuous com
mon subject of their proper chapter; as
the chapters again are connected by the
continuous common subject-matter of the
complete volume. It must not be sup
posed that the volume is anything like
perfect. We have to piece it together
irom the fragments found in the limited
number of countries which have thus far
been scientifically explored, and which
do not constitute more than a small part
of the earth’s surface. We know nothing
of what is below the oceans which cover
m°re
three-fourths of that surface,
and there are great gaps in the record
during the times when portions of the
surface were dry land, and when, con
sequently, no deposit of strata or
preservation of fossils was possible. Still
a great deal lias been accomplished, and
the general result, as given by common
consent of the best geologists, is as
follows :
The total thickness of known strata is
about 130,000 feet or twenty-five miles,
or the iJoth part of the distance from the
earth’s surface to its centre. Of this,
about 30,000 feet belong to the Laurentian, which is the oldest known stratified
deposit; 18,000 to the Cambrian, and
22,000 to the Silurian. These earliest
formations, which are grouped as the
Primary or Palaeozoic Epoch, have been
so changed by slow crystallisation under
great heat and pressure that all fossils
and nearly all traces of stratification
have been well-nigh obliterated.
In the Cambrian and Lower Silurian
traces of life become more frequent,
especially of low forms of seaweeds, and
in the Upper Silurian we find an abun
dance of fossils, consisting of Crustacea,
shell-fish, and a few true fish in the
upper strata. Some of the shells, as the
Lingula, have continued without much
change up to the present time ; and on
the whole we find ourselves in the Silu
rian period, if not earlier, in presence of
a state of things in which substantially
present causes operated and present con
ditions were in force. Rains fell, winds
blew, rivers ran, waves eroded cliffs,
shell-fish lived and died, and crabs and
sand-worms crawled about on shores left
�TIME
dry by each tide, very much as is the
case at present.
. .
.
.
The next great division, to which the
nam® of Primary, was given before the
existence of fossils was known m the
older or Palaeozoic division, comprises
the Devonian or Old Red Sandstone ;
the Carboniferous, which includes the
coal; and the Permian or New Red Sand
stone. The average thickness of these
three systems, taken together, is about
42 000 feet. It may be called the era of
Fern Forests and of Fish, the former
being the principal source of our supplies
of coal, and the latter being extremely
abundant within the Devonian and Per
mian formations.
The third great division is formed by
the Secondary group, which includes the
Triassic, the Jura, and the Cretaceous or
Chalk systems, and has an average thick
ness of about 15,000 feet. This epoch is
emphatically the age of Reptiles as the
preceding one was that of Fish, and the
prevailing vegetation is no longer one of
ferns and mosses, but of Gymnosperms,
or plants having naked seeds, the most
important class of which is that of the
Coniferae or Pine tribe. During this pe
riod the Plesiosauri, Ichthyosauri, and
other gigantic sea-dragons abounded in
the oceans ; colossal land-dragons, such
as the Dinosauri, occupied the continents,
and Pterodactyls, a remarkable form of
carnivorous flying lizards, ruled the air.
Swarms of other reptiles, nearly related
to the present lizards, crocodiles, and
turtles, abounded both in the sea and
land. A few traces of mammals and birds
show that these orders had then come
into existence, just as a few traces of
reptiles are found in the Primary, and of
fish in the Palaeozoic, strata, but the few
mammalian remains found are of small
animals of the marsupial or lowest type,
and the birds are of a transition type
between reptiles and true birds. This
epoch concludes with the Chalk forma
tion, which is one of relatively deep-sea
deposit, where no trace of terrestrial life
can be expected.
Above this comes the Tertiary epoch,
when the present order, both of veget
able and animal life, is fairly inaugur
ated ; mammals predominate over other
forms of vertebrate animals; existing
orders and species begin to appear and
increase rapidly ; and vegetation consists
mainly of Angiosperms, or plants with
n
covered seeds, as in our present forests.
The total thickness of these strata, from
the lowest, or Eocene, to the end of the
uppermost, or Pliocene, is about 3,000 feet.
Above this comes the Quaternary, or re
cent period, which comprises the super
ficial strata of modern formation,.and is
characterised by the undoubted existence
of man, and of animals which either now
exist, or which have become extinct m
quite recent geological times.
The details of this and of the Tertiary
Epoch will be more fully considered when,
we come to treat of the antiquity of man,
with which they are closely connected^!
But for the present object, which is that
of ascertaining some standard of time for
the immense series of ages proved by geol
logy to have elapsed since the earth as
sumed its present condition, became sub
ject to existing laws and fitted to be the
abode of life, it will be sufficient to refefif
to the older strata.
.
The best idea of the enormous intervals
of time required for geological changes
will be derived from the coal measures.
These consist of part only of one geo
logical formation known as the Carbon
iferous. They are made up of sheets, or
seams, of condensed vegetable matter,
varying in thickness from less than.an
inch to as much as thirty feet, and lying
one above another, separated by beds of
rock of various composition. As a rule,
every seam of coal rests upon a bed of
clay, known as the “under-clay, and is
covered by a bed of sandstone or shale.1
These alternations of clay, coal, and rockJ
are often repeated a. great ma,ny times,
and in some sections in South Wales and
Nova Scotia there are as many as eighty
or a hundred seams of coal, each with its
own under-clay below and sandstone or
shale above. Some of the coal seams are
as much as thirty feet thick, and the
total thickness of the coal measures is,
in some cases, as much as 14,000 feet.
Now consider what these facts mean.
Every under-clay was clearly once a sur
face soil on which the forest vegetation
grew, whose accumulated dsbi is forms the
overlying seam of coal. The under-clays
are full of the fibres of roots, and the
stools of trees which once grew on them
are constantly found in situ, with their
roots attached just as they stood when
the tree fell, and added to the accumula
tion of vegetable matter, which in modern
times forms peat, and in more ancient
�12
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
days, under different conditions of heat
and pressure, took the more consolidated
form of coal.
When these vegetable remains are ex
amined with the aid of the microscope it
is found that these ancient forests con
sisted mainly of trees like gigantic club
mosses, mares’-tails, and tree ferns, with
a few resembling yews and firs. But in
many cases the bulk of the coal is com
posed of the spores and seeds of these
ferns and club-mosses, which were ripened
and shed every year, and gradually ac
cumulated into a vegetable mould, just
M fallen leaves, beech-mast, and other
Mbris, gradually form a soil in our exist
ing forests.
The time required must have been
very great. to accumulate vegetable mat
ter, principally composed of fine spore
dust, to a, depth sufficient under great
compression to give even a foot of solid
coal. Sir J. W. Dawson, who has devoted
great attention to the coal-fields of
America, says : “ We may safely assert
that every foot, of thickness of pure
bituminous coal implies the quiet growth
least fifty generations of
Sigillaria, and therefore an undisturbed
condition of forest growth, enduring
through many centuries.” But this is
only the first step in the measure of the
time required for the formation of the
coal measures. Each seam of coal is as
we have seen, covered by a bed of sand
or shale, t.e., of water-borne materials.
Dow can this be accounted for? Evi
dently m one way only—that the land
8uDace in which the forest grew sub®ded gradually until it became first a
marsh, and. then a lagoon or shallow
estuary, which silted up by degrees with
deposits of sand or mud, and, finally was
upraised until its surface became dry
land, in which a second forest grew
whose debris formed a second coal seam.’
And so on, over and over again, until
the whole series of coal measures had
been, accumulated, when this alternation
of slight submergences and slight rises
Came to an end, and some more decided
movement of the earth’s surface in the
locality brought, on a different state of
things. . This is in fact exactly what we
see taking place on a smaller scale in
recent times in such deposits as those of
the delta of the Mississippi, where a well
sunk at New Orleans passes through a
succession of cypress swamps and forest
growths, exactly like those now growing
on the surface, which are piled one above
the other, and separated by deposits of
river silt, showing a long alternation of
periods of rest when forests grew, fol
lowed by periods of subsidence when they
were flooded and their remains were
embedded in silt.
Starting on the foregoing assumption
tnat one root of coal represents fifty
generations of coal plants, and that each
generation of coal plants took ten years
p^me to maturity, an assumption
which is certainly very moderate; and
taking the actually measured thickness
or the coal measures in some localities at
\2’°P2 Jeet’. Professor Huxley calculates
that the time represented by the Coal
formation alone would be six millions
of years. Such a figure is, of course
only a rough approximation, but it is
sufficient to show that when we come to
deal with geological time, the standard
by which we must measure is one of
which the unit is a million of years.
This standard is confirmed by a variety
N °™er1 considerations. Take the case of
the Chalk formation.
Chalk is almost entirely composed of
the microscopic shells of minute organ
isms, such as now float in the upper strata
of our great oceans, and by their subsld®llc1e> in Die form of an impalpable
shell-dust, accumulate what is called the
Globigerina ooze,” which is brought up
by soundings in the Atlantic and Pacific
from great depths. . In fact, we may say
that a chalk formation is now going on in
the depths of existing oceans, and con
versely that the old chalk, which now
forms hills and elevated downs, was
certainly deposited at the bottom of
Cretaceous seas. The rate of deposit
must have been extremely slow, certainly
much slower than that of the deposit of
the much grosser matter brought down
by the Nile in. its annual inundations, the
growth of which has been estimated from
actual measurement at about three inches
per century. If one inch per century
were the rate of accumulation of this
microscopic shell-dust, subsiding slowly
to depths of two or three miles over
areas as large as Europe, it would take
1,200 years to form a foot of chalk, and
1,200,000 years to form 1,000 feet. Now
there are places where the thickness of
the Cretaceous formation, exposed by
the edges of its upturned strata, exceeds
�TIME
5,000 feet, so that this gives an approxima
tion very similar to that furnished by the
coal measures.
We have thus, on a rough approximation, a
period of about 6,000,000
year’s for ^©accumulation of a singlememtoar ofone of the separate formations into
'vrilidh the total 130,000 feet of. measured
strata are subdivided. But this takes.no
of the long periods during which
no accumulation took place at the
legalities in question, and of the long
pauses which must have ensued between
each movement of elevation and sub
mergence, and especially between the dis
appearance of an old, and the appearance
of an almost entirely new, epoch, with
different forms of animal and vegetable
life. We may be certain also that. we
ar® far from knowing the total thick
ness of strata which will be disclosed
when the whole surface of the earth
comes to be explored. All we can say
is that we have fragmentary pages
left in the geological record, speaking
broadly, for 100 millions of years, and
that probably the lost pages are quite as
numerous as those of which we have an
imperfect knowledge.
Sir Charles Lyell, the highest authority
on the subject, is inclined to estimate
the minimum of geological time at 200
millions of years, and few geologists , will
say that his estimate appears excessive.
Another test of the vast duration of
geological time is afforded by the oscil
lations of the earth’s surface. At first
sight we are apt to consider the earth
as the stable and the sea as the un
stable element. But in reality it is
exactly the reverse. Land has. been
perpetually rising and falling while the
level of the sea has remained the same.
This is easily proved by the presence
of sea-shells and other marine remains
in strata which now form high moun
tains. In the case of chalk, for instance,
there must have been in England a
change of relative level of sea and land
of more than two miles of vertical
height, between the original formation
of the chalk at the bottom of a deep ocean
and its present position in the North
and South Downs. In other cases the
change of level is even more conspicuous.
The Num mul ite lim eston e, which is formed
like, chalk from an accumulation of the
minute shells of low organisms floating
in the oceans of the early Tertiary
n
period, is found in mountain masses, and b
has been elevated to a height of 10,000
feet and more in the Alps »d Hima
layas.
,
On a smaller scale, and in mor® went
times, raised beaches with existing shells I
and lines of cliffs and caves, are found I
at various heights above the existing 1
sea-level of many of the coasts of Britain, 1
Scandinavia, Italy, South America
I
other countries.
Now the first question is, were these
changes caused by the land rising or by
the sea falling? The answer is, by toe
land rising. Had they been caused by
the sea standing at a higher level it must
have stood everywhere at this level, at
any rate in the same hemisphere and
anywhere near the same latitude. But
there are large tracts of land which have
never been submerged since remote geo
logical periods ; and in recent times thgya
is conclusive evidence that the changes
of level of sea and land.have been parUal
and not general. Thus in the well-known,
instance of the columns of the ruined
temple of Serapis at Pozzuoli in the Bay
of Naples, which forms the illustration
on the title-page of Lyell’s “ Principle# of
Geology,” there can be no doubt that
since the temple was built, either the
sea must have risen and since fallen, OF
the land sunk and since risen, at least
twenty feet since the temple was built
less than 2,000 years ago, for up to this
height the marble columns are riddled by
borings of marine shells, whose valyw
are still to be seen in the holes they
excavated. But an elevation of the level
of the Mediterranean of twenty feet
would have submerged, a great part of
Egypt, and other low-lying lands on the
borders of that sea, where we klWW
that no such irruptions of . salt, water
have taken place within historical, Or
even within recent geological, times.
The conclusion is therefore certain, that
the land at this particular spot must have
sunk twenty feet, and again risen as
much, so as to bring back.the floor of the
temple to its present position, which stood,
one hundred years ago just above the
sea-level, and that so gradually as not
to throw down the three columns which
are still standing. A slow subside®®®
has since set in and is now going on, so
that the floor is now two or three feet
below the sea-level.
Similar proofs may be multiplied to
�14
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
any extent. Along the coasts of the
British.Islands we find, in some places
submarine forests showing subsidence, in
others raised beaches showing elevation,
but they are not continuous at the same
level. Along the east coast of Scotland
there is a remarkable raised beach at
a level of about twenty-four feet above
the present one, showing in many places
lines of cliff, sea-worn caves, and outlying
stacks and skerries, exactly like those of
the present coast, though with green
fields or sandy links at their base, instead
of the waves of the German Ocean. But
as we go north this inland cliff gets lower
and gradually dies out, and when we get
into the extreme north, among the Orkney
and Shetland Islands, there are no signs
of raised beaches, and everything points
towards the recent period having been
one of subsidence.
Again, in Sweden, where marks were
cut in rocks in sheltered situations on the
well-nigh tideless Baltic more than a
century ago, so as to test the question of
an alleged elevation of the land, it has
been clearly shown that in the extreme
north of Sweden, the marks have risen
nearly seven feet, while in the central
portion of the country they have neither
risen nor fallen, and in the southern
province of Scania they have fallen.
This would be clearly impossible if the
sea and not the land had been the un
stable element, and apparent elevations
and depressions had been due to a gene
ral fall or rise in the level of all the seas
of the northern hemisphere.
In fact, the more we study geology the
more we are impressed with the fact that
the normal state of the earth is, and has
always been, one of incessant changes.
Water, raised by evaporation from the
seas, falls as rain or snow on land, wastes
it away and carries it down from higher
to lower levels, to be ultimately deposited
at the bottom of the sea. This goes on
constantly, and if there were no compen
sating action, as the seas cover a much
larger area than the lands, all land would
ultimately disappear, and one universal
ocean cover the globe. But inward heat
supplies the compensating action, and
new lands rise and new mountain chains
are upheaved to supply the place of those
which disappear.
This inward heat of the earth is an
ascertained fact; for as we descend from
the surface in deep mines or borings, we
find that the temperature actually does
increase at a rate which varies somewhat
in different localities, but which averages
about 1° Fahrenheit for every 60 feet of
depth. At this rate of increase water
would boil at a depth of 10,000 feet, and
iron and all other metals be melted before
we reached 100,000 feet. What actually
occurs at great depths we do not know
with any certainty, for we are not suffi
ciently acquainted with the laws under
which matter may behave when under
enormous heat combined with enormous
pressure. But we do know from volca
noes and earthquakes, that masses of
molten rocks and of imprisoned gases
exist in certain localities, at depths below
the surface which, although large com
pared with our deepest pits, are almost
infinitesimally small compared with the
total depth of 4,000 miles from that sur
face to the earth’s centre.
This much is clear, that, in order to
account for observed facts, we must con
sider the extreme outer crust, or surface
of the earth as known to us, as resting on
something which is liable to expand and
contract slowly with variations of heat,
and occasionally, when the tension be
comes great, to give violent shocks to the
outer crust, sending earthquake waves
through it, and to send up gases and
molten lava through volcanoes, along
lines of fissure, and at points of least
resistance. It is clear, also that these
movements are not uniform, but that
one part of the earth’s surface may be
rising while another is sinking, and
portions of it may be slowly tilting over,
so that as one end sinks the other rises.
The best comparison that can be made
is to a sheet of ice which has been much
skated over and cracked in numerous
directions, so as to have become a sort
of mosaic of ice fragments, which, when
a thaw sets in and the ice gets sloppy,
rise and fall with slightly different mo
tions as a skater, gliding over them,
varies the pressure, and occasionally
give a crack and let water rise through
from below in the line of fissure. The
difficulty will not seem so great if we
consider that the rocks which form the
earth’s crust are for the most part elastic,
and that an amount of elevation which
seems large in itself does not necessarily
imply a very steep gradient. Thus, if
the elevation which towards the close of
the Glacial period carried a bed of exist-
�TIMB
jpgaaMhells of Arctic type to the top or
the hill, Moel Tryfon, in North Wales,
which is 1,200 feet high, were, say, one
of 1,500 feet, this would be given by a
gradient of 15 feet a mile, or 1 m 333
for 100 miles. Such a gradient would not
be perceptible to the eye, and would certainly not be sufficient to cause any ten
sion likely to rupture rocks or disturb
Such movements are as a. rule ex
tremely slow. In volcanic regions thei e
a» occasionally shocks which raise ex
tensive regions a few feet at a blow, and
partial elevations and subsidences which
throw up cones of lava and cinders, or
let mountains down into chasms, in a
single explosion. The most noted of
these are the instances of Monte Nuovo,
near Naples, 800 feet high, and Jorullo,
in Mexico, thrown up in one eruption,
and the disappearance of a mountain
2,000 feet high in the Straits of Sunda
during an earthquake. The largest rise
recorded of an extensive area from the
shock of an earthquake, is that wdiich
occurred in South America in 1835, when
a range of coast of 500 miles from
Copiapo to Chiloe was permanently raised
five or six feet by a single shock, as was
shown by the beds of dead mussels and
other shells which had been hoisted, up in
some places as much as ten feet. It is pro
bable that the great chain of the Andes,
whose highest summits reach 27,000
feet, has been raised in a great measure
by a succession of similar shocks.
But for the most part these move
ments, whether of elevation or depression,
go on so slowly and quietly that they
escape observation. Scandinavia is ap
parently now rising and Greenland
sinking, but most countries have re
mained appreciably steady, or nearly
so, during the historical period. St.
Michael’s Mount, in Cornwall, is still
connected with the mainland by a spit,
dry at ebb tide and covered at flood, as
it was more than 2,000 years ago when
the old Britons carted their tin across to
Phoenician traders. Egypt, during a
period of 7,000 years, has preserved the
same level, or at the most has sunk as
slowly as the Nile mud has accumulated.
Parts of the English and Scotch coast
have risen perhaps twenty feet since the
prehistoric period, when canoes were
wrecked under what are now the streets
of Glasgow, and whales were stranded in
15
the Carse of Stirling. There is even
some evidence that the latest rise may
have occurred since the Roman wall was
built from the Forth to the Clyde. In
any case, however, the movements have
been extremely slow, and there have
been frequent oscillations, and long
pauses when the level of land and sea
remained stationary. The evidence,
therefore, from the great changes which
have occurred during each geological
period, points to the same conclusion as
that drawn from the thickness of forma
tions, such as the coal measures and
chalk, which must have been accumulated
very slowly, viz., that geological, time
must be measured by a scale of millions
of years.
Another test of the vast duration of
geological time is afforded by the change^
which have taken place in animal life as
we pass from one formation to another,
and even within the limits of the same
formation. The fauna, or form of exist
ing life at a given period, changes with
extreme slowness. During the historical
period there has been no perceptible
change, and even since the Pliocene
period, which cannot be placed at a less
distance from us than 200,000 years, and
probably at much more, the change has
been very small. In the limited class of
large land animals it has been con
siderable ; but if we take the far more
numerous forms of shell-fish and other
marine life, the old species which have
become extinct and the new ones which
have appeared, do not exceed five per
cent, of the whole. This is the more re
markable as great vicissitudes of climatri
and variations of sea-level have occurred,
during tlie interval. The whole of the
Glacial period has come and gone, and
Britain has been by turns an archipelago
of frozen islands, and part of a continent
extending over what is now the German
Ocean, and pushing out into the Atlantic
up to the one hundred fathom line.
Reasoning from these facts, assuming
the rate of change in the forms of life to
have been the same formerly, and sum
ming up the many complete changes of
fauna which have occurred during the
separate geological formations, Lyell has
arrived at the conclusion that geology
requires a period of , not less than 200
millions of years to account for the
phenomena which it discloses.
Long as the record is of geological
�16
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
time, it is only that of one short chapter three hours. In this state of things the
in , the volume of the history of the moon is supposed to, have been thrown
universe. Geology only begins when the ofi from the earth, either by one great
earth had cooled down into a state re convulsion, or, more probably, by small
sembling the present; when winds blew, masses at a time forming a ring like that
rains fell, rivers and seas eroded rocks of featurn, which ended by coalescing
and formed deposits, and when the con
single satellite. With
ditions were such that life became into a is the principal cause of the moon ’
which
the tides
possible by the remains of which those so much nearer the earth, their rise and
deposits can be identified.
enormous
But before this period began, which tall must have been somethingbore
may be called that of the maturity or and huge tidal waves like the500 orof the
Bay of Fundy, but perhaps
1,000
middle age of our planet, a much vaster feet high, must have swept twice during
time must be allowed for the contraction each revolution of the earth on its axis
and cooling of the vaporous matter of i.e., twice every, three or four hours, along
which it is formed, into the state in all the narrower seas and channels and
which the phenomena of geology became over all except the mountainous lands
possible. And if vast in the case of the adjoining.
earth, how much vaster must be the life
Now these conclusions
be true or
periods of the larger planets, such as not as regards phases of mayearth’s life
the
Jupiter, which from their much greater prior to the Silurian period, from which
size cool and contract much more slowly, downwards geology
unmistakably
and are not yet advanced beyond the that nothing of the showsor in the least
sort,
stage of intense youthful heat and
to it, has occurred
glowing luminosity which was left behind degree approaching point out is that ali
But
by our earth a great many tens of this, what I wish to of theory rests on a
millions of years ago ! And how vastly basissuperstructure
which, really does admit of definite
vaster must be that of the sun, whose
mass and volume exceed those of Jupiter demonstration and calculation.
Halley found
when
in a far higher ratio than Jupiter sur sun, recorded thatancienteclipses of the
in
annals, are
passes the earth !
compared
a
And beyond all this in a third degree discrepancywith recent observations of
is discovered in the rate
of vastness come the life-periods of those the moon’s motion, which must have been
stars or distant suns, which we know to slightly slower then than it is now
be in some cases as much as three Laplace apparently solved the difficulty
hundred times larger than oui*sun, and by showing
was an inevitable
not nearly so far advanced as it in the result of thethat this gravity, when the
law of
process of emergence from the fiery varying eccentricity of the earth’s orbit
nebulous into the solar stage.
To give some idea of the vast intervals was properly taken into account; and
of time required for these changes, a few the calculated amount of the variation
cause was shown to be exactly
facts and figures may be given.
what was
obser
One of, the latest speculations of vations. required to reconcile themathe
great
mathematical science is that the rotation matician, But our havingEnglish gone
Adams,
recently
or the earth is becoming slower, or, in over Laplace s calculations anew, dis
other words, that the day is becomin°' covered that some factors in the problem
longer, owingtotheretardingaction of the had been omitted, which reduced Laplace’s
tides, which act as a brake on a revolving acceleration of the moon’s motion by
wheel. If so, the effect of the reaction
to
on the moon of this action of the moon about one-half, leaving the other halfthe
be explained by a real
on the earth, must be that as the length of the sidereal day,increase in one
or time
earth rotates more slowly, the moon complete revolution of the earth of
about
recedes to a greater distance. And its axis.
required
viceversd, when the earth rotated more sufficient The retardation the total is one
to account for
accu
rapidly the moon was nearer to it
of an hour and a
until at length, when the process is mulated loss or, in other words, quarter in
the length
carried back far enough, we arrive at a 2 000 years,; now
time when the moon was at the earth’s of the day is than more by about Arth part
a
it was 2,000 years ago.
surface and the length of the day about of At second
this rate it would require 168,000
�TIME
years to wake a difference of 1 second in
lhelength of the day; 10,080,000 years for
a tlifferencs of 1 minute: and 604,800,000
years for a difference of 1 hour. The
r&towould not be uniform for the past,
for as the moon got nearer it would cause
higher tides and more retardationstill,
the abyss of time seems almost incon
ceivable to get back to the state in which
the earth could have rotated in three
hours and thrown off the moon.
It is right, however, to state that all
mathematical calculations of time, based
on the assumed rate at which cosmic
matter cools into suns and planets, and
these into solid and habitable globes, are
in the highest degree uncertain. If the
original data are right, mathematical
calculation inevitably gives right conclu
sions. But if the data are wrong, or,
what is the same thing, partial and im
perfect, the conclusions will, with equal
certainty, be wrong also. Now in this
■case we certainly do not know “the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but
the truth” respecting these processes.
Take what is perhaps the most difficult
problem presented by science—how the
sun keeps up so uniformly the enormous
amount of heat which it is constantly
radiating into space. This radiation is
going on in every direction, and the solar
heat received by the earth is only that
minute portion of it which is intercepted
by our little speck of a planet. All the
planets together receive less than one
230,000,000th part of the total heat ra
diated away by the sun and apparently
lost in space. Knowing the amount of
heat from the sun’s rays received at the
earth’s surface in a given time, we can
calculate the total amount of heat ra
diated from the sun in that time. It
amounts to this, that the sun in each
second of time parts with as much heat
as would be given out by the burning of
16,436 millions of millions of tons of the
best anthracite coal. And radiation cer
tainly at this rate, if not a higher one,
has been going on ever since the com
mencement of the geological record, which
must certainly be reckoned by a great
many tens of millions of years.
What an illustration does this afford of
that apparent “ waste of Nature ” which
made Tennyson “ falter where he firmly
trod” when he came to consider “her
secret meaning in her deeds ” 1
Yet there can be no doubt that vast as
17
these figures are, they are all the result of
natural laws, just as we find the law of
gravity prevailing throughout space at
distances expressed by figures equally
vast. The question is, what laws ? The
only one we know of at present at all
adequate to account for such a generation
of heat, is the transformation into heat
of the enormous amount of mechanical
force or energy, resulting from the con
densation of the mass of nebulous matter
from which the sun was formed, into a
mass of its present dimensions. This is
no doubt a true cause as far as it goes.
It is true that as the mass contracts, heat
would be, so to speak, squeezed out of it,
very much as water is squeezed out of _a
wet sponge by compressing it. But it is
a question whether it is the sole and
sufficient cause. Mathematicians have
calculated that even if we suppose the
original cosmic matter to have had an
infinite extension, its condensation into
the present sun would only have been
sufficient to keep up the actual supply of
solar heat for about 15 millions of year®;
Of this a large portion must have been
exhausted before the earth was formed
as a separate planet,and had cooled down
into a habitable globe. But even if we
took the whole it would be altogether in
sufficient. All competent geologists are
agreed in requiring at least 100 millions
of years to account for the changes which
have taken place in the earth’s surface
since the first dawn of life recorded in
the older rocks.
Various attempts have been made to
reconcile the discrepancy. For instance,
it has been said that the constantly re
peated impact of masses of meteoric and
cometic matter falling into the sun must
have caused the destruction of a . vast
amount of mechanical energy whhA
would be converted into heat. This is
true as far as it goes, but it is impossible
to conceive of the sun as a target kept at
a perpetual and uniform white heat for
millions of years by a rain of meteoric
bullets constantly fired upon it. More
plausibly it is said that we know nothing
of the interior constitution of the sun,
and that its solid nucleus may be vastly
more compressed than is inferred from
the dimensions of its visible disc, which
is composed of glowing flames and
vapours. This also may be a true cause,
but, after making every allowance, we
must fall back on the statement that the
c
�18
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THONGUT
continuance for such enormous periods of
such an enormous waste of energy as is
given out by the sun, though certainly
explainable by laws of Nature, depends
on laws not yet thoroughly understood
and explained.
Even in the case, comparatively small
and near to us, of the earth, the condition
of the interior and the rate of secular
cooling afford problems which as yet wait
for solution. The result of a number of
careful experiments in mines and deep
sinkings shows that the temperature, as
we descend below the shallow superficial
crust which is affected by the seasons, i.e.,
by the solar radiation, increases at the
average rate of 1° Fahrenheit for every
60 feet of depth. That is the average
rate, though it varies a good deal in dif
ferent localities. Now, at this rate we
should soon reach a depth at which all
known substances would be melted.
But astronomical considerations, de
rived from the Precession of the Equi
noxes, favour the idea that the earth is a
solid and not a fluid body, and require
us in any case to assume a rigid crust of
not less than ninety miles in thickness.
And if the whole earth below a thin
superficial crust were in an ordinary
state of fluidity from heat, it is difficult
to see how it could do otherwise than
boil, that is, establish circulating cur
rents throughout its mass with disen
gagement of vapour, in which case the
surface crust must be very soon broken
up and melted down, just as the super
ficial crust of a red-hot stream of lava is,
if an infusion of fresh lava raises the
stream below to white heat, or as a thin
film of ice would be if boiling water were
poured in below it.
All we can say is, that the laws under
which matter behaves under conditions
of heat pressure, chemical action, and
electricity so totally different. as must
prevail in the interior of the earth, and
a fortiori in that of the sun, are as yet
very partially known to us. In the
meantime the safest course is to hold by
tliose conclusions of geology which, as far
as they go, depend on laws really known
to us. For instance, the quantity of mud
carried, down in a year by the Ganges or
Mississippi, is a quantity which can be
calculated within certain approximate
limits. We can tell with certainty how
much the deposit cf this amount of mud
would raise an area, say of 100 square
miles, and how long it would take, at this
rate, to lower the area of India drained
by the Ganges a sufficient number of feet
to give matter enough to fill up the Gulf
of Bengal. And if among the older for
mations we find one, like the Wealden
for instance, similar in character to that
now forming by the Ganges, we can ap
proximate from its thickness to the time
that may have been required to form it.
In calculations of this sort there is no
theory, they are based on positive facts,
limited only by a certain possible amount
of error either way In short, the con
clusions of geology, at any rate up to the
Silurian period, when the present order
of things was fairly inaugurated, are
approximate facts and not theories, while
the astronomical conclusions are theories
based on data so uncertain, that while in
some cases they give results incredibly
short, like that of 15 millions of years for
the whole past process of the formation
of the solar system, in others they give
results almost incredibly long, as in that
which supposes the moon to have been
thrown off when the earth was rotating
in three hours, while the utmost actual
retardation claimed from observation
would require 600 millions of years to
make it rotate in twenty-three hours in
stead of twenty-four.
To one who looks at these discussions
between geologists and astronomers not
from the point of view of a specialist in
either science, but from that of a dis
passionate spectator, the safest course, in
the present state of our knowledge, seems
to be to assume that geology really proves
the duration of the present order of
things to have been somewhere over 100
millions of years, and that astronomy
gives an enormous though unknown time
beyond in the past, and to come in the
future, for the birth, growth, maturity,
decline, and death of the solar system of
which our earth is a small planet now
passing through the habitable phase.
So far, however, as the immediate
object of this work is concerned, viz., the
bearings of modern scientific discovery
on modem thought, it is not very
material whether the shortest or longest
possible standards of time are adopted.
The conclusions as to man’s position in
the universe, and the historical truth or
falsehood of old beliefs, are the same
whether man has existed in a state of
constant though slow progression for the.
�MATTER
last 50,000 years of a period of 15 millions,
or for the last 500,000 years of a period of
millions. It is a matter of the deepest scientific interest to arrive at the
truth, both as to the age of the solar
system, the age of the earth as a body
capable of supporting life, the successive
orders and dates at which life actually
appeared, and the manner and date of
the appearance of the most highly organ
ised form of life endowed with new capa
cities for developing reason and con
science in the form of Man. Those who
wish to prove themselves worthy of their
great good luck in having been born in
a civilised country of the nineteenth
century, and not in Palaeolithic periods,
will do well to show that curiosity, or
appetite for knowledge, which mainly
distinguishes the clever from the stupid
and the civilised from the savage man,
by studying the works of such writers as
Lyell, Huxley, Tyndall, and Proctor,
where they will find the questions which
here are only briefly stated, developed at
fuller length with the most accurate
Science and in the clearest and most
attractive style. But for the moral,
philosophical, and religious bearings of
these discoveries on the current _ of
modern thought, there is such a wide
margin that it becomes almost immaterial
whether the shortest possible or longest
possible periods should be ultimately
established.
CHAPTER III
MATTER
Matter and Motion—Light, Colour, and Heat
—Matter and its Elements—Molecules and
Atoms—Spectroscope—Uniformity of Mat
ter throughout the Universe—Force and
Motion—Conservation of Energy—Elec
tricity, Magnetism, and Chemical Action—Dissipation of Heat—Birth and Death of
Worlds.
The contents of the material universe
may be expressed in terms of Matter and
of Motion. Matter exists in the three
fold and interrelated states known as
solid, liquid, and gaseous, and it is con
venient to include with these the appa
rently fourth state called the ethereal.
The existence of this last-named is an
If)
hypothesis by which alone can we
account for the phenomena of light and
heat, and, as the marvellous researches of
Hertz have shown, of the electro-magnetic
waves which confirm the theory of con
nection between electricity, magnetism,
light, and radiant heat. More than this
we cannot assume regarding ether, for all
ponderable matter,—solids, liquids, gases
-—consists of ultimate molecules, and w®
do not know whether ether is nonmolecular or imponderable.
Dealing with Motion, it has been shown
that light radiates in all directions from
a luminous centre, travelling at the rate
of 186,000 miles per second. Now what
is light ? It is a sensation produced on
the brain by something which has been
concentrated by the lens of the eye on
the retina, and thence transmitted along
the optic nerve to the brain, where it sets
certain molecules vibrating. What is the
something which produces this effect ? Is
it a succession of minute particles, shot
like rifle-bullets from the luminous body
and impinging on the retina as on a tar
get ? Or is it a succession of tiny waves
breaking on the retina as the waves of
the sea break on a shore 1 Analogy sug
gests the latter, for in the case of the
sister sense, sound, we know as a fact
that the sensation is produced on the
brain by waves of air concentrated by
the ear, and striking on the auditory
nerve. But we have a more conclusive
proof. If one of a series of particles shot
out like bullets overtakes another, the
force of impact of the two is increased ;
but if one wave overtakes another when
the crest of the pursuing wave just coin
cides with the hollow of the wave before
it the effect is neutralised, and if the two
are of equal size it will be exactly
neutralised and both waves . will be
effaced. In other words, two lights will
make darkness. This, therefore, affords
an infallible test. If two lights can
make darkness, light is propagated, like
sound, by waves. Now two lights do
constantly make darkness, as is proved,
every day by numerous experiments.
Therefore light is caused by waves.
But to have waves there must be a
medium through which the waves are
propagated. Without water you could
not have ocean waves ; without air you
could not have sound-waves. Waves are
in fact nothing but the successive forms
assumed by a set of particles whichf
c 2
�20
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
when forced from a position of rest, tend
to return to that position, and oscillate
about it. Place a cork on the surface of
a still pond, and then throw in a stone ;
what follows 1 Waves are propagated,
which seem to travel outwards in circles,
but if you watch the cork, you will see
that it does not really travel outwards, but
simply rises and falls in the same place.
This is equally true of waves of sound and
waves of light. But the velocity with
which the waves travel depends on the
nature of the medium. In a dense
medium of imperfect elasticity they
travel slowly, in a rare and elastic
medium quickly. Now the velocity of a
sound-wave in air is about 1,100 feet a
second, that of the light-wave about
186,000 miles a second or about one
million times greater. It is proved by
mathematical calculation that, if the
density of two media are the same, their
elasticities are in proportion to the
squares of the velocities with which a
wave travels. The elasticity of ether,
therefore, would be a million million
times greater than that of air, which, as
we know, is measured by its power of
resisting a pressure of about 15 lbs. to
the square inch. But the ether must in
fact be almost infinitely rare, as well as
almost infinitely elastic, for it causes no
perceptible retardation in the motions of
the earth and planets. It must be almost
infinitely rare also because it permeates
freely the interior of substances like
glass and crystals, through which light
waves pass, showing that the atoms or
ultimate particles of which these sub
stances are composed, minute as they
are, must be floating in ether like
buoys floating on water or balloons in
the air.
The dimensions of the light-waves
which travel through this ether at the
rate of 186,000 miles a second can be
accurately measured by strict mathe
matical calculations, depending mainly
on the phenomena of interferences, i.e.,
of the intervals required between suc
cessive waves for the crest of one to
overtake the depression of another
and thus make two lights produce
darkness.
These calculations are much too intri
cate to admit of popular explanation,
but they are as certain as those of the
"Nautical Almanac, based on the law of
gravity, which enable ships to find their
way across the pathless ocean, and they
give the following results :
Dimensions
of
Light-Waves,
Colours.
Number of
Waves in One
Inch.
Red
Orange
Yellow
Green
Blue
Indigo
Violet
39,000
42 000
44,000
47,000
51,000
54,000
57,000
Number of
cillations in
Second.
Os
One
477,000,000,000,000
506,000,000,000,000
535,000,000,000,000
575,000,000,000.000
622,000,000,000,000
658,000.000,000,000
699,000,000,000,010
These are the colours whose vibrations
affect the brain through the eye with the
sensation of light, and which cause the
sensation of white light when their
different vibrations reach the eye simul
taneously. But there are waves and
vibrations on each side of these limits,
which produce different effects, the longer
waves with slower oscillations beyond
the red, though no longer causing light
causing heat, while the shorter and
quicker waves beyond the violet cause
chemical action, and are the most effec
tive agents in photography.
We must refer our readers to works
treating specially of light for further
details, and for an account of the vast
variety of beautiful and interesting ex
periments with polarised light, coloured
rings, and otherwise, to which the theory
of waves propagated through ethsf
affords the key. For the present purpose
it is sufficient to say that modern science
compels us to assume such an ether ex
tending everywhere, from the faintest
star seen at a distance which requires
thousands of years for its rays, travelling
at the rate of 186,000 miles a second, to
reach the earth, down to the infini
tesimally small interspace between the
atoms of the minutest matter. And
throughout the whole of this enormous
range law prevails, ether vibrates and has
always vibrated in the same definite
manner, just as air vibrates by definite
laws when the strings of a piano are
struck by the hammers.
I now return to the consideration of
matter.
What is matter 1 In the most general
sense it is that which has weight, or is
subject to the law of gravity, and, as
shown above, it exists, as ponderable
stuff, in the three forms of solid, liquid,
�MATTER
Or gas, according to the amount of heat.
Diminish heat, and the particles approach
closer and are linked together.by mutual
attraction, so as not to be readily parted ;
this is a solid. Increase the heat up to a
certain point, and the particles recede.
until their mutual attractions m the
interior of the mass neutralise one an
other, SO that the particles can move
fredy, though still held together as a
mass by the sum of all these attractions
acting as if concentrated at the centre of
gravity ; this is the liquid state. Increase
the heat still more, and the particles
Separate until they get beyond the sphere
of their mutual attraction and tend to
dart off into space, unless confined by
some surface on which they exert pres
sure ; this is a gas.
. .
The most familiar instance of this is
afforded by water, which, as we all know,
SKists in the three forms of ice, water,
and vapour or steam, according to the
dose of heat which has been incorporated
with it.
Pursuing our inquiry further, the next
great fact in regard to matter fs that it
is not all uniform. While most of the
jfommon forms with which we are con
versant are made up of mixed materials,
^vhich can be taken to pieces and shown
separately, there are, as at present ascer
tained, some seventy-six substances which
defy chemical analysis to decompose
them, and must therefore be taken as
elementary substances. A great majority
of these consist of substances existing
in minute quantities, and hardly known
Outside the laboratories of chemists
The world of matter, as known to the
senses, is mainly composed of combina
tions, more or less complex, of a few
elements. Thus, water is a compound of
two simple gases, oxygen and hydrogen ;
air, speaking broadly, of oxygen and
nitrogen; the solid framework of the
Mrtli, mainly of combinations of oxygen
With carbon, calcium, aluminium, silicon,
and a few other bases ; salt, of chlorine
^nd sodium ; the vegetable world directly
and the animal world indirectly, mainly
of complex combinations of oxygen,
hydrogen, and nitrogen with carbon, and
With smaller quantities of silicon, sulphur,
(potassium, sodium, and phosphorus. . The
ordinary metals, such as iron, gold, silver,
stopper, tin, lead, mercury, zinc, nearly
complete the list of what may be called
Ordinary elements.
21
Now let us push our analysis a step
further. How is matter made up of
these elements ; Up to and beyond the
furthest point visible by aid of the microscope, matter is divisible. We can break
a crystal into fragments, or divide a drop
into drops, until they cease to be visibly
though still retaining all the properties
of the original substance. Can we carry
on this process indefinitely, and is matter
composed of something, that can b®
divided and subdivided into fractional
parts ad infinitum? The answer is, No,
it consists of ultimate but still definite
particles which cannot be further sub*
divided. How is this kno wn ? Becaus®
we find by experience that substances 1
will only combine in certain definite pro I
portions either of weight or measure,*
For instance, in forming water exactly
eight grains by weight of oxygen combine with exactly one grain of hydrogen,
and if there is any excess or fractional
part of either gas, it remains over , in
its original form uncombined. In like
manner, matter in. the form of gag
always combines with other matter in
the same form by volumes which, bear
a definite and very simple proportion to
each other, and the compound formed
bears a definite and very simple ratio to
the sum of the volumes of the combining
gases. Thus two volumes of hydrogen
combine with one of oxygen to form two
volumes of water in the state of vapour.
From these facts certain inferences can
be drawn. In the first place it is clear
that matter really does consist of minute
particles, which do not touch and form a
continuous solid, but are. separated by
intervals which increase with increase of
temperature. This is evident from the
fact that we can pour a second or third
gas into a space already occupied by a
first one. Each gas occu pies the enclosed
space just as if there were no other gas
present, and exerts its own proper pres
sure on the containing vessel, so that the
total pressure on it is exactly the sum of
the partial pressures. It is easy to see
what this means. If a second regiment
can be marched into a limited.space of
ground on which a first regiment is
already drawn up, it is evident that the
first regiment must be drawn up in loose
order, i.e., the soldier-units of which it is
composed must stand so far apart that
other soldier-units can find room be
tween them without disturbing the for-
�22
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
mation. But the effect will be that the
fire from the front will be increased, as
for instance if a soldier of the second
regiment, armed with a six-shooter re
peating rifle, takes his stand between two
soldiers of the first regiment armed with
single-barrelled rifles, the effective fire
will be increased in the ratio of 8 to 2.
And this is precisely what is meant by
the statement that the pressure of two
gases in the same space is the sum of the
separate pressures of each. It is clearly
established that the pressure of a gas on
a containing surface is caused by the
bombarding to which it is subjected from
the impacts of an almost infinite number
of these almost infinitely small atoms,
which, when let loose from the mutual
attractions which hold them together in
the solid and fluid state, dart about in all
directions, colliding with one another
and rebounding, like a set of little
billiard-balls gone mad, and producing a
certain average resultant of momentum
outwards which is called pressure.
Another simile may help us to conceive
how the indivisibility of atoms is inferred
from the fact that they only combine in
definite proportions. Suppose a number
of gentlemen and ladies promenading
promiscuously in a room. The band
strikes up a waltz, and they at once pro
ceed to group themselves in couples
rotating with rhythmical motion in defi
nite orbits. Clearly, if there are more
ladies than gentlemen, some of them will
be left without partners. So, if instead
of a waltz it were a threesome reel, in
which each gentleman led out two ladies,
there must be exactly twice as many
ladies as gentlemen for all to join in the
dance. But if a gentleman could be cut
up into fractional parts, and each frac
tion developed into a dancing gentleman,
as primitive cells split up and produce
fresh cells, it would not matter how many
ladies there were, as each could be pro
vided with a partner.. Now this is
strictly analogous to what occurs in
chemical combination. Water is formed
by each gentleman atom of oxygen
taking out a lady atom of hydrogen in
each hand, and the sets thus formed com
mence to dance threesome reels in defi
nite time and measure, any surplus
oxygen or hydrogen atoms being left
out in the cold. Wonderful as it may
appear, science enables us not only to
say of these inconceivably minute atoms
that they have a real existence, but to
count and weigh them. This fact has
been accomplished by mathematical cal
culations based on laws which have been
ascertained by a long series of experi
ments on the constitution of gases.
It is found that all substances, when in
the form of gas, conform to three laws :
1. Their volume is inversely propor
tional to the pressure to which
they are subjected.
2. Their volume is directly proportional
to the temperature.
3. At the same pressure and tempera
ture all gases have the same num
ber of molecules in the same
volume.
From the last law it is obvious that if
equal volumes of two gases are of different
weight, the cause must be that the mole
cules of the one are heavier than those of
the other. This enables us to express the
weight of the molecule of any other gas
in some multiple of the unit afforded by
the weight of the molecule of the lightest
gas, whiqfi is hydrogen. Thus, the density
of watery vapour being nine times that of
hydrogen, we infer that the molecule of
water weighs nine times as much as the
molecule of hydrogen, and that of oxygen
being eight times greater, we infer that
the oxygen molecule is eight times heavier
than that of hydrogen.
These weights are checked by the other
law which has been stated, that chemical
combination between different substances
always takes place in certain definite pro
portions. Thus, whenever in a chemical
process the original substances or the pro
duct are or might exist in the state of gas,
it is always found that the definite pro
portions observed in the chemical process
are either the proportions of the densities
of the respective gases or some simple
multiple of these proportions. Thus, the
weight of hydrogen being 2, which com
bines with a weight of oxygen equal to 16
to form a weight of watery vapour equal
to 18, the density of the latter is to that
of hydrogen as 9 to 1, i.e., as 18 to 2.
But to get to the bottom of the matter
we must go a step further, and as we have
decomposed substances into molecules,
we must take the molecules themselves
to pieces and see what they are made of.
The molecule is the ultimate particle into
which any substance can be divided re
taining its own peculiar qualities. A mole
cule of water is as truly water as a drop
�MATTER
or a tumblerful. But when chemical de
composition takes place, instead of the
molecule of water we have molecules of
two entirely different substances, oxygen
and hydrogen. Nothing can well be more
unlike than the product water and the
component parts of which it is made up.
Water is a fluid, oxygen a gas ; water ex
tinguishes fire, oxygen creates it. Water
is a harmless drink, oxygen the base of
the most corrosive acids. It is evident
that the water-molecule is a composite,
and that its qualities depend, not on the
essential qualities of the atoms which
have combined to make it, but on the
manner of the combination, and the new
modes of action into which these atoms
have been forced. In his native war-paint
oxygen is a furious savage ; with a hydro
gen atom in each hand he is a polished
gentleman.
Our theory, therefore, leads beyond
molecules to atoms, and we have to con
sider these particles of a still smaller
order than molecules, as the ultimate
indivisible units of matter of which we
have been in search. And even these we
must conceive of as corks, as it were,
.floating in an ocean of ether, causing
waves in it by their own proper move
ments, and agitated by all the successive
waves which vibrate through this etherocean in the form of light and heat.
Working on these data, a variety of
refined mathematical calculations made
by Clausius, Clerk Maxwell, Sir W. Thom
son (now Lord Kelvin), and other eminent
mathematicians, have given us approxi
mate figures for the actual size, weight,
and velocities of atoms and molecules.
The results are truly marvellous. A mil
limetre is the one-thousandth part of a
metre, or roughly one twenty-fifth of an
inch. The magnitudes with which we
have to deal are all of an order where the
standard of measurement is expressed by
the millionth part of a millimetre. The
volume of a molecule of air is only a small
fraction of that of a cube whose side would
be the millionth of a millimetre. A cubic
centimetre, or say a cube whose side is
between one-third and one-half of an inch,
contains 21,000,000,000,000,000,000,000
molecules. The number of impacts re
ceived by each molecule of air during
one second will be 4,700 millions. The
distance traversed between each impact
averages 95 millionths of a millimetre.
It may assist in forming some concep
23
tion of these almost infinitely small mag
nitudes, to quote an illustration given by
Sir W. Thomson as the result of mathe
matical calculation. Suppose a drop of
water were magnified so as to appear of
the size of the earth or with a diameter
of 8,000 miles, the atoms of which it is
composed, magnified on the same scale,
would appear of a size intermediate
between that of a rifle-bullet and of a
cricket-ball.
These figures show that space and mag
nitude extend beyond the standards of
ordinary human sense, such as miles, feet,
and inches, as far downwards into the
region of the infinitely small as they do
upwards into that of the infinitely great.
And throughout the whole of this enor
mous range law prevails. The same law
of gravity gives weight to molecules and
atoms, makesan apple fall to the ground,
and causes double stars to revolve round
their centre of gravity in elliptic orbits.
The law of polarity which converts ironfilings into small magnets under the in
fluence of a permanent magnet or electric
current, animates the smallest atom.
Atoms arrange themselves into molecules,
and molecules into crystals, very much
as magnetised iron-filings arrange them
selves into regular curves. And the great
law seems to prevail universally through
out the material, as it does also through
out the moral world, that you cannot
have a North without a South Pole, a
positive without a negative, a right with
out a wrong; and that error consists
mainly in what the poet calls, “the false
hood of extremes ”—that is, in allowing
the attraction of one pole, oi* of one
opinion,- so to absorb us as to take no
account of its opposite.
The universality of law has received
wonderful confirmation of late years from
the discovery made by the spectroscope
that the sun, the planets, and the re
motest stars are all composed of matter
identical with that into which chemical
analysis has resolved the constituent
matter of the earth. This has been proved
in the following way :
If a beam of light is admitted into a
darkened room through a small hole or
narrow slit, and a triangular piece of
glass, called a prism, is interposed in its
path, the image, thrown on a screen is
a rainbow tinted streak, intersected by
numerous fine dark lines, whieh is called
a spectrum. If, instead of solar light, light
�24
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
from other luminous sources is similarly
treated, it is found that all elementary
substances have their peculiar spectra.
Light from solid or liquid substances
gives a continuous spectrum, light from
gases or glowing vapours gives a spect
rum of bright lines separated from each
other, but always in definite positions
according to the nature of the substance.
The next great step in the discovery was
that these bright lines become dark lines
when a light of greater intensity, coming
from a solid nucleu s, is transmitted through
an atmosphere of such gases or vapours.
We can thus photograph the spectrum of
glowing hydrogen, sodium, iron, or other
substances, and placing it below a photo
graph of a solar or stellar spectrum, see
if any of the dark lines of the latter are
coincident in position with the bright
lines of the former. If they are, we may
be.certain that these substances actually
exist in the sun or star. It is, in fact,
just the same thing as if we had been able
to bring down a jar-full of the solar or
stellar matter and analyse it in our labo
ratories.
It is difficult to convey any adequate
description of these grand discoveries
made by the new science of spectroscopy
without referring to special works on the
subject; but it may be possible to give
some general idea of the principles on
which they are based.
As has been shown, light consists of
waves propagated through ether. These
waves are started by the vibrations of
the ultimate particles of matter, which,
whether in the simplest form of atoms,
in the more complex form of molecules,
or in the still more complex form of com
pound molecules, have their own peculiar
and ciistinct vibrations. These vibrations
are increased, diminished, or otherwise
modified by variations of heat and by the
collisions which occur between the par
ticles from their own proper motions. If
we take the simplest case, that of matter
in the form of a gas or vapour composed
of single atoms, at a temperature just
sufficient to become luminous and at a
pressure small enough to keep the atoms
widely apart, the vibrations are all of one
sort, viz., that peculiar to the elementary
substance to which they belong, and one
set of waves only is propagated by them
f hrough the ether. The spectrum, there
fore. of such a gas is a single line of light,
in the definite position which is due to its
refrangibility, i.e., to the velocity of the
particular wave of light which the par
ticular vibration of those particular atoms
is able to propagate.
When pressure is increased so that the
particles are brought closer together,
their vibrations made more energetic
and their collisions more frequent, more
waves, and waves of different qualities
are started, and more lines appear in the
spectrum and the lines widen out, until
at length when the gas becomes very
dense, some of the lines overlap and an
approach is made towards a continuous
spectrum. Finally, when the particles
are brought so near together that the
substance assumes a fluid or solid state,
the number of wave-producing vibrations
becomes so great that a complete system
of different light-waves is propagated,
and the lines of the spectrum are multi
plied until they coalesce and form a con
tinuous band of rainbow-tinted light. If
the particles of the gas, instead of being
single atoms, are more complex, as mole
cules or compound molecules, the vibra
tions are more complex and the different
resulting light-waves more numerous, so
that the lines in the spectrum are more
numerous, and in some cases they coalesce
so as to form, shaded bands, or what are
called fluted lines, instead of simple lines.
Moreover, whatever light-waves are
originated by the vibrations of the par
ticles of gas are absorbed into those
vibrations and extinguished, if they
originate from the vibrations of some
more energetic particles of another sub
stance outside of it, whose light-waves,
travelling along the ether, pass through
the gas, and are thus shown as dark lines
in the spectrum of the other source of
light.
. We can now understand how the asser
tion is justified that we can analyse the
composition of the sun and stars as cer
tainly as if we had a jar full of their
substance to analyse in our laboratory.
The first glance at a spectrum tells us
whether the luminous source is solid,
fluid, or gaseous. If its spectrum is con
tinuous it is solid or fluid ; we know this
for certain, but can tell nothing more.
But if it consists of bright lines, we know
that it comes direct from matter in the
form of luminous gas, and knowing from
experiments in the laboratory the exact
colours and situations of the lines formed
by the different elements of which earthly
�MATTER
matter is composed, we can see whether
the lines in the spectra of heavenly matter
do or do not correspond with any of them.
if bright lines correspond we are sure
that the substances correspond, both as
to their elementary atoms and their con
dition as glowing gas. If dark lines in
the spectrum of the heavenly body corre
spond with bright lines in that of . a
known earthly substance, we are certain
that the substances are the same and in
the same state of gas, but that the solar
or stellar spectrum proceeds from an
Intensely heated interior solid or fluid
nucleus, whose waves have passed through
an outer envelope or atmosphere of this
gas.
Applying these principles, although the
science is still in its infancy and many
interesting discoveries remain to be made,
this grand discovery has become an
axiomatic fact—Matter is alike every
where. The light of stars up to the ex
treme boundary of the visible universe
is composed mainly of glowing hydrogen,
the same identical hydrogen as we get by
decomposing water by a voltaic battery.
Of the 76 elementary substances enu
merated by chemists, 36 are known cer
tainly to exist in the sun’s atmosphere.
The elements whose presence is proved
comprise many of those which are most
common in the composition of the earth,
as hydrogen, carbon, iron (represented
by about 2,000 lines in the. solar spec
trum), lead, calcium, aluminium, magne
sium, sodium, potassium, etc.; and if
others, such as oxygen, nitrogen, and
chlorine have not yet been found, the
explanation is that when a mixture of
the incandescent vapours of the metals
and metalloids (or non-metallic elemen
tary substances, to which class both oxy
gen and nitrogen belong), or their com
pounds, is examined with the spectroscope,
the spectra of the metalloids always yield
before that of the metals. Hence the
absence of the lines of oxygen and other
metalloids, carbon and silicon excepted,
among the vast crowd of lines in the solar
spectrum. Then, too, in extreme states
of rarefaction of the sun’s absorbing layer,
the absorption of the oxygen is too small
to be sensible to us. The main fact is
firmly established that matter is the same
throughout all space, from the minutest
atom to the remotest star.
Thus far we have been treating of
matter only, and of force and motion but
25
incidentally. These, however, are equally
essential components of the phenomena
of the universe. What is force ? In the
last analysis it is the unknown causa
which we assume for motion, or the term
in which we sum up whatever produces
or tends to produce it. The idea of foreej
like so many other of our ideas, is take©
from our own sensations. If we lift a
weight or bend a bow, we are conscious
of doing so by an effort. Something
which we call will produces a motion in
the molecules of the brain, which is trans
mitted by the nerves to. the muscles
where it liberates a certain amount of
energy stored up by the chemical com
position and decomposition of. the atoms
of food which we consume. This contracts
the muscle, and the force of its contrac
tion, transmitted by a system of pulleys
and levers to the hand, lifts the weighty
If we let go the weight it falls, and th®
force which lifted it reappears in th®
force with which it strikes the ground.
If we do not let go the weight but. plac®
it on a support at the height to which we
have raised it, it does not fall, no motion!
ensues, but the lifting force remain
stored-up in a tendency to motion, and
can be made to reappear as motion at
any time by withdrawing the support^
when the weight will fall. It is evident
therefore, that force may exist in two
forms, either as actually causing motion^
or as causing a tendency to motion.
In this generalised form it has been
agreed to call it energy, as less liable to
be obscured by the ordinary impressions
attached to the word force, which are
mainly derived from experiences of actual
motion cognizable by the senses.
speak, therefore, of energy as of some
thing which is the basis or primum mobiii
of all motion or tendency to motion,
whether it be in the grosser forms of
gravity and mechanical work, or in the
subtler forms of molecular and atonii®
motions causing the phenomena of heat,
light, electricity, magnetism, and chemi
cal action. This energy may exist either
in the form of actual motion, when it is
called energy of motion, or in that of
tendency to motion, when it is called
energy of position. Thus the bent bow
has energy of position which, when , the
string is let go, is at once converted into
energy of motion in the flight of the arrow.
Respecting this energy modern science
has arrived at this grand generalisation^
�26
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
that it is one and the same in all its
different manifestations, and can neither
be created nor destroyed, so that all these
varied manifestations are mere transfor
mations of the same primitive energy
from one form to another. This is what
is meant by the principle of the “Con
servation of Energy.”
It was arrived at in this 'way. Speak
ing roughly, it has long been known that
heat could generate mechanical power, as
seen in the steam-engine ; and conversely
that mechanical power could generate
heat, as is seen when a sailor, in a chill
north-easter, claps his arms together on
his breast to warm himself. But it was
reserved for Dr. Joule to give this fact
the scientific precision of a natural law,
by actually measuring the amount of heat
that was added to a given weight of water
by a given expenditure of mechanical
power, and conversely the amount of
mechanical work that could be got from
a given expenditure of heat.
A vast number of carefully-conducted
experiments have led to the conclusion
that if a kilogramme be allowed to fall
through 424 metres and its motion be
then suddenly stopped, sufficient heat
will be generated to raise the tempera
ture of one kilogramme of water by 1°
Centigrade ; and conversely this amount
of heat would be sufficient to raise one
kilogramme to a height of 424 metres.
If, therefore, we take as our unit of
work that of raising one kilogramme
one metre, and as our unit of heat that
necessary to raise one kilogramme of
water 1° Centigrade, we may express
the proportion of heat to work by saying
that one unit of beat is equal to 424 units
of work ; or, as it is sometimes expressed,
that the number 424 is the mechanical
equivalent of heat.
But the question may be asked, what
does this mean, how c^n mechanical work
be really transformed into heat or viceversa 1 The answer is, the energy which
was supplied by chemical action to the
muscles of the man or horse, or to the
water converted into steam by combus
tion of coal, which originated the me
chanical work, was first transformed into
its equivalent amount of mechanical
energy of motion, and then, when that
motion was arrested, was transformed
into heat, which is simply the same
energy transformed into increased mole
cular motion.
we wish to carry our inquiry a step
further back and ask where the original
energy came from which has undergone
these transformations, the answer must
be, .mainly from the sun. The sun’s rays,
acting on the chlorophyl or green matter
of the plants of the coal era, rore asunder
the atoms of carbon and oxygen which
formed the carbonic acid in the atmosphere, and locked up a store of energy
in the form of carbon in the coal which
is burned to produce the steam. In
like manner it stored-up the energy in
the form .of carbon in the vegetable pro
ducts winch, either directly, or indirectly
after having passed through the body of
some animal, supplied the food, whose
slow combustion in the man or horse
supplied the energy which did the work.
But where did the energy come from
which the sun has been pouring forth for
countless ages in the form of light and
heat, and of which our earth only inter
cepts the minutest portion 1 This is a
mystery not yet completely solved, but
one real cause we can see, which has
certainly operated and perhaps been the
only one, viz., the mechanical energy of
the. condensation by gravity of the atoms
which originally , formed the nebulous
matter out of which the sun was made.
If . we ask, how came the atoms into
existence endowed with this marvellous
energy, we have reached the furthest
bounds of human knowledge, and can
only reply in the words of the poet:
“Behind the veil, behind the veil.”
We can only form metaphysical con
ceptions, or I might rather call them the
vaguest guesses. One is, that they were
created and endowed with their ele
mentary properties by an all-wise and
all-powerful Creator. This is Theism.
Another, that thought is the only
reality, and that all the phenomena of
the universe are thoughts or ideas of one
universal, all-pervading Mind. This is
Pantheism.
Or again, we may frankly acknow
ledge that the real essence and origin of
things are “ behind the. veil,” and not
knowable or even conceivable by any
faculties with which the human mind is
endowed in its present state of existence.
This is Agnosticism.
There is another conception, of which
we may certainly say that it is not ten
able.—that is Atheism. For it is the
spirit that denies without warrant for
�MATTER
denial, and pronounces a verdict which
fen arrived at without evidence*
But these speculations lead us into the
misty regions where, like Milton’s fallen
angels, “we find no end in wandering
mazes lost.” Let us return to the solid
ground of fact, on which alone the
human mind can stand firmly, and, like
Ant-mu s, gather fresh vigour every time
it touches it for further efforts to enlarge
the boundaries of knowledge and extend
the domain of Cosmos over Chaos.
The transformation of energy which
we have seen to exist in the case of
mechanical work and heat, is not con
fined to those two cases only, but is a
universal law applicable to all actions
<nd arrangements of matter which in
volve motions of atoms, molecules, or
masses, and therefore imply the existence
of energy. In heat we have had an
Example of energy exerted in molecular
Biotion and molecular separation. In
chemical action we have energy exerted
in the separation of atoms, severing
them from old combinations and mutual
attractions, and bringing them within
the sphere of new ones.. In electricity,
and magnetism, which is another form
of electricity, we have energy of position
which manifests itself in electrical
separation, by which matter becomes
charged with two opposite energies,
positive and negative, which accumulate
at separate poles, or on separate surfaces,
with an amount of tension which may be
reconverted into the original amount of
energy of motion when the spark, passing
between them, restores their electrical
equilibrium. Of this we have an ex
ample in the ordinary electrical machine,
where the original energy comes from the
mechanical force which turns the.handle,
and is given back when the electric spark
brings things back to their original
state.
We have also energy of motion, when
Instead of electrical separation and
tension we have a flow or current of
electricity producing the effect of the
electric spark in a slow, quiet, and con
tinuous manner. Thus, in the voltaic
battery, the free energy created by the
difference of chemical action of an acid
on plates of different metals, is trans
formed into a current which charges two
poles with opposite electricities, and
when the poles are brought together and
the circuit is closed, flows through it in
a continuous current. This current is
an energetic agent which produces
various effects. It deflects the magnetic
needle, as is seen in the electric telegraph.
It creates magnetism, as is seen whoa the]
poles of the battery are connected by a
wire wrapped round and round a cylinder
of soft iron, so as to make the current
circulate at right angles to the axis
formed by the cylinder. In fact, all
magnetism may be considered as the
summing up at the two opposite ex
tremities or poles of an axis, of the
effects of electric currents circulating!
round it; as, for instance, the earth is a
great magnet because currents caused by
the action of the sun circulate round it
nearly parallel to the equator. Electric
currents further show their energy by
attracting and repelling one another,]
those flowing in the same direction at
tracting, and those in opposite di
rections repelling, the same effect show
ing itself in magnets, which are in sub
stance collections of circular currents
flowing from right to left or left to right
according as they are positive or negative.
Again, currents produce an effect by
inducing currents in other bodies placed
near them, very much as the vibrations!
of a tuning-fork- induce vibrations and
bring out a corresponding note from the
strings of a piano or violin ready to
sound it. When a coil of wire W con
nected with a battery and a current
passes through it, if it is brought near toj
another isolated coil it induces a CfUmnil
in an opposite direction, which, when it
recedes from it, is changed into a cur
rent in the same direction.
These principles are illustrated by the
ordinary dynamo, by which the energy
of mechanical work exerted in making
magnets revolve in presence of currents,
and by various devices accumulating!
electric energy, is made available either ’
for doing other mechanical work, such as
driving a wheel, or for doing molecular
or atomic work by producing heat and
light.
Another transformation of the energy
of electric currents is into heat, light, or
chemical action. If the two poles.of a
battery are connected by a thin platinum
wire it will be heated to redness in ft few
seconds, the friction or resistance to the
current in passing through the limited;
section of the thin wire producing;
great heat. If the wire is thicker heat
�28
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
will equally be produced, but more
slowly.
If the poles of the battery are made of
carbon, or some substance the particles
of which remain solid during intense
heat, when they are brought nearly to
gether the current will be completed by
an arc of intensely brilliant light, and
the carbon will slowly burn away. This
is the electric light so commonly used when
great illuminating power is wanted.
Again, the electric current may employ
its energy in effecting chemical action.
If the poles of a battery, instead of being
brought together, are plunged into a
vessel of water, decomposition will begin.
Oxygen will rise in small bubbles at the
positive pole, and hydrogen at the
negative. If these two gases are col
lected together in the same vessel, and
an electric current, in the intense and
momentary form of a spark, passed
through them, they will combine with
explosion into the exact amount of
water which was decomposed in their
formation.
Everywhere, therefore, we find the
same law of universal application.
Energy, like matter, cannot be created
or destroyed,. but only transformed. It
is therefore, in one sense, eternal. But
there is another point of view from which
this has to be regarded.
Mechanical work, as we have seen,
can always be converted into heat, and
heat can, under certain conditions, be
reconverted into mechanical work ; but
not under all conditions. The heat
must pass from something at a higher
temperature into something at a lower.
If the condenser of a steam-engine were
always at the same temperature as
the boiler, we should get no work out of
it. It is.easy to understand how this is
the case if we figure to ourselves a river
running down into a lake. If the stream
is dammed up at two different levels,
each dam, as long as there is water in it,
will turn a mill-wheel. But if all the
water runs down into the lake and,
owing to a dry season, there is no fresh
supply, the wheels will stop and we can
get no more work done. So with heat,
if it all runs down to one uniform tem
perature it can no longer be made
available to do work. In the case of
the river, fresh water is supplied at the
higher levels, by the sun’s energy rais
ing it by evaporation from the seas to
the clouds, from which it is deposited
as rain or snow. But in the case of
heat there is no such self-restoring process,
and. the. tendency is always towards its
dissipation;. or in other words, towards
a more uniform distribution of heat
throughout all existing matter. The
process is very slow ; the original fund
of high-temperature heat is enormous,
and as long as matter goes on condens
ing fresh supplies of heat are, so to
speak, squeezed out of it.
Still there is a limit to condensation,
while there is no limit to the tendency
of heat to diffuse itself from hotter to
colder matter until all temperatures are
equalized. The energy is not destroyed ;
it is still there in the same average
amount of total heat, though no longer
differentiated into greater and lesser
heats, and
therefore
no
longer
available for life, motion, or any other
form of transformation. This seems to
be the case with the moon, which, being
so much smaller, has sooner equalised its
heat with surrounding space, and is ap
parently a burnt-out and dried-up cinder
without air or water. And this, as far as
we can see, must be the ultimate fate of
all planets, suns, and solar systems.
Fortunately the process is extremely
slow, for even our small earth has en
joyed air, water, sunshine, and all the
present conditions necessary for life for
the whole geological period, certainly
from the Silurian epoch downwards, if
not earlier, which cannot well be less
than 100 millions of years, and may be
much more. Still time, even if reckoned
by hundreds of millions of years, is not
eternity; and as, looking through the
telescope at nebulae which appear to be
condensing about central nuclei, we
perchance dimly discern a beginning, so,
looking at the moon and reasoning from
established principles as to the dissipa
tion of heat, we can dimly discern an
end. What we really can see is that
throughout the whole of this enormous
range of space and time law prevails •,
that, given the original atoms and
energies with their original qualities,
everything else follows in a regular and
and inevitable succession; and that the
whole material universe is a clock, so
perfectly constructed from the beginning
as to require no outside interference
during the time it has to run to keep
it going with absolute correctness.
�LIFE
CHAPTER IV
LIFE.
Essence of Life—Simplest Form, Protoplasm
—Monera and Protista—Animal and Vege
table Life—Spontaneous Generation—De
velopment of Species from Primitive Cells
-—Supernatural Theory—Zoological . Pro
vinces-—Separate Creations—Law or Miracle
—Darwinian Theory—Struggle for LifeSurvival of the Fittest—Development and
Design—The Hand—Proof required to es
tablish Darwin’s Theory as a Law—Species
—Hybrids—Man subject to Law.
The universe is divided into two worlds
—the inorganic, or world of dead matter;
and the organic, or world of life. What
is life 1 In its essence it is a state of
matter in which the particles are in a
continued state of flux, and the indi
vidual existence depends, not on the same
particles remaining in the same definite
shape, but on the permanence of a definite
mould or form through which fresh par
ticles are continually entering, forming
new combinations and passing away. It
may assist in forming a conception of this
if we imagine ourselves to be looking at
a mountain the top of which is enveloped
in a driving mist. The mountain is dead
matter, the particles of which continue
fixed in the rocks. But the cloud-form
which envelops it is a mould into which
fresh particles of vapour are continually
entering and becoming visible on the
windward side, and passing away and
disappearing to leeward. If we add to
this the conception that the particles do
not, as in the case of the cloud, simply
enter in and pass away without change,
but are digested, that is, undergo chemical
changes by which they- are partly assimi
lated and worked-up into component
parts of the mould, and partly thrown off
in new combinations, we shall arrive at
something which is not far off the.ulti
mate idea of what constitutes living
matter, in its simplest form of the pro
toplasm, or speck of jelly-like substance,
which is shown to be the primitive basis
or raw material of all the more, complex
forms both of vegetable and animal life.
Digestion, therefore, is the primary attri
bute. A crystal grows from without, by
taking on fresh particles and building
them up in regular layers according to
fixed laws, just as the pyramids of Egypt
were built up by layer upon layer of
squared stones upon surfaces formed of I
regular figures, and inclined to each other
at determinate angles.
The living plant or animal grows from U
within by taking supplies of fresh matter
into its inner laboratory, where it is
worked up into a variety of comptoj^l
products needed for the existence and
reproduction of life. After supplying •]
these, the residue is given back in various
forms to the inorganic world, and the
final residue of all is given back by death,
which is the ultimate end of all life.
The simplest form of life, in which it I
first emerges from the inorganic into the J
organic world, consists of protoplasm, or,
as it has been called, the physical basis Of I
life. Protoplasm is a colourless semi-fluid!
or jelly-like substance, which consists of I
albuminoid matter, or in other words, of
a heterogeneous carbon-compound of very
complex chemical composition. It exist^J
in every living cell, and performs the
functions of nutrition and reproductlcy.^
as well as of sensation and motion. In^|
its simplest form, that of the microscopic
monera or protista, the lowest of living
beings, we find an apparently homo
geneous structureless piece of protoplasm,
without any differentiation of parts. The
monera are simple living globules of
jelly, without even a nucleus or any sort
of organ, and yet they perform all the
essential functions of life without any
different parts being told off for par
ticular functions. Every particle or mole
cule is of the same chemical composition.
and a facsimile of the whole body, as in
the case of a crystal. They are, there
fore, the first step from the inorganic
into the organic world, and if spontaneow
generation takes place anywhere, it is
in the passage of the chemical elements!
from the simple and stable combinations
of the former into the complex and plastic
combinations of the latter.
The next step upwards is to the cell in
which the protoplasm is enclosed in a
skin or membrane of modified protoplasm,
and a nucleus, or denser spot, is developed
in the enclosed mass. This is the primary
element from which all the more coni’
plicated forms of life are built-up. Each
cell seems to have an independent life of
its own, and a faculty of reproduction by
splitting into fresh cells similar to itself,
which multiply in geometrical progres
sion, assimilating the elements of their
�30
MODERN SCIENCE’ AND MODERN THOUGHT
substance from the inorganic world so
rapidly as to provide the requisite raw
material for higher structures.
The first organised living forms are
extremely minute, and can only be re
cognised by powerful microscopes. A
filtered infusion of hay, allowed to stand
r for two days, will swarm with living
r tilings, a number of which do not exceed
of an inch in diameter. Minute
as these animalcula are, they are tho
roughly alive. They dart about and
digest; the smallest speck of jelly-like
subalance shoots out branches or processes
to.seize food, and if these come in collision
with other substances they withdraw
them. They exist in countless myriads,
and perform a very important part in the
£ economy of nature. They are the scav
engers of the universe, and remove the
remains of living matter after death,
which would otherwise accumulate until
they choked-up the earth. This they do
by the process of putrefaction, which is
due mainly to the multiplication of little
rod-like creatures known as bacteria,
which work up the once living, now dead,
matter into, fresh elements, again fitted
to play their part in the inorganic and
organic worlds.
One of the simplest of these forms is
the amoeba, which is nothing but a naked
little , lump of cell-matter, or plasma,
containing a nucleus ; and yet this little
Jfcpeck of jelly moves freely, it shoots out
tongues or processes and gradually draws
itself up. to them with a sort of wave
like motion; it eats and grows, and in
I growing reproduces itself by contracting
in the middle and splitting up into two
Bndependent amoebae.
Th© germs of these various animalcula
swarm in the air, and carry seeds of
infection wherever they find a soil fitted
to receive them; and thus assist the
survival of the fittest in the struggle of
life, by eliminating weak and unhealthy
individuals and species. Thus when the
potato, the vine, or the silkworm has had
its constitution enfeebled by prolonged
artificial culture, there are germs always
ready to revenge the violation of natural
laws, and bring the survivors back to a
more heathy condition. In like manner
the germs of cholera, typhoid, and scarlet
fever, enforce the observance of sanitary
principles.
In this simple form the lowest forms of
life are not yet sufficiently differentiated
to enable us to distinguish clearly between
animal and vegetable, and they have been
called by some naturalists Protista, while
Amceba.
Amceba dividing into two.
others designate them as Protozoa or
Protophyta, according as they show more
resemblance to one or the other form of
life.. But it is often so doubtful that in
looking at the same organism through a
microscope, Huxley was inclined to
consider it as a plant, while Tyndall
exclaimed that he could as soon believe
that a sheep was a vegetable.
In the next stage upwards, however, life
subdivides itself into two great kingdoms,
that of the vegetable and of the animal
world. Alike in their general definition
as contrasted with inorganic matter, and
in their common origin from an embryo
cell, which divides and subdivides until
cell-aggregates are formed, from which
the living form is built up by a process
of evolution, the plant differs from the
animal in this : that the former feeds
directly on inorganic matter, while the
latter can only feed on it indirectly, after
it has been manufactured by the plant
into vegetable substance.
This is universally true, for if we dine
on beef, we dine practically on the grass
which the ox ate ; that is, on the carbon,
oxygen, hydrogen, and other simple ele
ments which the grass, under the stimulus
of light and sunshine, manufactured into
complex compounds ; and which the ox
again, by a second process, manufactured
from these compounds into others still
more complex, and more easily assimilated
by us in the process of digestion. But in
no case can we dine, as the plant does,
on the simple elements, and thrive on a
diet, of air and water, with a small
admixture of nitrate of ammonia, and of
phosphates, sulphates and chlorides, of
a few primitive metals. Vegetable life,
�LIFE
f-herefora, is the producer, and animal
life the consumer, of the organic world.
Practically the plant derives most of
its substance from the carbonic acid gas
in the atmosphere, which green leaves
under the stimulus of light and heat have
the faculty of decomposing, and abstract
the carbon giving out the oxygen ; while
the animal, by a reverse process, burns
up the compounds manufactured by the
plant, principally out of this carbon, by
the oxygen obtained from the air by the
process of respiration, exhaling the sur
plus carbon in the form of carbonic
acid gas.
The balancing effect of these two pro
cesses may be seen in any aquarium,
where animals and vegetables live to
gether in water which is kept pure, while
it would become stagnant and poisonous
in a few hours, if one of the two forms of
life were removed. All that the animal
requires therefore for its existence—ma
terials with which to build up its frame
and supply waste ; heat with which to
maintain its circulating fluids and other
substances at a proper temperature;
motive power or energy to enable it to
move, feel, and, in the case of the higher
animals, to think—are all proceeds of
the slow combustion of materials derived
from the vegetable world in the oxygen
breathed from the air, just as the work
done by a steam-engine is the product of
a similar combustion, or chemical com
bination of the oxygen of the air with
the coal shovelled into the fire-box. These
distinctions, however, between animals
and vegetables are not quite absolute,
for, even in the more highly-organised
forms of life, there is a border-land where
some plants seem to perform the functions
of animals, as in those which catch, and
consume flies and eat and digest pieces
of raw meat.
Those who wish to pursue this interest
ing subject further will do well to read
the Chapter on Living Matter in Huxley’s
“ Physiography,” where they will find it
toore fully explained, with the inimit
able clearness which characterises all the
writings of an author who was at the same
tirna one of the first scientific authorities
and one of the greatest masters, of
English prose. But my present, object
is not to write a scientific treatise, but
shortly to sum up the ascertained results
of modern science, with a view to their
bearings on modern thought; and from
3f
this point of view the immediate question,
is, how far unbroken sequence, which
has been shown to prevail universally
throughout space, time, and inorganic J
matter, can be shown to prevail equally
throughout the world of life..
Up to a certain point this admits of
positive proof. It is as certain that all
individual life, from the most elementary
protoplasm up to the highest organism,
Man, originates in a minute or embryo
cell, as it is that oxygen and. hydrogen,
combined in certain proportions make
water. But if we try to go back one step
further, behind the cell, we are stopped.
In the inorganic world we can reason OUT
way beyond the microscopic matter to the
molecule, and from the molecule to the
atom, and are only arrested when we
come to the ultimate form of matter, and
of energy, out of which the universe is
built up. But, in the case of life, we are
stopped two steps short of this, and can*
not tell how the cell containing the germ d
of life is built up out of the simpler 1
elements.
Many attempts have been made to
bridge over this gulf, and to show how life
may originate in chemical compound#,
but hitherto without success. Experi
ments have been made which, for a time,
seemed to show that spontaneous genera
tion was a scientific fact, i.e., that the
lowest forms of life, such as bacteria arid
amoebae, really did originate in infusion#
containing no germs of life; but they
have been met by counter experiments
confirmingHarvey’s dictum, “Omnevivttm
ex ovo,” or, all life comes from an egg,
i.e., from antecedent germs of life, and the
verdict of the best authorities, sueh as
Pasteur, Tyndall, and Huxley is, thatspontaneous generation has been “defeated
along the whole line.” This verdict is
perhaps too unqualified, for it appear®
that, on the assumption with which both
sides started, all organic life wag de
stroyed by exposure to a heat of 212'’, or
the boiling-point of water, the advocate®
of spontaneous generation had the best
of it, as low forms of life did appear in
infusions which had been exposed to this
heat, and then hermetically sealed, So as
to prevent any germs from entering.
But it was replied that, as a hard pea
takes more boiling than a soft one, it
might very well be that heat sufficient to
destroy life in any moist organism of
sufficient size to be seen by the microscope,
�32
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
• might not destroy the germinating power
of ultra-microscopic germs in a very dry
state. And this position seems to have
been confirmed by various experiments,
showing that such ultra - microscopic
germs really do exist, and are given forth
in the last life stage of the bacteria which
cause putrefaction ; and that if they are
absent or destroyed by repeated applica
tions of heat, infusions will keep sweet
for ever in optically pure air.
Above all, the germ theory has re
ceived confirmation from the brilliant
practical results to which it has led in
the hands of Pasteur, enabling him to
detect, and to a great extent eradicate,
the causes which had led to the oidium
of the vine and the pebrine of the silk
worm, thereby saving millions to the
industries of France. The germ theory
has also led to important results in
medical science, and is pointing towards
the possibility of combating the most
fatal diseases by processes analogous to
that by which vaccination has almost
freed the human race from the scourge of'
small-pox.
On the whole, therefore, we must be
content to accept a verdict of “Not
proven ” in the case of spontaneous
generation, and admit that as regards
the first origin of life, science fails us,
and that there is at present no known
law that will account for it.
Should spontaneous generation ever be
proved to be a fact, it will doubtless be in
creating living protoplasm from inorganic
elements at its earliest stage, before it
has been differentiated even into the
primitive form of a nucleated cell or that
of an amoeba. This is what the doctrine
of evolution would lead us to expect, for
it would be in contradiction to it to
suppose that the starting-point could be
interpolated at any stage subsequent to
the lowest. It may be also that this step
could only be made under conditions of
heat, pressure, and otherwise, which
existed in the earlier stage of the earth’s
existence, but have longed since passed
away.
This, however, is only a small part of
the difficulty we have to encounter in
reducing life to law.
These primeval embryo cells, like as
they are in appearance, contain within
them the germs of an almost infinite
diversity of evolutions, each running its
separate course distinct from the others.
The world of life is not one and uniform,
but consists of a vast variety of different
species, from the speck of protoplasm up
to the forest tree, and from the humble
amoeba up to man, each one, at any rate
within long intervals of time, breeding
true and keeping to its own separate
and peculiar path along the line of
evolution.
The first germ, or nucleated cell, of a
bacterium develops into other bacteria
and nothing else, thatof a coral into corals,
of an oak into oaks, of an elephant into
elephants, of a man into man. In the
latter case we can trace the embryo in
its various stages of growth th rough forms
having a certain analogy to those of the
fish, the reptile, and the lower mammals,
until it finally takes that of the human
infant. But we have no experience of a
fish, a frog, or a dog, born of human
parents, or of any of the lower animals
ever producing anything resembling a
man.
How can this be explained ? Naturally
the first attempt at explanation was by
miracle. At a time when everything
was explained by miracle, when all
unusual occurrences were attributed to
supernatural agency, and men lived in
an atmosphere of providential inter
ferences, witchcraft, magic, and all sorts
of divine and diabolic agencies, nothing
seemed easier than to say that the beasts of
the field, the birds of the air, and the fishes
of the sea, are all distinct after their
kind, because God created them so.
But as the supernatural faded away
and disappeared in other departments
where it had so long reigned supreme,
and science began to classify, arrange,
and accumulate facts as they really are,
it became more and more difficult, or
rather impossible, to accept this simple
explanation. The very first step de
stroyed the validity of all the traditional
myths which described the origin of life
from one simultaneous act of creation at
a single centre. The earth is divided
into separate zoological provinces, each
with its own peculiar animal and vege
table world. The kangaroo, for instance,
is found in Australia and there only. By
no possibility could the aboriginal kan
garoo have jumped at one bound from
Mount Ararat to Australia, leaving no
trace of his passage in any intermediate
district. This isolation of life in separate
provinces applies so rigidly, that we may
�83
sum it up by saying generally that there
art no forms of life common to two
provinces unless where migration is
possible, or has been possible in past
geological periods.
In islands at a distance from conEnents, we find common forms of marine
life, for the sea affords a means of com
munication ; and often common forms of
bird, insect, and vegetable life, where
they may have been wafted by the winds ;
(but forms which neither in the adult nor
germ state could swim, or fly, or be
transported by something which did
Swim or fly, are invariably wanting.
&ew Zealand affords a most conspicuous
Instance of this. Here is a large country
with a soil and climate exceptionally well
Adapted to support a large amount of
animal life of the higher orders, and yet,
with the exception of two species of bats,
it had absolutely no mammal before they
were introduced by man, the dog being
probably introduced by the Maoris. If
special creations took place to replenish
the earth as soon as any portion of its
surface becomes fit to. sustain it, why
were there no animals in New Zealand ?
Or, in the Andaman Islands, in the Gulf
of Bengal, which are as large as Ireland,
covered with luxuriant vegetation, and
within 300 miles of the coast of Asia, where
similar jungles swarm with elephants,
tigers, deer, and all the varied forms of
mammalian life, there are no mammalia
except a pigmy black savage and a pigmy
©lack pig, the latter probably introduced
by man.
The sharpness of the division between
Zoological provinces is well illustrated by
that drawn by the Straits of Lombok,
Kvhere a channel, not twenty miles wide,
separates the fauna of Asia and Australia
so completely that there are no species of
land animals, and only a few of birds and
insects, common to the two sides, of a
channel not so wide as the Straits of
Dover.
There is no possibility of accounting
for this, except by supposing that the
deep water fissure of the Straits of
Eombok has existed from remote geo
logical periods, and barred the migration
southwards of those Asiatic animals,
which, as long as they found dry land,
migrated northwards and westwards till
they were stopped by the Polar and
Atlantic Oceans. This difficulty of re
quiring special creations for separate
provinces is enormously enhanced if we
look beyond the existing condition of
things, and trace back the geological
record. We must suppose separate crea
tions for all the separate provinces of
the separate successive formations from
the Silurian upwards. And the more w«
investigate the conditions of life either
under existing circumstances or in tliOSO
of past geological epochs, the mor®
are we driven to enormously multiply
the number of separate creations wliida
would be necessary to account for the
diversity of species. We find life shading
off into an infinite variety of almost im
perceptible gradations from the highest
organism, man, to the lowest, or speck of
protoplasm, and we can draw no hard
and fast line and say, up to this point
life originated by natural processes, and
beyond it we must have recourse
miracle. Either all life or none is a
product of evolution acting by defined
law, and the affirmation of law is the
negation of miracle.
Every day brings us an account of
some new discovery linking forms of life
nearer together and bridging over
tervals thought to be impassable. Tho
discovery of insectivorous plants, which
also devour and digest pieces of raw
meat, has added to the difficulty which
has been long felt, particularly, in the
humbler forms of life, of drawing any
clear line of demarcation between th®
animal and vegetable worlds.
Microscopic research brings to light
fresh facts confounding our fixed ideas
as to the permanence of particular modes
of reproducing life, and showing that
the same organism may run through
various metamorphoses in the course of
its life-cycle, during some of which it
may be sexual and in others asexual,
i.e., it may reproduce itself alternately
by the co-operation of two beings, of
opposite sex, and by fissure or budding
from one being only which is of no sex.
These, and a multitude of other similar
facts, complicate enormously the pro
blems of life and its developments,
whether we attempt to solve.it by calling
in aid a perpetual series of innumerable
miraculous interpositions, or by ap
pealing to ordinary known laws of
Nature.
Is the latter solution possible, and can
the organic world be reduced, as the
inorganic world has been with all its
�S4
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
mysteries and the infinities of space, time,
and matter, from chaos into cosmos, and
shown to depend on permanent and
harmonious laws 1 Is the world of life,
like that of matter, a clock, so perfectly
constructed from the first that it goes
without winding up or regulating ? or is
it a clock which would never have started
going, or having started would soon
cease to go, if the hand of the watch
maker were not constantly interfering
with it ? This is the question which the
celebrated Darwinian theory attempts to
answer, of which I now proceed to give a
short general outline.
The varieties among domestic animals
are obvious to every one. The race-horse
is a very different creature from the
dray-horse; the short-horned ox from
the Guernsey cow; the greyhound from
ths Skye terrier. How has this come to
pass ? Evidently by man’s intervention,
causing long-continued selection in breed
ing for certain objects. The English
race-horse is the product of mating
animals distinguished for speed for some
fifteen or twenty generations. The grey
hound is a similar dog-product by breed
ing for a longer period with the same
object: as the Skye terrier is of selection
in order to _ get a dog which can
follow a fox into a cairn of rocks and
fight him w’hen he gets there. In all
these cases it is evident that the final
result was not attained at once, but by
taking advantage of small accidental
variations and accumulating them from
one generation to another by the princi
ple of heredity, which makes offspring
reproduce the qualities of their parents.
The most precise and scientific experi
ments on this power of integrating, or
summing up, a progressive series of
differentials, or minute differences, be
tween successive generations, are those
conducted by Darwin on pigeons. He
has shown conclusively that all the races
of domestic pigeons, of which there are
two or three hundred, are derived from
one common ancestor, the wild or blue
rock pigeon, and that the pigeon-fancier
can always obtain fresh varieties in a few
generations by careful interbreeding. Of
the existing varieties many now differ
widely from one another, both in size,
appearance, and even in anatomical
structure, so that if they were now
discovered for the first time in a fossil
state or in a new country, they would
assuredly be classed by naturalists as
separate species.
This is the work of man ; is there any
thing similar to it going on in Nature 1
Yes, says Darwin, there is a tendency in
all life, and especially in the lower forms
of life, to reproduce itself vastly quicker
than the supply of food and the existence
of other life can allow, and the balance
of existence is only preserved by the
wholesale waste of individuals in what
may be called the “ struggle for life.” In
this struggle, which goes on incessantly
and on the largest scale, the slightest
advantage must tell in the long run, and
on the average, in selecting the few who
are to survive, and such slight advantages
must tend to accumulate from one gener
ation to another under the law of heredity.
The cumulative power of selection exer
cised by man in the breeding of races is
therefore necessarily exercised in Nature
by the struggle for life, and in the course
of time, by the cumulation of advantages
originally slight, small and fluctuating
variations are hardened into large and
permanent ones, and new species are
formed.
Darwin illustrates this principle of the
“struggle for life” with a vast variety
of instances, showing how the balance of
animal and vegetable life may be pre
served or destroyed in the most un
expected manner. For instance, the
fertilisation of red clover is effected by
humble-bees, and depends on their
number ; the number of bees in a given
district depends mainly on the number
of field-mice which destroy their combs
and nests ; the number of mice depends
on the number of cats; and thus the
presence or absence of a carnivorous
animal may decide the question whether
a particular sort of flora shall prevail
over others or be extirpated.
The countless profusion with which any
one species, unchecked by its natural foes,
may multiply in a given district, is
illustrated by the potato disease, which
in a few days invades whole countries ;
and by the rabbit plague in Australia and
New Zealand, where, in less than twenty
years, the descendants of a few imported
pairs have rendered whole provinces
useless for sheep pasture, and stoats are
now being imported to restore the balance
of life. The tendency in species to pro
duce varieties which by selection may
become exaggerated .and fixed, is illus-
�SB
LIEF
trated by the case of the Ancon herd of
sheep A ram lamb was born in Massa
chusetts in 1791, which had short crooked
legs and a long back like a turnspit dog.
Being unable to jump over fences like the
ordinary sheep, it was thought to possess
certain advantages to the farmer, and the
breed was established by artificial
selection in pairing this ram with its
descendants who possessed the. same
peculiarities. The introduction of the
Merino superseded the Ancon by giving
a tame sheep not given to jump fences,
with a better fleece, and so the breed was
not continued, but it is certain that it
might have been established as a per
manent variety differing from the
ordinary sheep as much as the turnspit
or Skye terrier differs from the ordinary
dog. The tendency of Nature to variation
is apparent in the fact that of the many
hundred millions of human beings living
on the earth, no two are precisely alike,
and varieties often appear, as in giants
and dwarfs, six-fingered or toed children,
hairy and other families, which might
doubtless be fixed and perpetuated by
artificial or natural selection, until they
became strongly marked and permanent.
It is evident that if the theory of
development is true it excludes the old
theory of design, or rather, it thrusts it
back in the organic, as it has been thrust
back in the inorganic, world, to the first
atoms or origins which were made so
perfect as to carry within them all
subsequent phenomena by necessary
evolution. Design and development lead
to the same result, that of producing
organs adapted for the work they have
to do, but they lead to it in totally
different ways. Development works from
the less to the more perfect, and from
the simpler to the more complicated, by
incessant changes, small in themselves,
but constantly accumulating in the re
quired direction. Design supposes that
organisms were created specially on a
predetermined plan, very much as the
sewing-machine or self-binding reaper
were constructed by their inventors.
Until quite recently all adaptations of
m eans to ends were considered as evidences
of design. A series of treatises, for which
prizes were left by a late Duke of Bridge
water, was published some thirty years
ago, to illustrate this theme. Among these
one by Sir Charles Bell on the Hand at
tracted a good deal of attention. It was
shown what an admirable machine the
human hand is for the various purposesfor
which it is used, and the inference was
drawn that it must have been created so
by a designer who adapted means to ends
in much the same way as is done by a
human inventor. But more complete
knowledge has dispelled this idea, and
shown that the design, if there be any,
must be placed very much farther back,
and is in fact involved in the primitive
germ from which all vertebrate life
certainly, and probably all life, animal or
vegetable, has been slowly developed.
The human hand is in effect the last
stage of a development of the vertebrate
type, or type of life in which a series of
jointed vertebrse form a backbone, which
protects a spinal cord containing the
nervous centres, gives points of attach
ment for the muscles, and forms an axis
of support for the looser tissues. Certain
of these vertebrse throw out bony spines
or rays ; at first, by a sort of simple
process of vegetable growth, which
formed the fins of fishes; then some of
these rays dropped off and others coalesced
into more complex forms, which made
the rudimentary limbs of reptiles ; and
finally, the continued process of develop
ment fashioned them into the more
perfect limbs of birds and mammals. In
this last stage a vast variety of combin
ations was developed. Sometimes the
bones of the extremities spread out, so as
to form long fingers supporting the
feathered wings of birds and the mem
braneous wings of bats ; sometimes they
coalesced into the solid limbs supporting
the bodies of large animals, as in the
case of the horse ; and finally, at the end
of the series, they formed that marvellous
instrument, the hand, as it appears in
the allied genera of monkeys, apes, and
man.
Any theory of secondary design and
special miraculous creation must evi
dently account for all the intermediate
forms as well as for the final result. We
must suppose not one but many thous
ands of special creations, at a vast
variety of places and over a vast extent
of time ; we must take into acount not
the successes only, but the failures, where
organs appear in a rudimentary form
which are perfectly useless, or in some
cases even injurious, to the creature in
which they are found. For instance, in
the case of the so-called wingless birds,
D 2
�36
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
like the dodo of the Mauritius, and the
apteryxof New Zealand, which werefound
in oceanic islands, evolution accounts
readily for the atrophy or want of develop
ment of organs which were not wanted
where the birds had no natural enemies
and found their food on the ground ; but
why should they have been created with
rudimentary wings, useless while they
remained isolated, and insufficient to
prevent their extermination as soon
as man, or any other natural enemy,
reached the islands where they had lived
secure ?
If we are apt to adopt the theory of
design and special creation, we must be
prepared to take Burns’s poetical fancy as
a scientific truth, and believe that Nature
had to try its “prentice hand,” and grope
its way through repeated trials , and fail
ures from the less to the more perfect.
Again, the theory of special creation
must account not only for the higher
organs and forms of life, but for the lower
forms also. Are the bacteria, amoebae,
and other forms of life which the micro
scope shows in a drop of water all in
stances of a miraculous creation ? And
still more hard to believe, is this the
origin of the whole parasitic world of life
which is attached to and infests each its
own peculiar form of higher life ? Is the
human tape-worm a product of design, or
that wonderful parasite the trichina,
which oscillates between man and the pig,
being capable of being born only in the
muscles of the one, and of living only in
the intestines of the other ?
These are the sort of difficulties which
have led the scientific world, I may say
universally, to abandon the idea of separ
ate special creations, and to substitute
for it that which has been proved to be
true of the whole inorganic world of
stars, suns, planets, and all forms of
matter ; the idea of an original -creation
(whatever creation may mean and behind
which we cannot go) of ultimate atoms or
germs, so perfect that they carried within
them all the phenomena of the universe
by a necessary process of evolution.
This is the idea to which the Darwinian
theory _ leads up, by showing natural
causes in operation which must inevit
ably tend to originate and to accumulate
slight varieties, until they become large
in amount and permanent, thus develop
ing new races within old species, new
species within old families, new families
within old types, and new and complex
types from old and simple ones.
The theory is up to a certain point
undoubtedly true, and beyond that point
in the highest degree probable, but scien
tific caution obliges us to add that it is
still to a considerable extent a “ theory,”
and not a “law.” That is, it is not like
the law of gravity, a demonstrated cer
tainty throughout the whole universe,
but a provisional law which accounts for
a great number of undoubted facts, and
supplies a framework into which all other
similar facts, as at present ascertained,
appear to fit with a probability not ap
proached by any other theory, and which
is enhanced by every fresh discovery
made, and by the analogy of what we
know to be the laws which regulate the
whole inorganic world.
To enable us to talk of the “ Darwinian
law,” and not of the “ Darwinian theory,”
we require two demonstrations :
1. That living matter really can origi
nate from inorganic matter.
2. That new species really can be formed
from previously existing species.
As regards the first, we have seen that
the efforts of science have hitherto failed
to produce an instance of spontaneous
generation, and all we can say is that it
is probable that such instances have oc
curred in earlier ages of our planet, under
conditions of light, heat, chemical action,
and electricity, different from anything
we can now reproduce in our laboratories.
This, however, falls short of demonstra
tion and for the present we must be con
tent to leave the origin of life as one of
the mysteries not yet brought within the
domain of law.
As regards the second point, we are
farther advanced towards the possibility
of proof. But here also we are met by
two difficulties. If we appeal to historical
evidence, we are met by the fact that a
much greater time than is embraced by
any historical record is almost necessarily
required for the dying out of any old
species and introduction of any new one,
by natural selection. And if we appeal
to fossil remains we are met by the im
perfection of the geological record. As
to this, it must be remembered that only
a very small portion of the earth’s surface
has been explored, and of this a very
small portion consists of ancient land
surfaces or fresh water formations, where
alone we can expect to meet with traces
�hips
R the higher forms of animal life. And
even these have been so imperfectly exthat where we now meet with
thousands and tens of thousands of undoubted human remains in the shape of
rudely-fashioned stone tools and weapons
lying almost under our feet, it is only
Kithin the last thirty years that their
(existence has even been suspected. Cuvier,
the greatest authority of the last genera
tion, laid it down as an incontrovertible
fact that neither men nor monkeys had
existed in the fossil state, or in anything
more ancient than the most superficial
and recent deposits. We have now at least
twenty specimens of fossil monkeys, from
bne locality alone of the Miocene period,
that of Pikermi, near Athens, and many
thousands of human remains, contem
porary with extinct animals of the Qua
ternary period, if not earlier. We must be
Content, therefore, with approximate
solutions pointing up to but not abso
lutely demonstrating the truth.
What is a species ? Speaking generally
it is an assemblage of individuals who
maintain a separate family type by
breeding freely among themselves, and
refusing to breed with other species.
There can be no doubt that this repre
sents what, at the first view and for a
limited range of time, is in accordance
with actual facts. The animal and vege
table worlds are practically mapped-out
into distinct species, and do not present
the mass of confusion which would result
from indiscriminate cross-breeding. It
is clear also that this state of things has
lasted for a considerable time, for the
paintings on Egyptian tombs and monu
ments carry us back more than 4,000
years, and show us the most strongly
marked varieties of the human race,
such as the Semitic, the Egyptian, and
the Negro, existing just as they do at
the present day. They show us also such
extreme varieties of the dog species as
the greyhound and the turnspit, then in
Existence ; and the skeletons of animals
SUch as the ox, cat, and crocodile, which
have been preserved as mummies, show
no appreciable difference from those of
their modern descendants.
When we come to look closely, however,
into the matter, our faith in this absolute
rule of the entire independence of species
is greatly modified. In the lower grades
of life we see everywhere species shading
off into one another by insensible grada
$7
tions, and every extension of our know
ledge, both of the existing animal, v®g<e»
table, and microscopic worlds, and of
those of past geological periods, multiplies instances of intermediate forms,
differing from one another far less than
do many of the individual varieties of
recognised species. In the case of sponges,
for instance, the latest conclusion of
scientific research is this: that if you
rely on minute distinctions as consti
tuting distinct species, there are at least
300 species of one family of. sponges,
while if you disregard slight differences,
which graduate into one another, and ana
found partly in one and partly in another
variety, you must designate them all as
forming only one species. Even in higher
grades, as species are multipled, it be
comes more and more difficult to say
where one ends and the other begins,
Take the familiar instance of the grouse
and ptarmigan. The red grouse is believed
to be peculiar to the British Island^
while the ptarmigan is a very wid^W
spread inhabitant of. Arctic regions and
high mountains. Which is more probable
—that the grouse was specially created
in the British Islands, apparently for
the final cause of bringing sessions of
Parliament to wind-up business in August,
or that, as the rigour of the Glacial period
abated, and heather began to grow, cer
tain ptarmigan by degrees modified their
habits and took to feeding on heather
tops instead of lichens, and by so doing
gradually became larger birds and as
sumed the colour best adapted for pro
tection in their new habitation ? In point
of fact, grouse showing traces of this
descent in smaller size and much whiter
plumage are still to be met with. It would
be easy to multiply instances, but this
consideration seems conclusive.
If we reject the Darwinian theory aim
adopt that of independent species de
scended from a specially created ancestor
or pair of ancestors, we are driven by
each discovery of intermediate or slightly
modified forms, into the assumption of
more and more special acts of creation,
until the number breaks down under its
own weight, and belief becomes impos*
sible.
For instance, in the Madeira Islands
alone, 134 species of air-breathing land
snails have been discovered by naturalists,
of which twrenty-one only are found in
Africa or Europe, and 113 are peculiar to
�38
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
this small group of islands, where they
are mostly confined to narrow districts
and single valleys. Are we to suppose
that each of these 113 species was sepa
rately created ? Is it not almost certain
that they are the modified descendants
of the twenty-one species which had
found their way there in a former geolo
gical period, when Madeira was united
to Africa and Spain ?
There remains only the argument from
the fertility of species inter se and their
refusal to breed with other species.
This also, when closely examined, ap
pears to be a prima facie deduction, rather
than an absolute law. Different species
do, in fact, often breed together, as is
seen in the familiar instance of the horse
and ass. It is true that in this case the
mule is sterile and no new race is estab
lished. . But this rule is not universal,
and quite recently one new hybrid race,
that of the leporine, or hare-rabbit, has
been created, which is perfectly fertile.
The progeny of dog and wolf has also
been proved to be perfectly fertile during
the four generations for which the expe
riment was continued. In the case of
cultivated plants and domestic animals,
thore can be little doubt that new races,
which breed true and are perfectly fertile’
have been created within recent times
from distinct wild species. The Esquimaux dog is so like the Arctic wolf
that there can be little doubt he is either
a direct descendant, or that both are
descendants from a common stock. The
same is true of the jackal and some
breeds of dogs in the East and Africa,
and other races of dogs are closely akin
to foxes. But all dogs breed freely to
gether, and can with difficulty be mated
with the wild species which they so
closely resemble. The modern Swiss
cattle are pronounced by Rutimeyer to
show undoubted marks of descent from
three distinct species of fossil oxen, the
Bos primigenius, Bos longifrons and Bos
frontosus.
. There is n°w1 in the Zoological Gardens,
in Regent s Park, a hybrid cow, whose
sire was an American bison and its
mother a hybrid between a zebu and a
gayal. This animal is perfectly fertile,
and has bred again to the bison; but
what is singular is, that this hybrid
resembles much more an ordinary domes? 1888.
tic English cow than it does any of its pro
genitors. It is totally unlike the bison,
both in appearance and disposition, and
except in having a projecting ridge
over the withers, it might be mistaken
for a coarse, bony, common cow. If a
hybrid bull had been born of the same
type, and mated with this hybrid cow,
there is little doubt that a new race
have been established, extremely
different from its ancestors.
In fact, nearly all the domesticated
animals have the essential characters of
new races. We cannot point to wild pro
genitors existing in any part of the world
which they are descended, and when
they run wild they do not revert to any
common ancestral form.
In the vegetable world instances of
fertile hybrids are still more abundant,
and the introduction and establishment
of new varieties is a matter of very-day
occurrence.
Now, whatever artificial selection can
do in a short time, natural selection can
certainly do in a longer time, and noth
ing short of absolute proof of the im
possibility of species coming into ex
istence by natural laws should induce us
to fall back on the supernatural theory
with all its enormous difficulties of an
innumerable multitude of special
creations, most of them obviously im
perfect and tentative—or rather, useless
and senseless on any supposition except
that of a necessary and progressive
evolution. In fact, if it were not for its
bearing on the nature and origin of man,
few would be found to maintain the
theory of miraculous creations, or to
doubt that the world of life is regulated
by fixed laws as well as the world of
matter. But whatever touches man
touches us closely, and brings into play a
host of cherished aspirations and beliefs,
which are too powerful to be displaced
£eacW by calm, scientific reasoning,
phall man, who, we are told, was created
in God’s image and only “ a little lower
than the angels,” be degraded into relationship with the brutes, and shown to
be. only the last development of an
animal type which, in the case of apes
and .monkeys, approaches singularly near
to him in physical structure ? Are the
saints and heroes whom we revere,
and. the beautiful women whom we
admire, descended, not from an allglorioiis Adam and all-lovely Eve, ag
�ANTIQUITY OF MAN
portrayed in Milton’s u Paradise Lost,
but ftoin Palaeolithic gavages, more rude
and bestial than the lowest tribe of
Bushmen or Australians ? Is the ac
count of man’s creation and fall in the
Hebrew Scriptures as pure a myth as
that of Noah’s ark, or of Deucalion and
Pyrrha ?
The only answer to these questions is
that truth is truth, and fact is fact, and
tW it is always better to act and to
believe in conformity with truth and
fact, than to indulge in illusions. There
are many things in Nature which jar on
our feelings and seem harsh and dis
agretable, but yet are hard facts, which
we have to recognise and make the best
of. Childhood does not pass into man
hood without exchanging much that is
innocent and attractive for much that is
stern and prosaic. Death, with its pro
digal waste of immature life, its sudden
extinction of mature life in the pleni
tude of its powers, its . heart-rendinr
separations from loved objects, is a most
disagreeable fact. But it would not im
provematters to keep grown-up lads in
nurseries for fear of their meeting with
accidents, or of becoming hardened by
contact with the world. Progress, not
happiness, is the law of the world ; and to
improve himself and others by constant
struggles upwards is the true destiny of
man.
.
e
.
In working out this destiny the tear
less recognition of truth is essential.
Facts are the spokes of the ladder by
which we climb from earth to heaven,
and any individual, nation, or religion,
which, from laziness or prejudice, re
fuses to recognise fresh facts, has ceased
to climb and will end by falling asleep
and dropping to a lower level.
“ Prove everything, hold fast that
which is true,” is the maxim which has
raised mankind from savagery to civi
lisation, and which we must be prepared
to act upon at all hazards and at all
sacrifices, if we wish to retain that civi
lisation unimpaired and to extend it
further.
3f
CHAPTER V
ANTIQUITY OF MAN
Belief in Man’s Recent Origin—Boucher de
Perthes’ Discoveries—Confirmed by Prestwich—Nature of Implements—Celts, Scra
pers, and Flakes—Human Remains in River
Drifts—Great Antiquity—Implements from ||
Drift at Bournemouth—Bone Caves—Kent’s
Cavern—Victoria, Creswell, and other j
Caves—Caves of France and Belgium— J
Ages of Cave Bear, Mammoth, and Rata*
deer—Artistic Race—Drawings of Ma®.moth, etc.—Human Types—Neanderthal—- 1
—Attempts to fix Dates—History—-Spy,
Trinil — Bronze Age — Neolithic — Danish
Kitchen-middens—Swiss La ke- Dwellings-—- J
Glacial Period—Traces of Ice—Causes of
Glaciers—Croll’s Theory—Gulf StreamDates of Glacial Period—Rise and Sub
mergence of Land—Tertiary Man—Eooeo®
Period—Miocene—Evidence for Pliocene 1
and Miocene Man—Conclusions as to
Antiquity.
Great as the effect has been of the
wonderful discoveries of modern science of
which I have attempted to give a general
view in the preceding chapters, there ]
remains one which has had the greatest !
effect of all in changing the . whole cur
rent of modern thought, viz., the dis
covery of the enormous antiquity of man!
upon earth, and his slow progress Op
wards from the rudest savagery to in»j
telligence, morality, and civilisation. It
is needless to point out in what flagrant
and direct opposition this stands to the
theory that man is of recent miraculous
creation, and that he was originally en
dowed with a glorious nature and high
faculties, which were partially forfeited
by an act of disobedience. It is im
portant, therefore, to understand clearly
the evidence upon which rests a con
clusion so startling and unexpected as
that which traces the origin of man back
into the remote periods of geological
time.
It had been long known that a stona
period preceded the use of metals. Flints
arrow-heads, stone axes, knives, and
chisels, rude pottery, and other human
remains lie scattered almost everywhere,
on or near the existing surface, and are
found in the. sepulchral mounds and
monuments which abound in all countries
I until they are destroyed by the pro-
�40
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
gress of agriculture. These are certainly
fuel, and afford many remains of the
ancient, for their origin was so com
pletely forgotten that the stone hatchets■ wallo-Koman and pre-Boman or Celtic
or celts (from the Latin celtis, or chisel)‘ Peri<ld-n Hipher UP> on the slopes of the
were universally believed to be thunderi low hills which bound the wide vallev
bolts which had fallen from heaven. are numerous beds of gravel, sand, and
brick-earth, winch
But there was no proof that they were worked for road andare also extensively
building materials,
very ancient, they were always found at
or. near the present surface, and if in these pits remains of the mammoth,
animal remains were associated with rhinoceros, and other extinct animals are
frequently found, and the workmen had
them, they were those of the dog ox
occasionally . certain
sheep, red deer, and other wild ’ and noticed flints, to which they curiouslygave the
domestic species, now found in the same shaped
district. Historical record was not sup name of langues du chat,” or cats’
posed to extend beyond the 4,000 or 5 000 tongues. Some of these were taken to
Monsieur Boucher de Perthes as curiJ
years assigned to it by Bible chronology
and it was thought that this might be osities for his museum, and he at once
sufficient to account for all the changes recognised them as showing marks of
which had occurred since man first be human workmanship. This put him on
came an inhabitant of the earth. Above the track, and in the year 1841 he him
all, the negative evidence was relied self discovered, in situ, in a seam of sand
on, that geologists had explored far and containing remains of the mammoth, a
wideband although they had found fossil flint rudeiy but unmistakably fashioned
remains which enabled them to restore by human hands into a cutting instru
ment. During the next few years a
the characteristic fauna of so many dif large quantity of gravel was removed
ferent formations, they had found no trace
of man or his works anywhere below the to form the Champ de Mars at Abbeville
and
these
or hatchets
present surface. This seemed so con were many ofIn 1847,celts Boucher de
found.
M.
clusive that Cuvier, the greatest Perthes published his “Antiquites
authority of the day, pronounced an emphatic verdict that man had not existed Celtiques et Antediluviennes,” giving an
contemporaneously with any of the ex account of these discoveries, but no one
tinct animals, and probably not for more would, listen to him. The united
than 5,000 or 6,000 years. Here, then, authority of theologians and geologists
opposed
infallible
appeared to be an edifice based on ception ansuch ideas, veto on the re
and
scientific fact, in which geologists and admittedofthat M. Boucher it must be
de Perthes
theologians could dwell together com himself did his best to discredit his own
fortably, and the weight of their united discoveries by associating them with
authority was sufficient to silence all
objections, and ignore or explain away visionary speculations about successive
the instances which occasionally cropped deluges and creations of pre-Adamite
up, of human remains found in situations men. At length Dr. Falconer, the wellknown paleontologist, who had brought
implying greater antiquity.
Suddenly, I may almost say in a single to light so many wonderful fossil remains
dajq this edifice collapsed like a house of from the Sewalik hills in India, happened
through Abbeville and
cards, and the fact became apparent that ™
visited
the duration of human life on the earth He was M. Boucher de Perthes’ collection.
he saw
must be measured by periods of tens, if that on so much struck by whatspoke to
arriving in London he
not of hundreds of thousands of years
It happened thus: A retired French Mr- f re^twl<?h, the first living authority
On > i?
physician, Monsieur Boucher de Perthes and Mr.Tertiary and Quaternary strata,
whose
residing at Abbeville, in the valley of authority(now Sir John) Evans, every
was equally great on
tfie. Somme, had a hobby for antiquar thing relating to the stone implements
ian ism as decided as that of Monkbarns found m such numbers in the more
mm.self. Abbeville afforded him a
recent
He urged
capita.! collecting-ground ror the indul them toor Neolithic period. examine for
go to Abbeville and
gence of his tastes, as the sluggish themselves whether there was anything
feomme flows through a series of peat m these alleged discoveries. They did
mosses, which are extensively worked jso, and the result was that on their
�ANTIQUITY OF NAN
return to England Air. Prestwick read a
paper to the Royal Society on the 19th
Aiay, 1859, which conclusively and for
fever established the fact that flint imple
ments of unmistakable human workman
ship had been found, associated with the
remains of extinct species, in beds of the
Quaternary period deposited at a time
when the Somme ran at a level more
than 100 feet higher than at present, and
Flint HAche,
41
have been found from Western Europe to
Tibet; in Africa, and Central Australia j
in fact wherever they have been lookedfor, except in northern countries which
were buried under ice during the Glacial
period. The ea rliest known authentic wit
ness to man’s presence in Britain are som<
rudely-worked flints which were founds
mingled with bones of huge extinct anti*
mals, at a great depth in brick-earth at
Flint IIAchk,
From St. Aclieul, Valley of the Somme.
From Moulin Quignon, Abbeville.
(Half the actual size.)
(Half the actual size.)
(From Lubbock's ‘ Prehistoric Times.”)
was only beginning to excavate its
valley.
The spell once broken, evidence poured
in from all quarters, and although twentyfive years1 only have elapsed since Mr.
Prestwich’s paper was read, the number
of stone and other implements worked
by man, deposited in museums, is already
counted by tens of thousands, and they
Written in 1884.
Hoxne, in Suffolk. Some idea of the im
mense number of these rude implements
may be formed from the fact that the
valley system of one small river, the
Little Ouse, which rises near Thetford
and flows into the Wash after a course of
twenty-five miles, has within little more
than ten years yielded about 7,000 speci
mens.
They have been found in great abun
dance also in the valley gravels of the
�42
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
Thames, Ouse, Wiltshire Avon, and in
fact in all the river-gravels and brick
earths of the south and south-east of
England; and in those of the Somme,
Flint HAchb,
From Hoxne.
(Half the actual size.)
From Lubbock’s “ Prehistoric Times.”)
Oise, Seine, Loire, and all the principal
river systems of France ; and only in less
numbers, probably because they have
been less looked-for, in similar .situations
over an area extending from Central and
Southern Europe to the Far East. It is
a remarkable fact about these river-drift
implements that they are all nearly of the
same type and found under similar cir
cumstances, that is to say, in the gravels,
sands, brick-earths, and fine silt or loess
deposited by rivers which have either
ceased to run, or which ran at levels
higher than their present ones and were
only beginning to excavate their present
valleys. . Also they are always found in
association with remains of what is known
as the Quaternary (as distinguished from
recent or existing fauna) represented by
the mammoth or woolly-haired elephant,
thethick-nosed rhinoceros, and other wellknown types of extinct animals. The
general character of these implements is
very rude, implying a social condition
at least as low as that of the Australian
savages of the present day. They consist
mainly of the flake ; the chopper, or peb
ble roughly chipped to an edge on one
side ; the scraper, used probably for pre
paring skins ; pointed flints used for bor
ing ■ and by far the most abundant and
characteristic, of all, the hdche or celt, a
sharp or oval implement, roughly chipped
from flint or, in its absence, from any of
the hard stones of the district, such as
chert or quartzite, and intended to be
held in the hand and used without any
haft or handle.
These ketches are evidently the first rude
type of human tools from which the later
forms of the axe, adze, chisel, wedge, etc.,
have been derived by a very slow and
lengthened process of evolution. They
differ, however, in many essential re
spects, from the more perfect stone celts
of later periods and of modern savages.
The chipping is very rude, they are never
ground or polished, the pointed end is
that intended for use, the butt end being
left blunt, showing
that the hdche was
not hafted but held
in the hand; while
the converse is al
ways the case with
the finely-chipped or
polished stone celts
and hatchets of the
Neolithic period,
which, in its later
stages, are to all in
tents and purposes
similar to modern im
plements, only made
of stone instead of
metal.
But these
Palaeolithic laches are Polished Stone Axe.
only one step in ad
Neolithic.
vance of the rude (Half the actual size.)
(From Lubbock’s
natural stone which
an intelligent orang “ Prehistoric Times.”)
or chimpanzee might
pick up to crack a cocoa-nut with, or to
grub up a root from the earth, or an
insect from a rotten tree.
At the same time there is not the r§-
�43
ANTIQUITY OF MAN
mo test doubt as to their being the work
of human hands. When placed side by
side with the rudest forms of stone batchets actually used by the Australian and
otiler savages, it is difficult to detect any
difference. If placed in an ascending
series, from the oldest and rudest, to the
finely-finished axes and arrow-heads of
the period immediately preceding the use
of metal, the progress may be clearly traced
by insensible gradations. The blows given
to bring the block to the desired shape by
intentional chipping have left distinct
marks; and archaeologists have succeeded,
ferith a little practice, in fashioning sim
ilar implements from modern flints In
Flint Adze,
From Danish Kitchen-middens.
(From Lubbock’s
fact, forgeries have been made by work
men in localities where collectors were
eager and credulous, though fortunately
such forgeries are easily distinguished
from genuine antiquities by the different
appearance of the old and recent frac
tures, and other signs which make it
almost impossible to deceive an experienced eye. The conclusion, therefore,
of one of our best archaeologists may be
safely accepted, that it is as impossible
to doubt that these rude stone flakes and
hatchets are works of human art, as it
would be if we had found clasp-knives
and carpenters’ adzes.
The remains of human skeletons are,
as might be expected, very rare in these
river drifts, since they have been formed
under conditions where the preservation
of such remains would be very unlikely.
In fact, as Sir John Lubbock (now Lord
Avebury) points out, the bones found, in
the river-gravels are almost invariaoly
those of animals larger than man, such
as the mammoth and rhinoceros. Still a
few human bones have been found, suffi
cient to show that these river-drift iuen
were probably a dolichocephalic or long
and narrow-headed race, with prominent
jaws, massive bones, and great muscular
strength, but still, although rude ana
savage, of an essentially human type,
and going a very little way towards bridg-
Modern Stone Adze,
New Zealand.
Prehistoric Times.”)
ing over the gap between the savage and
the ape.
A more complete view, however, of the
conditions of human life at these remoto
periods is afforded by the evidence given
by caves, where naturally the remains of
man are more abundant and much better
preserved. Before entering, however, on
the examination of this class of evidence,
it may be well to give an instance which
may help to familiarise the imagination
with the vast periods of time which must
have elapsed since Palaeolithic man left
these rude implements within reach of
river floods.
Among the gravels in which Palaeolithic
hdches have been found, are some which
��ANTIQUITY OF MAN
the cliff at Bournemouth at a height
of about 130 feet above the sea. This
gravel can be traced in a gradual fall
from west to east, along the Hampshire
coast and the shores of the. Solent to
beyond Spithead, and was evidently de
posited by a river which carried the
drainage of the Dorsetshire and Hamp
shire downs into the sea to the eastward,
and of which the present Avon, Test, and
Itchen were tributaries. But for such a
river to run in such a course the whole of
Poole and Christchurch bays must have
been dry land, and the range of chalk
downs now broken through at the Needles
must have been continuous. To borrow
the words of Evans in his “Ancient Stone
Implements,” “Who, standing on the
edge of the lofty cliff at Bournemouth,
and gazing over the wide expanse of
waters between the present shore and a
line connecting the Needles on the one
hand and the Ballard Down Foreland on
the other, can fully comprehend how
immensely remote was the epoch when
what is now that vast bay was high and
dry land, and a long range of chalk
downs, 600 feet above the sea, bounded
the horizon on the south ? And yet this
must have been the sight that met the
eyes of those primeval men who fre
quented the banks of that ancient river
which buried their handiworks in gravels
that now cap the cliffs, and of the course
of which so strange but indubitable a
memorial subsists in what has now be
come the Solent Sea.”.
Any attempt to assign a more precise
date than the vague one of immense
antiquity to these early traces of primeval
man, had better be postponed until we
have examined the more detailed and
extensive body of evidence which has
been afforded by the exploration of caves,
to which the great discovery at Abbeville
at once gave an immense impulse, and
which has since been prosecuted in
England, France, Belgium, and Germany,
with the greatest ardour and success.
The caves in which fossil remains are
found occur principally in limestone
districts. They are due to the property
which water possesses, when. charged
with a small quantity of carbonic acid, of
dissolving lime. Rain falling on the
earth’s surface takes up carbonic acid
from contact with vegetable matter, and
a portion of it finds its way through
cracks and crevices in the subjacent rock
48
to lower levels, where it comes out in
springs of hard water charged with carb
onate of lime from the rock which it has
dissolved. It has been calculated that
the average rainfall on a square mile of
chalk thus carries away about 140 tons
of solid matter in a year. In this way
underground channels are formed, some
of which become large enough to admit
of streams flowing through them, and
even rivers, as is seen in the limestone
district of Carinthia, where considerable
rivers are swallowed up and run for miles
beneath the surface. In this way caverns
are formed, or sometimes a series of
caverns, which represent the pools of the
rivers which formerly flowed through
them. Accumulations of whatever may
have been brought down by the stream
were formed at the bottom of these pools,
and when, owing to changes in level or
denudation of the gathering grounds, the
rivers ceased to flow in the old channel,
the pools became dry and were converted
into caves, in which wild beasts and man
found shelter and left their remains. . The
debris thus formed accumulated with a
mixture of blocks which fell from the
roof, and of red loamy earth consisting
of the residue of the limestone rock in
soluble in water, and of dust and mud
brought in by winds and floods, and
occasionally interstratified by beds of
stalagmite, composed of thin films of
crystalline carbonate of lime, deposited
drop by drop by drippings through the
rock forming the roof of the cave. These
drippings form what are called stalactites,
which hang like pendent icicles from the
roof of caves, and as the drip falls from
these it forms a corresponding deposit,
known as stalagmite, on the floor below.
The formation of this deposit is neces
sarily extremely slow, and it only goes
on when the drops of water charged with
a minute excess of carbonate of lime
come in contact with the air; so that
whenever the floor of the cave was under
water no stalagmite could be formed.
The alternations, therefore, of deposits of
stalagmite represent alternations of long
periods during which the cave was
generally dry or. generally flooded.
During the dry periods, when the cave
happened to be inhabited, the treadings
on the floor would prevent the accumula
tion of an unbroken deposit of pure
stalagmite, and the crystalline matter
would be employed in forming a solid
�46
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
cement of the various dtbris into what is
known as a breccia.
Another class of caves, or rock-shelters,
has been formed along the sides of
valleys bounded by cliffs, where the
stratification is horizontal or nearly so
but the different beds vary much in
hardness and permeability to water.
The softer strata weather away more
rapidly than the others, and thus form
shallow caves or deep recesses in the face
of the cliffs, with a floor of hard rock
below and a roof of hard rock above,
which afford dry and commodious shelters
tor any sort of animal, including man.
In other respects they resemble the first
cmss of caves in having their contents
cemented into a breccia by the dripping
of water charged with carbonate of lime
from the roof, and, if the cave happened
to be deserted, for a long period, this
deposit would in the same way form a
bed of stalagmite and seal up securely
everything below it. In some cases, also,
the roof would fall in, and thus preserve
everything previously existing in the
ca"ve for the investigation of future
geologists.
^iese general remarks readers
will be able to understand the evidence
afforded by the remains of man found in
caverns. I will begin by taking as a
typical case that of Kent’s Cavern, near
lorquay, because it is one of the earliest
and best known, and all the facts con
cerning it have been verified by explora
tions, carefully conducted by a committee
appointed by the British Association in
1864, which comprised, the names of the
most eminent authorities in geology and
paleontology, including those of Sir
Charles Lyell, Sir John Lubbock, Mr.
Evans, Mr. Boyd Dawkins, Mr. Pengellv
and others.
65
Hie cave is about a mile east from
lorquay harbour, and runs into a hill of
Devonian limestone in a winding course,
expanding into large chambers connected
by narrow passages. The following is a
series of deposits in descending order in
the large chamber near the entrance :
1. Large blocks of limestone which
have fallen from the roof.
2- A layer of black, muddy mould,
three inches to twelve inches thick.
3. Stalagmite one foot to three feet
thick.
4. Red cave-earth with angular frag
ments of limestone of variable
thickness, but in places five to six
feet thick.
In the black earth above the stalagmite
were found a number of relics of the
Neolithic or polished stone period, with
a few articles of bronze and pottery,
some of which appear to be of a date as
late as that of the Roman occupation of
Britain. Associated with these are bones
of ox, sheep, goat, pig, and other ordinary
forms of existing species, and there is an
entire absence of any older fauna, or of
any of the ruder forms of Paleolithic
implements.. When we get below the
stalagmite into the underlying cave
earth, the case is entirely reversed. Not
a single specimen of polished or finelywrought stone, or of pottery, is to be
found j a vast number of celts or haches,
scrapers, knives, hammer stones, and
other stone implements, are met with
which are all of the rude Palaeolithic type
found in river drifts, with a few bone
implements such as harpoon-heads, a pin,
an awl, and a needle, like those frequently
met with in the caves of France and
Belgium. Associated with these are a
vast number of bones and teeth, all of
which belong to the old Quaternary fauna,
of which many species have become
extinct and others have migrated to
distant latitudes.
The following is a list of the mam
malian remains which have been found
in this cave-earth below the stalagmite : •
Abundant.
The Cave Lion, a large extinct species of
lion.
Cave Hyaena, a large extinct species of
hyaena.
Cave Bear, a large extinct species of bear.
Grizzly Bear.
Mammoth (Elephas primigenius}.
Rhinoceros (Tichorinus), woolly or thicknosed extinct species.
Horse.
Bison.
Irish Elk.
Red Deer.
Reindeer.
Scarce.
Wolf.
Fox.
Glutton.
Brown Bear.
Urus.
Hare.
Lagomys, tailless Arctic hare.
Water Vole.
«
Field Vole.
�ANTIQUITY OF MAN
Bank Vole.
Beaver.
And one specimen of the Machairodus, or
Great Sabre-toothed Tiger, which is one
of the characteristic species of the upper
Miocene and Pliocene formations.
These constitute a fauna which is char
acteristic of the Pleistocene, Quaternary,
or Palaeolithic period, and essentially
different from that of the prehistoric or
Neolithic period, which is practically the
same as that now existing, Wherever
remains of the mammoth, woolly rhino
ceros, and cave bear are found, Paleo
lithic implements may be expected, and
conversely. In fact Paleolithic man is
as essentially part of the characteristic
fauna of the Quaternary period, as the
Paleotherium is of the Eocene, or the
Deinotherium and Hipparion of the
Miocene.
A large number of other caves have
been explored in England, notably the
Victoria Cave near Settle, in Yorkshire,
the Cresswell Caves in Derbyshire, the
Gower Caves in South Wales, the~ Brixham Cave in Devonshire, the Woking
Cave in Somersetshire, and King Arthur’s
Cave in Herefordshire, and the results
have been everywhere practically the
same as those at Kent’s Cavern. The
same class of implements have been
found and the same fauna, with the oc
casional addition of a few species, among
which the hippopotamus and Eleplias
antiquus are the most remarkable.
So far as the river drifts and British
caves are concerned, all that we could, say
of the Palaeolithic period is that it is of
vast antiquity, and must have lasted for
an immense time, as it was in force for
the whole time requisite for rivers like
the Somme or Avon, which drain small
areas, to cut down their present valleys,
often two or three miles wide, from the
level of their upper gravels, which are in
many places 100 to 150 feet above the
level of the highest floods of the present
rivers.
But the caves of France and Belgium
supply us with more evidence, and enable
us to trace the history of long periods of
Palaeolithic time, and study in detail the
succession of changes that have occurred,
and the habits, arts, and industries of the
various tribes of primitive men who
occupied these caves and rock-shelters at
these remote periods. In fact, it may be
said with truth that we know more about
47
the men who chased the mammoth and
reindeer in the South of France perhaps
50,000 years ago, than we do about those
who lived there immediately before the'
classical era, or less than 5,000 years ago.
In certain provinces of France and
Belgium it happens fortunately that
there are extensive districts of limestone,
in which caverns and rock-shelters are
extremely abundant and full of Palaeo
lithic remains in an excellent state of
preservation. The abundance of such
caves may be estimated from the fact
that the cliffs, bounding one small river,
the Vezere, in the department of Dor
dogne in the South of France, contain
in a distance of eight or ten miles no
fewer than nine different stations, each
of which has given a vast variety of
remains embedded in the breccias and
cave-earths of their respective. floors ;
and the small river Lesse in Belgium has
been scarcely less prolific. Of the abun
dance of the human and animal remains
found in such caverns it may be sufficient
to say that one alone, that of Chaleux in
the valley of the Lesse, is computed by
Dumont to have yielded not less than
40,000 distinct objects.
The great abundance of remains thus
collected, both of human bones and im
plements, and of animals contempora
neous with them, have made it possible
to classify and arrange, in relative order
of time, a good many of the subdivisions
of the Palaeolithic period. This has been
done partly by the order of superposition
and partly by the greater or less rude
ness of the implements of stone and
bone, and by the greater or less abund
ance of those animals of the Quaternary
fauna which appeared first and disap
peared soonest. The result has been to
show that the period when vast herds
of reindeer roamed over the plains of
Southern France up to the Pyrenees was
not the earliest, but was preceded by a
long period when the reindeer was scarce,
and the remains of the mammoth, cave
bear, and cave hysena were more abun
dant than in the following ages. The
implements of this period are of the
earlier river-drift type and extremely
rude, and there is an almost entire
absence of instruments of bone.
Gradually as we pass upwards, the
more Southern forms of elephant, rhino
ceros, antelopes, and great carnivora dis
appear, and the mammoth and cave bear
�48
MODERN SCIENGE AND MODERN THOUGHT
become scarcer, while the reindeer be be added rock-carvings in Denmark, and
comes more and more abundant until at ngures on limestone cliffs in the Maritime
length it furnishes the chief source of Alps, while if, as some authorities, among
food, and its horns one of the principal them Arthur Evans and Sergi, think,
materials for the manufacture of imple
ments. Concurrently with this change they point to a primitive script, still
we find a progressive improvement in the more important are the characters
arts of life, as shown by stone imple painted m peroxide of iron on pebbles
ments more carefully chipped into a discovered by Piette in the Mas-d’Azil
greater variety of forms, and arrow and cave, in the South East of France. these
We do not, however, depend on
lance-heads, barbed harpoons, awls, and
needles for sewing skins, made chiefly drawings for evidence of the sort of men
who inhabited these caves in Paleolithic
from the antlers of the reindeer.
large number
. At length we arrive at one of the most days A skeletons have of skulls and
complete
interesting facts disclosed by these re dinerent caves, some ofbeen found in
which have
searches, that during one of the later or
served as sepulchral vaults for families
reindeer periods of the Paleolithic era
many of the caves in the South of France’ and tribes, while in others -individuals
and also in Switzerland and Southern have been crushed by falls of rock, or
otherwise
and in a
Germany were occupied by a race who, skulls and interred,have been few cases
bones
found at
like the Esquimaux of the present day
great depths in river drifts, and in
had a strong artistic tendency, and were loess, or fine glacial mud which fills the
up
constantly drawing with the point of a
flint on stone or bone, or modelling with the valley of the Rhine and other areas
over which the
flint knives from . horns and bones, melting poured great Swiss glaciers when
their turbid streams.
sketches of the animals they hunted
From
more
scenes of the chase, or other objects coveries among the of manimportant dis
of remains
himself, there
which struck their fancy. These are ex
]VaX_, e c^osen as typical: 1. those from
ceedingly well done, so that there is no
difficulty in recognising the animals in the Spy cavern ; 2. from the Neanderthal
tended to be represented, among which c^VmV-a .’,a3. from the pliocene deposits
of Trinil, Java.
are the mammoth, cave bear, reindeer,
t. The Betche . aux Roches cavern at
wild horse, and wild ox. The sketch of
b>py,
two nearly com
the mammoth which is engraved on a • plete. Belgium, yieldedmale and female
skeletons of a
piece of ivory, from the cave of La
number
Madeleine m the valley of the Vezere, is associated with a large somewhatof im
plements
particularly interesting, as it corresponds those of of a character The skullsabove
the Drift.
had
exactly with the mammoth whose body
enormous superciliary (eyebrows) ridges,
was found entire in frozen mud on the receding foreheads, massive jaws, and
ba x
a rV,er *n Liberia, and it sets at other
to which the
rest all possible question of man having generalapelike featuresthe rest of the
been really contemporary with this ex skeletonscharacter of
approximated. These remains
tinct animal m the South of France.
The drawings and carvings of other were discovered in 1886.
•
years earlier there
animals, especially of the reindeer, are m a Quaternary deposit in the was found
often extremely spirited, and. one es- cave of the Neander Valley,Feldhofen
Rhenish
P®c*a-*-V of a reindeer engraved on a bit Prussia, a calvaria, or brain-cap, in
Q 1
^rom a Cr,ve. at Thayngen, near dicating similar features to those of the
Schaffhausen m Switzerland, would do
credit to any modern animal painter. A opy skulls, and pronounced by Huxley
as
very few.human figures are found amono1 that the most apelikeyet discovered to
time,
these primeval drawings, but strangely, the. assumedalthough not approaching
special features of the
while the animals are so well drawn,
missing link.”
those of men are very inferior and
3. More, remarkable than either of
almost infantine in execution. They are
sufficient, however, to show that the naked these specimens are the brain-cap, thigh
in
savage of. Perigord, armed with a stone bone, and two molar teeth, found the
1891-92 by Dr. Eugene Dubois in
lance or javelin, pursued and slew the upper pliocene , beds at Trinil, on the
formidable aurochs. To these may banks of the river Bengavan, in Java,
�Portrait of Mammoth.
Drawn with a flint on a piece of Mammoth’s ivory ; from Cave of La Madeleine, Dordogne, France.
Earliest Portrait
of a
Mast, with Serpent
From Grotto of Les Eyzies.
and
Horses’ Heads.
Reindeer Period.
Reindeer Feeding.
From Grotto of Tliayngen, near Schaffhausen, Switzerland.
�50
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
which he holds to be the fragments of an
animal named by him Pithecanthropus
Erectus, or “upright ape-man.” The
several portions were found adjacent, but
at different times, so that their identity
as parts of the same individual has been
questioned. But although anthropolo
gists are not in agreement as to the
remains being positively human, the
majority hold that opinion, and it is not
without significance to note that the
bones were found in that part of the
globe where it is highly probable that
man and ape became differentiated. A
comparison of the cranium with that of
Neanderthal shows that it is of decidedly
lower type, and that it may be classified
as between the Neanderthal man and the
gorilla.
In trying to fix anything like definite
dates for man’s existence upon earth, we
must reverse the process by which we
have proved the enormous antiquity of
his earliest remains, and ascend step by
step from the known to the unknown.
The first step is that supplied by
history.
Until very recently, the palm of an
tiquity, limiting that term to the historic
period, rested with Egypt. Its chron
ology started with Menes, its reputed ear
liest king, whose date Professor Flinders
Petrie fixes at 4777 B.c. “ with a possible
error of a century.” The old scepticism
as to the actual personality of the ancient
Pharaohs is dispelled by modern research,
Professor Petrie having found traces of
kings before Menes, while there appears
good reason for accepting Dr. Borchardt’s
claims to have discovered the actual
tomb and personal relics of that king at
Nagada, a little north of Thebes.
.But it would seem that Egypt must
yield priority to Babylonia. For in
recent excavations at Nuffar or N ippur,
in Northern Babylonia, Dr. -Hilprecht
has unearthed from the deepest human
deposits in the ruins of the temple of
Bel a number of tablets which he
contends justify him in dating the
founding of that temple, and the first
settlement of the city, “somewhere be
tween 7,000 and 6,000 B.c. and possibly
earlier.” .And as the tablets are in
scribed with cuneiform characters, which
are the slow outcome of picture-writing,
as are. all other alphabetic and syllabic
signs, it may yet be proved that Babylonia
possessed a script at least 1,300 years
before the earliest known Egyptian
hieroglyphs. It is true that their love of
the decorative and their veneration for
what is old may explain the persistence
of the use of primitive modes of writing
among the Egyptians, but this cannot
weigh against the argument that the
more central position of Mesopotamia
gave her advantages which quickened
culture within her borders.
Nor do these two great empires mono
polise the story of antiquity. Explor
ations in Greece and the surrounding
archipelago have brought to light a third
venerable centre, perchance an indigenous
centre of civilisation, whose relics show
that “ we have probably to deal with a
total period of civilisation in the Aegean
not much shorter than that in the Nile
Valley.” So that centuries before the
Phcenicians launched their craft upon
the Midland Sea, or sailed beyond the
Pillars of Hercules, and at a period when
the Iliad and Odyssey were not in
existence, there was active intercourse
between East and West, intercourse, as
evidenced by the discovery of a com
mercial script, even between Arabia and
Iberia. Thus does the epigraphic and
other material which the spade of the
antiquarian has upturned and the skill
of the philologist deciphered, push ever
farthei’ back the horizon of history.
But beyond that receding marge lie the
vast domains of man’s past which it is
the province of the prehistoric archae
ologist, the palaeontologist, and the geol
ogist to explore.
Here, then, we. take leave of the one
and follow the guidance of the other.
The earliest historical civilisations were
all acquainted with metals, chiefly in the
form of bronze, which is an alloy of
copper and tin, very hard, easily cast,
and well adapted for every description of
tool and weapon. Indeed, it has only
been superseded by iron within recent
historical times. But the Bronze Age
was preceded by a long Neolithic period,
when stone, finely wrought and often
ground or polished, was used for the
purposes to which metal was afterwards
applied: The men of this Neolithic
period, who reached Europe from the
east or south, probably from both regions,
were comparatively civilised; they had
all the common domestic animals, the
dog, horse, ox, sheep, goat, and pig; also
some of the cultivated cereals and fruits ;
�51
ANTIQUITY OF MAN
they knew the arts of cooking, spinning,
weaving, and pottery, they were grouped
into clans and tribes, and lived in villages.
Some think the Iberian or Basque people
may be a remnant of this Neolithic race,
who were driven westward by the later
wave of Celtic migration just as the
Celts were driven by the still later waves
of Teutonic and Slavonic immigrants. Be
this as it may, it is certain that a
Neolithic people were spread very widely
over the globe, as -their remains of very
' similar character are found almost every
where in Europe, Asia, and America, and
always in association with the existing
or most recent fauna and configuration
of the earth’s surface.
The difficulty in assigning any precise
date for these remains arises very much
from the fact that the Neolithic passed
into the Bronze or historical civilisation,
at different times in different countries.
The Australians, the Polynesians, and the
Esquimaux were or are still in the. Stone
period, while steam-engines are spinning
cotton at Manchester, and the most
famous cities of Egypt and the East have
been for centuries buried under shapeless
mounds of their own ruins. It is probable
that all Europe remained in the Neolithic
stage for many centuries after the his
torical date of the commencement of the
Egyptian empire.
Still there are some remains which may
enable us to form an approximate con
jecture of the time during which this
Neolithic period may have lasted.
The two principal clues are furnished :
1. By the Danish mosses and kitchen
middens.
2. By the Swiss lake-dwellings.
In Denmark there are a number of peat
mosses varying in depth from ten to thirty
feet, which have been formed by the
filling-up of small lakes or ponds in
hollows of the Glacial drift. Around
the borders of these mosses, and at vari
ous depths in them, lie trunks of trees
which have grown on their margin. At
the present surface are found beech-trees,
which are now, and have been throughout
the whole historical period of 2,000 years,
the prevalent form of forest vegetation
in Denmark. Lower down is found a
zone of oaks, a tree which is now rare
and almost superseded by the beech. And
still lower, towards the bottom of the
mosses, the fallen trees are almost en
tirely Scotch firs, which have been long
unknown in Denmark and when intro
duced will not thrive there. It is evident
therefore, that there have been three
changes of climate, causing three entire
changes in the forest vegetation in Den
mark, since these mosses began to be
formed. The latest has lasted certainly
for 2,000 years, and we cannot tell how
much longer, so that some period of more
than 6,000 years must be assumed for the
three changes.
Now, it is invariably found that remains
of the Iron Age are confined to the pre
sent or beech era, while bronze is found
only in that of oak, and the Age of Stone
coincides with that of the Scotch fir.
The kitchen-middens afford another
memorial of the prehistoric age in Den
mark. There are mounds found all along
the sheltered sea-coasts of the mainland
and islands, consisting chiefly of shells of
the oyster, cockle, limpet, and other shell
fish, which have been eaten by the ancient
dwellers on these coasts. Mixed-up with
these are the bones of various land ani
mals, birds, and fish, and flint flakes,
axes, worked bones and horns, and other
implements, including rude hand-made
pottery. The relics are very much the
same as those found in the fir zone of the
peat mosses, and although old as com
pared with the Iron or historical age,
they do not denote any extreme antiquity.
The shells are all of existing species,
though the larger size of some of those
found on the shores of the Baltic shows
that the salt water of the North Sea had
then a freer access to it than at present.
The bones of animals, birds, and fish are
also all of existing species, and no re
mains of extinct animals, such as the
mammoth, or even of reindeer, have been
found. By far the most common are the
red deer, roe-deer, and wild boar. The
dog was known, and appears to have
been the only domestic animal among the
earliest Neolithic peoples.
Most of the stone implements are rude,
but a few carefully-worked weapons have
been found, and a few specimens of
polished axes, which, with the presence
of pottery and the nature of the fauna,
show conclusively that these Danish re
mains are all of the Neolithic age’ and
subsequent to the close of the Glacial
period. In fact, similar shell mounds are
found in almost all quarters of the globe
where savage tribes have lived on the
sea-coast, subsisting mainly on shell-fish,
£ 2
�52
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
and they are probably still being formed
on the shores of the Greenland and Arctic
Seas, and in Australia, and remote islands
of the Pacific.
Human remains are scarce in these
Danish deposits, but numerous skulls
and skeletons have been found in tumuli
which, from their situation and from
stone implements being buried with the
dead, may be reasonably inferred to be
those of the people of the peat mosses
and shell mounds. They denote a short
race with small and very round heads, in
many respects resembling the present
Lapps, but with a more projecting ridge
over the eye.
On the whole, all we can conclude from
these Danish remains is that at some
period, not less than 6,000 or 7,000 years
ago, when civilisation had already been
long established in the valley of the Nile,
rude races resembling the Lapps or Es
quimaux lived on the shores of the Baltic,
who, although so. much more recent,
and acquainted with the domestic dog,
pottery, and the art of polishing stone,
had not advanced much beyond the con
dition of the later cave-men of the South
of France ; and that this race was suc
ceeded by one which brought in the much
higher civilisation of the Bronze Age.
The lake-dwellings of Switzerland give
still, more detailed and interesting infor
mation as to Neolithic times.
During a very dry summer in 1854, the
Lake of Zurich fell below its usual level
and disclosed the remains of ancient piles
driven into the mud, from which a numof deer-horns and other implements were
dredged up. This led to farther researches,
and the result lias been that a large
number of villages built on these piles
has. been discovered in almost all the
Swiss lakes, as well as in those of Italy
and other countries. On the whole, more
than 200 have been discovered in Swit
zerland, and fresh ones are being con
stantly brought to light. They range
over a long period, a few belonging to
the. Iron Age and even to Boman times ■
while the. greater number are almost
equally divided between the Age of
Bionze and that of Stone. Some of them
are of large size, and must have been
long inhabited and supported a numerous
population, from the immense number of
implements found, which at one station
alone, that of Concise on the Lake of
Neufchatel, amounted to 25,000. These
implements consist mainly of axes, knives
anow-heads, saws, chisels, hammers, awls
and needles, with a quantity of broken
pottery, spindle-whorls, sinkers for nets
and other objects.
’
In the oldest stations, where no trace
of metal is found, and the decay of
the piles to a low’er level shows the
greatest antiquity, the implements are
all of. the Neolithic type, and the animal
remains associated with them are all of
the recent fauna. There are no mam
moths, rhinoceroses, or reindeer; the
wild animals are the red deer and roe, the
urus, bison, elk, bear, wolf, wild cat, fox,
badger, wild boar, ibex, and other exist
ing species ; and of domestic animals, the
uogf, pig, horse, goat, sheep, and at least
two varieties or oxen. Birds, reptiles,
and . fish were all of common existing
species. Carbonised ears of wheat and
barley have been found, as also pears and
apples, and the seeds, stones, and shells
of raspberry, blackberry, wild plum,
hazel-nut, and beech-nut. Twine, and
bits of matting made of flax, as well as
the occurrence of spindle-whorls, show
that the pile dwellers were acquainted
with the art of weaving.
On the whole, these pile-villages show
i
r ^arSe population lived in Switzer
land for a long time before the dawn of
history, and that they had already attained
a considerable amount of civilisation at
their , first appearance, which went on
steadily increasing down to the time of the
Boman conquest. Various attempts have
been made to fix an approximate date for
the earliest of these pile-villages, but they
have not been very successful. They
have been based. mainly on the amount
of silting up which has taken place in
some of the smaller lakes since the piles
were driven in, as compared with that
which has occurred since the Roman
period. The best calculations appear to
show that 6,000 or 7,000 years ago
Switzerland was already inhabited by
men who used polished stone implements,
but how long they had been there we
have no distinct evidence to show
Perhaps 10,000 years may betaken as the
outside limit of time that can be allowed
for the Neolithic period in Switzerland,
Denmark, or any known part of Europe.
In Egypt, however, there is evidence of
a much greater antiquity. Fragments
of pottery, which was entirely unknown
in the Palaeolithic age, have been brought,
�ANTIQUITY OF MAN
53
up by borings in the Nile Valley from it is possible to fix any approximate dates
forthe commencement and durationot the
depths ■which, at the average rate ot ac
cumulation there during the las^ 3,000 Glacial period. place, how do we know
In the
years of three inches and a halt in a that therefirst been any such period ?
has
century, would denote an age of
In England we are more familiar with
13,000 to 18,000 years.. Looking at the water than with ice; we therefore recog
dense population and high civilisation ot nise at once the signs of the action ot
Egypt at the commencement of bistory, water. If we come across a dry channel,
7,000 years ago, it is highly probable that
in alternating curves between
this time at least must have .elapsed windingbanks, and showing deposits, ot
since the country was first occupied by a eroded and silt, we say without hesitation,
settled agricultural population as tar gravel a river formerly ran.’ But it we
“ Here
advanced in the arts of life as the lake had lived in Switzerland, we should
dwellers of Switzerland.
Any calculation, however, of N eolith.ic recognise with equal certainty the signs
Suppose any one
time takes us back a very short step in of glacial action. walks up the valley
visiting Chamouni
the history of the human race, I he to .the foot of the Mer de Glace where
Paleolithic period must evidently have the Arve issues from the glacier, let us
been of vastly longer duration.
Here it is convenient to note that the say in autumn, when the front, of the
back some
theory of an absolute break, through geo glacier has shrunkRounded and distance,
polished
logical changes and subordinate causes, what does he see 1 as. if they had been
between the Palaeolithic and Neolithic rocks, whicha seem
gigantic plane
Ages which long held the field, has dis planed by over them, and on working
downwards
these a
appeared (except in Great Britain) before mass of miscellaneous rubbish shot down
the evidence against tenantless intervals as if from a dust-cart, consisting ot
in prehistoric times. The tools and
weapons found in certain caves, as at stones of all sizes, some of them boulders
house, scattered
Solutr6, in the Ma^on district, and at as big as a of clay and sand. irregulaily
When he
Mentone, show an overlapping of earlier on a mass closely he will see that these
and later specimens, which witness to looks morenot rounded as they would be
fusion in more or less degree between stones are water, but blunted. at then
prehistoric peoples. Doubtless in the by runninga slow grinding action ; and
more northerly parts of the Continent angles bycases, both the stones and the
there were local migrations and retreats, in many which they rest are. scratched
on
but there was no wholesale withdrawal rocksstriated in a direction which is that
or extermination of the . ruder races, andthe glacier’s motion. At the bottom
leaving vacant areas fortheir conquerors. of this rubbish-heap he will find the clay
Europe has been continuously inhabited of which the rock has been ground by
by man since he first set his foot in it, and into full weight of the glacier, very stifi
the proofs of this, ever increasing, come the compact; while if he looks down the
in the shape of the rude specimens of and he will see, on a hot day, a swollen,
art which link Northern with Southern valley,
turbid
Europe, and, what is of the deepest and ice andriver issuing from the melt
flooding the.
interest, both regions with the Eastern ing it will leave a depositmeadows, on
of fine mud.
Mediterranean. For these and other which are effects actually produced by
These
materials, more advanced in character, ice; and wherever he sees them he can
are revolutionising the old theories of infer the former presence of a glacier, as
European civilisation, which held it to certainly as when he sees a bed ot
be a wholly imported product, and are
pebbles, he infers
showing how indigenous that culture rounded of running water. the former
was, originating, mayhap, as shown presence commonly knownIhe planed
as rochet
already, in the islands of the JEgean, and rocks are om a fancied resemblance ot
mo utonnees,fr
diffusing itself, not without Oriental their smooth, rounded hummocks to the
influences upon it, in westerly directions. backs of a flock of sheep lying down;
In carrying our. researches further
back, the possibility of assigning any the rubbish heaps are called moraines ;
clay with
thing like a definite date for the existence and the stiff bottom called theboulders
g^wdof man depends on the question whether embedded in it is
�MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
moraine, till, or boulder clay ; while the
blunted and scratched stones are said to
be glaciated.
These tests, therefore, roches moutonnees,
moraines, boulders, and glaciated stones,
are infallible proofs that wherever we
find them there has been ice-action,
either in the form of glaciers, or of ice
bergs, which are only detached portions
of glaciers floated-off when the glacier
ends in the sea. blow, if our inquirer
extends his view., he will find that these
signs, the meaning of which he has
learned at the head of the valley of
Chamouni, are to be found equally in
every valley and over the whole plain of
Switzerland, up to a height of more than
3,000 feet on the slope of the opposite
Jura range, while on the Italian side the
Glacial drift extends far into the plains
of Piedmont.
Extending our view still more widely,
we find that every high mountain range
m the Northern hemisphere has had its
system . of glaciers; and one great
mountain mass, that of Scandinavia, has
been the nucleus of an enormous ice-cap,
radiating to a distance of not less than
1,000 miles, and thick enough to block up
with solid ice the North Sea, the German
Ocean, the Baltic, and even the Atlantic
up to the 100 fathom line. This ice-cap,
coalescing with local glaciers from the
higher lands of England, Scotland, and
Ireland, swept over their surface, regard
less of minor inequalities of hill and valley,
as far south as to the present Thames
Valley, grinding-down rocks, scattering
drift and boulders, and, in fact, doing
the first rough sub-soil ploughing which
prepared most of our present arable
fields for cultivation. The same ice-sheet
spread masses of similar drift over
Northern Germany, Sweden, Denmark,
and the northern half of European
Russia, and left behind it numerous
boulders which must have travelled all
the way from Norway or Lapland.
If we cross the Atlantic we find the
same thing repeated on a still larger
scale in North America. A still more
gigantic, ice-cap, radiating from the
Laurentian ranges, which extend to
wards the Pole, from Canada, has
glaciated all the minor mountain ranges
to the. south up to heights sometimes
exceeding. 3,000 feet, and coalescing with
vast glaciers thrown off by the Rocky
Mountains from their eastern flanks, has
swept over the whole Continent, leaving
its record in the form of drift and
boulders, down to the 40th parallel of
, latitude. It is difficult to realise the
existence of such gigantic glaciers, but
the proofs they have left are incontro
vertible, and we have only to look to
Greenland to see similar effects actually
in operation. The whole of that vast
country, where at former periods of the
earth’s history, fruit-trees grew and a
genial climate prevailed, is now buried
deep under one solid ice-cap, from
which only a few of the highest
peaks protrude, and which discharges
its surplus accumulation of winter
snow by huge glaciers filling all the
fiords and pushing out into the sea
with a,n ice-wall sometimes forty or fifty
miles in length, from which icebergs are
continually breaking off and floating
away. A still more gigantic ice-wall
surrounds the Southern Pole, and in a
comparatively low latitude presented
an insuperable barrier to the further
progress of the ships of Sir J. Ross’s
expedition.
A. still closer examination of the
Glacial period shows that it was not one
single period of intense cold, but a pro
longed period, during which there were
several alternations, the glaciers having
retreated and advanced several times with
comparatively mild inter-glacial periods,
but finally with a tendency on each suc
cessive advance to contract its area, until
the ice shrank into the recesses of high
mountains, where alone we now find it.
Another noteworthy point is that during
this long Glacial period there were
several great oscillations in the level of
sea and land.
Such, was the Glacial period, and to
assign its date is to fix the date when we
know with certainty that man already
existed, and had for some long though
unknown time previously been an in
habitant of earth. Is this possible ? To
answer this question we must begin by
considering what are the causes, or com
bination of causes, which may have given
rise to such a Glacial period. When we
look at. the causes which actually pro
duce existing glaciers, we find that ex
treme cold alone is not sufficient. In the
coldest known region of the earth, in
Eastern Siberia, there are no glaciers, for
the land is low and level and the air dry.
On the other hand, in New Zealand, in
�AifTIQUITt OF maf
sistent with the general laws of Nature j
and with the leading facts of the actual
generation of glaciers at the present day.
Astronomers believe that they have
discovered such a cause in the theory
first started by Mr. Groll, that the glacia
tion of the Northern hemisphere was due
to a secular change in the shape of th® I
earth’s orbit, combined with the shorter
changes produced by the precession of the
equinoxes. The latter cause is due to the
fact that the earth is not an exact sphere,
but slightly protuberant at the equator,
and that the attraction of the sun on this I
protuberant matter prevents the axis
round which the earth rotates, from re
maining exactly parallel with itself, and
makes it move slowly , round its mean I
position just as we see in the case of a I
schoolboy’s top, which reels round an
imaginary upright axis while spinning
rapidly. This revolution in the* case ot
the earth completes its circle in about
21,000 years, so that if summer, when th|
pole is turned towards the sun, occurred
in the Northern hemisphere when the
earth was in perihelion., or nearest the
S6When the two conditions of high land
sun, and consequently winter when it was
and moist winds are combined, low
in aphelion, or furthest away from the
temperature increases their effect, and
sun, after 10,500 years the position would
the snow-fall consolidates into a great
be exactly reversed, and winter would
ice-cap, from which only, the tops of tne
occur in perihelion and summer in
highest mountains project, and which
aphelion ; the Southern, hemisphere then
pushes out gigantic glaciers far. over
enjoying the same conditions as those, oi
surrounding countries and into adjacent
the Northern one 10,500 years earlier
seas. Such is now the case in Green
And in another 10,500 years things would
land, and was formerly the case in
come back to their original position.
Scandinavia, where a huge sheet of ice
Now if the earth’s orbit were an exact
radiated from it over Northern Germany
circle this would make no difference, all
as far as Dresden, filled up the North
Sea, and, coalescing with smaller ice the four seasons would, be of the same
duration and would receive the same solar
caps from the highlands of Scotland,
heat in both hemispheres, and if the
England, and Wales, buried the British
orbit were nearly circular, so that the
Islands up to the Thames under massive
difference between the perihelion and
ice. At the same period glaciers from
the Alps filled the whole plain of aphelion distances was small, the effect
would be small also. But if the orbit
Switzerland, and in North America the
flattened out or became more eccentric,
icecap extended from Labrador to
the effect would be increased. The fiM
Philadelphia.
of traversing the aphelion portion oi the
The first remark to be made is . that,
annual orbit would become longer and
as these phenomena depend primarily on
that of traversing the perihelion portion
moist winds, and only secondarily on
shorter, as the orbit departed from the
cold, and as moist winds imply great
form of a circle and became more elliptic.
evaporation and therefore great solar
Whenever, therefore, the North Pole was
heat over extensive surfaces of water, all
explanations are worthless which suppose turned away from the sun in aphelion,
the winters would be longer than the
a general prevalence of cold, either from
summers in the Northern hemisphere,
less solar radiation, passage through a
and conversely, the summers would be
colder region of space, or otherwise.
longer than the winters when, after an
We must seek for a cause which is con
the latitude of England and with a
mean annual temperature very similar
to that of the West of Scotland, enormous
glaciers descend to within 700 feet ot the
sea-level. The reason is obvious ; the
Alps of the South Island rise to the height
of 11,000 feet above the sea, and the pre
valent westerly winds strike, on them
laden with moisture from their passage
over a wide expanse of ocean. In like
manner, in the case of the Swiss Alps,
the Himalayas, and other great mountain
ranges, high land and moist winds
everywhere make glaciers. Given the
moist wind, any great depression of
temperature, whether
arising H'om
elevation of land or other causes, wbl
make it deposit its moisture in the form
of snow, and the accumulation of snow
on a large surface of elevated land must
inevitably relieve itself by pushing down
rivers of ice to the point where it melts,
just as the rain-fall relieves itself by
pouring down rivers to the point .where
the surplus water finds its level in the
�56
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
interval of 10,500 years, precession in their operation and given us a constant
brought about the opposite condition of succession of
things, in which winter occurred in commencementGlacial periods since the
of geological time, when
perihelion.
ever the
. At present the earth’s orbit is nearly occurs at eccentricity became great, which
irregular periods, but
circular, and the Northern hemisphere is about three times in everypractically
3,000 000
nearest the sun in winter and furthest years. The answer is
from it in summer, but the difference is would only occur whenthat the effects
the other con
only . about 3,000,000 miles, or a small
fraction of the total mean distance of ditions were present, viz., high land, moist
an absence
93,000,000 miles, which makes the winter winds, andwater like of oceanic currents
of warm
the Gulf Stream,
i
year shorter than the summer lne latter is one of the main causes which
half by nearly eight days.
But mathematical calculations show affect temperature. The difference of
1 un(^er ^ie complicated attractions temperature between the equatorial and
of the sun, moon, and larger planets, the polar regions causes a constant overflow
of heated
eccentricity of the earth’s orbit slowly is replacedair from south to north, which
an indraught of colder air
changes at long.and irregular intervals ri om north by south, which, owing to the
to
but always w.ithin^xed limits, increasing greater velocity of the earth’s rotation
up to a certain point and then diminish towards the equator, takes the form of
ing till it approaches the circular form
trade-winds blowing constantly from a
when it again increases. The maximum more
These
limit of eccentricity makes the difference winds, or less easterly direction. Ocean,
sweeping
the Atlantic
between the greatest and least distances raise its level at overwestern barrier, and
its
of the earth from the sun range between
the
12,000,000 and 14,000,000 miles, which is flowsaccumulation deflected by America
off in
which
tour or five times as great as at present • the western a currentEurope extends to
and with this eccentricity, and winter in mildwintersshores of extreme and carries
into the
North In
aphelion in the Northern hemisphere, the the Orkney and Shetland Islands, which
winter half of the year in Northern are nearly m the same latitude as Cape
latitudes would be twenty-six days longer
than the summer half, instead of eight farewell m Greenland, there is so little
ice
accomplishment
days shorter as at present. In this state of andthat skating is a rare game which is
curling, the roaring
things the quantity of heat received daily popular some degrees further south, so
is
from the sun in winter would be such as quite unknown.
to lower the temperature of the whole diverted, and the Ii the Gulf Stream were
highlands of
Northern hemisphere by 35° Fahrenheit, upheaved to the height of the Scotland
Alps of
and reduce the average January tem New
perature of England from 39 to 4°, while I againZealand, the whole conntry would
be buried under glaciers pushing
the mean summer temperature would be
t into
ar*d German Ocean.
about 60° higher than at present. But oathese ^ie
considerations may show
this summer heat, derived from solar every period of great eccentricity why
was
radiation, would not counteract the cold not necessarily a Glacial period,
of .winter, for all moisture during winter under certain conditions it must though
inevit
1I?3 accumulated in ice and snow, most ably have been so, and geologists are
ot the solar heat of summer would be generally agreed that the last period of the
expended in supplying latent heat to melt
have been one of the main
a portion of this frozen accumulation, sort mustthe great refrigeration which
causes
and dense fogs would intercept a large set m of
over the whole Northern hemiamount of the solar radiation.
sphere
the Pliocene
jer lb,500 years this state of things period, towards the close of recent times.
and continued until
would be entirely reversed, and with But in this case we can fix the date with
twenty-six days more of summer, and
calculation shows that
the earth 12,000,000 miles nearer the sun +k"ea^ accuracy> f°r of great eccentricity
the last period
m winter, the Northern hemisphere would began 240,000 years ago, and lasted
enjoy something like perpetual spring, 160,000 years. For the last 50,000 years
v here can be no doubt that these are real the departure of the earth’s orbit from
causes, and the only difficulty is to account the circular form has been exceptionally
tor their not having been more invariable ;small. We may suppose the Glacial
�ANTIQUITY OF MAN
period, therefore, to have commenced
240,000 years ago, come to its height
160,000 years ago, and finally passed
away 80,000 years before the present
time.
These dates receive much confirmation
from conclusions drawn from a totally
different class of facts. A bed of existing
marine shells of Arctic type, apparently
belonging to one of the latest phases of
the Glacial period, has been found on the
top of a hill in North Wales which is now
1,100 feet above the sea-level, and the
same marine drift seems to extend to a
height of upwards of 2,000 feet. There
must, therefore, have been a depression
of the land sufficient to carry it many
fathoms below the sea, and a subsequent
elevation sufficient to carry the sea
bottom up to a height of certainly 1,100
and probably over 2,000 feet. In all pro
bability, these movements were very
slow and gradual, like those now. going
on in Greenland and Scandinavia, for
there are no signs of earthquakes or
volcanic eruptions in the district; and it
is probable that pauses occurred in the
movements, and a long pause when sub
sidence had ceased before elevation
began. Without taking these pauses
into account, and assuming the elevation
only just completed, and that Sir C.
Lyell’s average of two and a half feet a
century is a fair rate for these slow
movements, it would have required 50,000
years of continued elevation to bring
these shells, and 80,000 years to bring the
marine drifts, up to their present height
above the sea; and a similar period
previously must be allowed for their
submergence. We may fairly conclude,
therefore, that upwards of 100,000 years
have elapsed since these shells lived and
died at the bottom of the sea towards the
close of the Glacial period, which corre
sponds very well with the date assigned
by astronomical calculations.
Again, another attempt to fix a date
for the close of the Glacial period has
been made by Monsieur Forel, a Swiss
geologist, from actual measurements of
the quantity of suspended matter
poured into the Lake of Geneva by the
Rhone, and the area of the lake which
has been silted up since it was filled by
ice. It is evident that this silting up
at the head of the lake could only begin
when the great Rhone glacier, which
once extended to the Jura Mountains,
had shrunk back into its valley far
enough to pour its river into the lake.
M. Forel’s calculations give . 100,000
years as the probable time required for
the river to silt up so much of the lake
as is now converted into dry land. The
data are somewhat vague, as on the one
hand the rate of deposition may have!
been greater when a large mass of
ice and snow was being melted, while
on the other hand it may have been
less, while the glacier still occupied the
valley almost to the head of the lake,
and the Rhone had only a course of a
few miles. All that can be said, there
fore, is that it gives an approximate
date for the close of the Glacial period
which, like that derived from rates
of depression and elevation, corresponds
wonderfully well with the date required
by Croll’s theory.
Now, whether the date be a little
more or a little less, it is clear that man
existed on earth throughout a great
part, if not the whole, of the Glacial
period. He had existed a long while
in conjunction with a fauna of morel
Southern and African aspect, before
the reindeer migrated in vast herds into
Southern France. His remains are found
in caves and river drifts associated with
those of the hippopotamus, an animal
which could by no possibility have lived
in rivers which for half the year were
bound hard in ice. Such remains must
therefore of necessity date either from a
period before the great cold had set. in, or
from some inter-glacial period prior to
the great cold which drove the reindeer,
musk ox, glutton, and Arctic hare as
far south as the slopes of the Pyrenees.
In England we can trace distinctly
at least four successions of boulder clays,
that is of the ground moraines of land
ice, separated by deposits of drifts, sands,
and brick-earths, formed while . the
glaciers were retreating and melting;
and a number of the Palaeolithic imple
ments have been found in what was
undoubtedly part of the period of the
second or great chalky boulder clay,
which overspreads the southern and
eastern counties of England up to the
Thames Valley.
The discovery * of
Palaeolithic remains in the deposit oi St,
Prest, near Chartres, makes it probable
that some at least of the ruder instru
ments date back to the very beginning
of the Glacial period, and a good body
�58
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
of evidence points to the conclusion that
man was living during the many alter
nations of climate of that period, and
whenever the glaciers retreated, followed
them up closely.
In seeking to trace back human origin
to more remote periods, we must begin
by describing shortly the geological
periods during which the existence of
man may have been possible. It is use
less to go back beyond the Chalk, which
was deposited in a deep sea and forms
a great break between the modern and
the Secondary period, in which latter
reptiles predominated, and mammalia
are only known by a few remains of
small insectivorous and
marsupial
animals.
The inauguration of the present state
of things commences with the Tertiary
period. This has been divided into three
stages : the Eocene, in which the first
dawn appears of animal life similar in
type to that now existing ; the Miocene,
in which there is a still greater approxi
mation to existing forms of life; and
the Pliocene, in which existing types and
species become preponderant.
Then
comes the Pleistocene or Quaternary,
including the great Glacial period,
during which the whole marine and
nearly the whole terrestrial fauna are of
existing or recently extinct species,
though very different in their geographi
cal distribution from that of the present
day. And finally we arrive at the recent
period, when the present climate and the
present configuration of lands, seas,
and . rivers prevail with very slight
modifications, and no changes have
taken place either in the specific
character or geographical distribution
of life, except such as can be clearly
traced to existing causes such as the
agency of man.
This is the geological frame-work into
which we have to fit the history of man’s
appearance upon earth. We have traced
him through the recent and Quaternary ;
can we trace him further into the
Tertiary ? Speaking generally, we may
say that the Eocene period was that in
which Europe began to assume some
thing like its present configuration, and
in which mammalian life, of the higher
or placental type, began to supplant the
lower forms of marsupial life which had
preceded. But these higher types were
for the most part of a more primitive
or generalised character than the more
specialised types of later periods, and
u* highest order, that of the primates,
which includes man, ape, and lemur, was,
as far as is yet known, represented only
by two or three extinct lemurian forms.
_ The plan on which Nature has worked
in the evolution of life seems always to
have been this: she begins by laying
down a sort of ground plan, or general
ised sketch of a particular form of life,
say, first of vertebrata, then of fish, then
of reptiles, and finally of mammalian life.
I his sketch resembles the simple theme
of a few notes on which a musician pro
ceeds to work out a series of variations,
each surpassing the other in complication
and . specialised development in some
particular direction. No w, in the Eocene
period we are in the stage of the theme and
first simple variations of the mammalian
melody. It hardly seems likely, there
fore, that a creature so highly specialised
as man, even in his most rudimentary
form, should have existed, and in the
absence of any direct evidence to the
contrary, it is safe to assume that his
first appearance must have been of later
date.
But when we come to the Miocene and
Pliocene periods, the case is different. It
is true that in the Miocene the speciali
sation of certain families, as for instance
that of the horse, had not been carried
out to the full extent, and that all the
species of Miocene land-mammals and
several of the genera are now extinct.
But there were already true apes and
baboons, and even two species of anthro
poid ape, one of which, the Dryopithecus,
whose fossil remains were found in the
South of France, was as large as a man.
Now, wherever anthropoid apes lived
it is clear that, whether as a question of
anatomical structure or of climate and
surroundings, man, or some creature which
was the ancestor of man, might have lived
also. Anatomically speaking, apes and
monkeys are as. much special variations
of the mammalian type as man, whom
they resemble bone for bone and muscle
for. muscle, and the physical animal man
is simply an instance of the quadrumanous
type specialised for erect posture and a
larger brain. The larger brain, implying
greater intelligence, must also have given
him advantages in contending with out
ward circumstances, as for instance, by
fire and clothing against cold, which might
�AMNffllUt OP MAN
enable him to survive when other species
succumbed and became extinct.
If he could survive, as we know he did,
|3ie adverse conditions and. extreme vicissitudes of the Glacial period, there is no
reason why he might not have lived in
the semi-tropical climate of the Miocene
period, when a genial climate extended
even to Greenland and Spitsbergen, and
when ample forests supplied an abundance
of game and edible fruits. The same rea
sons apply, with still greater force, to the
Pliocene period, when existing types and
species had become more common and
feen a mild climate still prevailed. The
JEstence of Tertiary man must antecedently be pronounced highly probable;
but probabilities are not proofs, and the
near Chartres, which were always con
sidered to be Pliocene. Since the dis
covery, however, some geologists have
contended that these strata are not Plio
cene, but of the earliest Quaternary, or
perhaps a transition period between Plio
cene and Quaternary. This evidence canl
not, therefore, be accepted as conclusive for
anything more than proof that man’s ex
istence extends at any rate over the whole
Quaternary period, comprising the vast
glacial and inter-glacial ages which have
effected such changes in the earth’s surface*
Less disputable evidence is supplied by
the Pliocene of Monte Aperto, near Siena,
Italy, where bones of the Bakenotus, a
sort of Pliocene whale, which bear marks
of incisions which to all appearance must
Incised Bones of Bal^notus. Pliocene. From Monte Aperto.
Figured by Quatrefages, <( Homines Fossiles et Homines Sauvages, p. 93.
fact of such existence must be determined
by the evidence. All that can be said is
that while there ought to be great caution
in admitting as established a fact of such
gnportance, there ought to be no.deter
mined predisposition to disbelieve it, like
ghii.t which for so many years retarded
the acceptance of the evidence for Palaeo
lithic man. On the contrary, the fact that
man existed in such numbers and. under
such conditions as have been, described in
theQuaternary period, establishes a strong
foresumption that his first appearance must
date from a much earlier period.
Let us see how the evidence stands.
Undoubted stone implements, and bones
faring traces of cuttings by flint knives,
UKie been found in strata at St. Prest,
have been made by flint knives emplojw
in hacking off the flesh. Doubts
thrown at first on this, as it was thought
that possibly fish, or somegnawing anim^
like the beaver, might have cut the groovw
with their teeth. But later specimens have
been found on which the cuts have a regtt^
lar curvature which could not have been
made by any teeth, and present precisely
the same appearance as the cuts winch
are so commonly found on the bon® of
reindeer and other animals in hundreds
of Palaeolithic caves.
M. Quatrefages, who is a very eminent
and at the same time very cautious autho
rity, says, in his last work on the subject
published in 1884, “Homines Fossiles st
Hommes Sauvages,” that 11 the most in*
�60
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
credulous must be convinced. Had they who appointed a commission of fifteen
been found in Quaternary beds no one
European authori
would have hesitated to regard them as of the most eminent to report upon it
such matters
intentionally caused. The hand of man ties mreported that some of the flints
Nine
armed with a cutting instrument could showed undoubted
alone have left marks of this sort on a traces of human
plain surface. It is evident that some workmanship, five
horde of savages of these remote times were of an opposite
had found the carcase of this great ceta opinion, and one
cean stranded on the shore, and cut the was neutral. Since
flesh off with stone knives just as the sav then fresh obj ects
ages of Australia do at the present day.” have been found,
If these bones of the Baleenotus really and M. Quatrefages,
bear marks of human tools, the spectacle who had formerly
which might have been witnessed on the been doubtful, says
shore of the Pliocene sea perhaps 500,000 in his recent work :
years ago, must, have closely resembled “These new objects,
Flint Scraper.
that given by Sir John Lubbock from a and especially a
description by Captain Grey of a recent scraper which is one From Thenay. Miocene
whale feast in Australia. “ When a whale of the most dis Figured by Quatrefages,
“ Hommes Fossiles et
is washed on shore it is a real godsend to tinctly character Hommes Sauvages," p. 92.
them. Fires are immediately lit, to give ised of that class of
notice of the joyful event. Then they implements, have removed my last
rub themselves all over with blubber, doubts.” And certainly, if the figures
and anoint their favourite wives in the given at Paoe 92 of his “Hommes
same way; after which they cut down I ossiles et Hommes Sauvages ” correctly
through the blubber to the beef, which represent the original implements, and
they sometimes eat raw and sometimes they really came from Miocene strata,
broil on pointed sticks. As other natives doubt.is no longer possible. The evidence
arrive they ‘ fairly eat their way into the of design in chipping into a determinate
whale, and you see them climbing in and shape is quite as clear as in the similar
about the stinking carcase, choosing tit class of implements from Kent’s Cavern
bits.’ For days ‘ they remain by the car or the Cave of La Madeleine. They must
case, rubbed from head to foot with stink either have been chipped by man, or as
ing blubber, gorged to repletion with Mr. Boyd Dawkins supposes, by the
putrid meat—out of temper from indi Dryopithecus or some other anthropoid
gestion, and therefore engaged in con ape which had a dose of intelligence so
stant frays suffering from a cutaneous much superior to the gorilla or chim
disorder by high feeding—and altogether panzee as. to be able to fabricate tools.
a disgusting spectacle. There is no sight But in this case the problem would be
m the.world, Captain Grey adds, ‘ more solved and the missing link discovered,
revolting than to see a young and grace for such an ape might well have been
fully-formed native girl stepping out of the ancestor, of Palaeolithic man.
the carcase of a putrid whale.’ ”
The next instance is from Otta, in the
The evidence for Miocene man is much valley of the Tagus, where flint imple
of the same character: very strong and ments were alleged to have been dis
conclusive as far as it goes, but resting covered by an eminent Portuguese geolo
on too few instances to be universally gist, Senor Kibeiro, in Miocene strata. The
accepted. In 1868 the Abb£ Bourgeois subject was fully discussed on the spot,
laid before the Anthropological Congress at a meeting of the Anthropological Con
at Paris certain flints which he had gress at Lisbon in 1880. The general
found in situ in undoubted Miocene strata opinion seemed to be that some of the
at Thenay, in the Beauce, near Blois, implements showed undoubted traces of
they were received with general incre human design, but some good authorities
dulity, and the traces of human design remained sceptical ; and although there
were denied. The Abbe, however, per was no doubt that they were found in
sisted, and having made fresh discoveries Miocene strata, it was thought possible
the subject was referred to the next that flints of Quaternary age might have
meeting of the Congress at Brussels, fallen into fissures, or been mixed up with
�f™QUATE0^^^^
Miocene.
Borer, of. Awl.
Thenay. Miocene.
Congrfes Prihistorique,
Bruxelles, 1872.
J'C
Quaternary. Chaleux,
Belgium. Reindeer Period.
Congres Prehistorique,
Bruxelles, 1872.
Scraper, or Rude
Knife. Thenay. Mio
cene. Quatrefages,
p. 92.
Scraper. Thenay. Miocene
Quatrefages, p. 92.
Quaternary. Slammoth Period.
River Drift, Mesvin, Belgium.
Congres Prehistorique, Bruxelles, 18.2.
�62
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
Miocene sands by floods at some very
remote period, and thus become encrusted
in a Miocene matrix.
The verdict as to Miocene man in
Europe remains “Not proven.” Leaving
with bones of the extinct Mastodon and
Megalonyx. But, although undoubtedly
of great antiquity, there is no proof that
it does not belong to the Quaternary
period, especially as the mastodon seems
to have lived until comparatively recent
times in America, its remains being often
found in recent bogs and peat mosses.
The same remark will apply to the
skull which was found, in digging a well
at New Orleans, under six distinct layers
of cypress forests such as are now grow
ing on the surface, showing as many
periods of successive subsidences, subse
quent elevations, and stationary periods
long enough to allow of a forest growth
of many generations of large trees. Here
again the antiquity must be very great,
but we have no reason to carry it back
into Tertiary periods, or beyond the
recent periods when the Mississippi began
to flow in its present course and form its
present delta.
Human remains have also been dis
covered in caves in Brazil and Mexico
associated with bones of extinct animals,
but we have no clear information as to
the^ time when these animals became
extinct, or as to the exact order of super
position in which the human skulls and
implements were found, and the occur
rence of a polished stone celt in the same
cave throws still more doubt on their
extreme antiquity.
Although the instances cited might be
multiplied, it must be remembered that
remains of Tertiary man are not likely
to be abundant. . If man was then living,
it was probably in fewer numbers and in
Tertiary Hachb.
more limited areas. The pressure of
From Miocene Strata of TagU3 Valley.
(Half the actual size.)
population had not yet driven wandering
Quatrefages, “ Hommes Fossiles et Homines
hordes to follow sea-coasts and cross rivers
Sauvages. ”
and mountains in pursuit of food. Pro
bably at this early period man lived
the Old World for the Nev/, the same will more on fruits, and therefore required
aPply to the alleged discovery of a human fewer implements, and his intelligence
skull in Calaveras County, California was less, so tnat he had less power of
buried under six distinct layers of har fashioning them. For the purposes for
dened volcanic ashes, and, presumably which his Palaeolithic descendants chipped
of Pliocene date, if not earlier. Whitney stones into shape, he may have used nat
the Director of the Geological Survey of ural stones which would often answer the
the United States, and other American purpose, but which, when thrown away,
geologists, believe this skull to be Plio would leave nothing by which they could
cene, but doubts have been thrown on be recognised.
its authenticity, and European geologists
If the forests now inhabited by the
do not generally accept it.
gorilla and chimpanzee were submerged
A human bone is described by Lyell and again elevated, no trace would be
which was found near Vicksburg in a found of the existence of animals which
side valley of the Mississippi, associated had built rude nests, used broken branches
�ANTIQUITY OF MAN
of trees as clubs, and cracked cocoa-nuts
with hammer stones.
But above all, the surface of these older
strata has been so much denuded, that
the situations in which alone we might
expect to find remains of man have almost
entirely disappeared. Ninety-nine hun
dredths of our Quaternary implements
come from river drifts or caves. Where
are the Pliocene or Miocene rivers or
caves? They have disappeared amidst
the revolutions of the earth’s surface and
the constant denudation which wastes
continents away. The negative evidence
would be strong if we could point to
caves filled with bone-breccias of a Plio
cene or Miocene fauna, in which no
trace was found of human remains. . But
it is weak as against even, a single
well-ascertained instance, if it . merely
amounts to such remains not being fre
quently found where we could hardly
expect to find them. And it . is weak
against the strong presumption that
when Quaternary man is found in such
numbers and under such. conditions,
spread over wide areas in inhospitable
climates, he must have had his first origin
in earlier times. The cradle of that origin
remains undiscovered, perhaps undis
co verable. For in seeking for evidence
about Tertiary man in Europe, we are
off the scent. He must be searched for in
the region or zone where Dr. Dubois found
the fragments already described, and the
search may, nevertheless, be in.vain. For
perchance the area of the parting of the
ways between the ape-like man and the
man-like ape, as lateral descendants of
a pithecoid ancestor, is in some Indo
African land which has long been covered
by the sea, and from which, in the warm
climates of inter-glacial periods, when a
temperate flora grew in northern lati
tudes, the earliest human beings spread
themselves over the then habitable globe,
migrating by way of Africa into Europe,
and by way of both Europe and Asia into
America, while the ancient land-extensions
led him dry-footed, to Australia.
With these high probabilities, is it
possible to assign any approximate date
to man’s appearance ?
Reckoning by the thickness, of the
different stratified deposits which make
up the earth’s crust, and assuming the
average rate of their deposition, or what
is the same thing, the average rate of
waste of land surface, to have been the
63
same throughout, the whole Tertiary
period carries us back barely onetwentieth part of the way towards the
first beginnings of fossil-bearing strata.
That is, if 100,000,000 years have elapsed
since the earth became sufficiently
solidified to support vegetable and
animal life, the Tertiary period may have
lasted for 5,000,000 years;
or for
10,000,000 years, if the life-sustaining
order of things has lasted, as Lyell sup
poses, for U least 200,000,000. years.
Even if we take the shorter period, the
time is ample for the enormous changes
which have taken place since the com
mencement of the Eocene period. The
average rate of denudation over the
globe has been taken at about one foot
in 3,000 years, from actual calculations
of the average amount of solid matter
carried down by the Mississippi and
other great rivers. Now at this rate it
would take only 2,000,000 years to wear
the whole of Europe down to the sea
level, and, in the absence of any com
pensating movements of elevation, the
whole of North America would be washed
away and deposited in strata at the
bottom of the Atlantic and Pacific
Oceans in less than 3,000,000 years.
If, therefore, the origin of man. could
be traced down to the middle Miocene,
or even to the date of the great anthro
poid Dryopithecus of Southern France
(an ape approximating nearest to the
chimpanzee), we should have to assume a
period for his existence of probably
between one and two millions of years, a
mere fraction of the time since the earth
became the abode of life amd existing
causes operated to bring about geological
formations.
As regards the habits and manners of
Quaternary man we know very little
that is positive., and can only gather
some vague indications from the relics
in caves and river drifts. These, how
ever, are sufficient to establish with
certainty that the law of his existence
has been one of continued progress.
The older the remains, the ruder are
the implements and the fewer.the traces
of anything approaching to civilisation.
As already shown, Neolithic man is
comparatively civilised. He has domestic
animals and cultivated plants ; he. has
clothing and ornaments, well-fashioned
tools and pottery,. and. permanent
dwellings. He lives in societies, builds
�64
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
villages, buries his dead, and shows his
faith in a future life by placing with
them food and weapons. As we ascend
the stream of time these indications of
an incipient civilisation disappear.
The first vestige of the domestic animals
is found in the dog which gnawed the
bones of the Danish kitchen-middens,
and of the earliest Swiss lake-dwellings.
When fairly in Palaeolithic times, even
the dog disappears, and man has to
trust to his own unaided efforts in
hunting wild animals for food.
Weapons and implements become
more and more rude until, in the oldest
deposits, wo find nothing but roughlychipped hatchets, arrow-heads, flakes,
and scrapers. Implements of bone,
such as barbed harpoons, borers, and
needles, which are abundant in the
middle Paleolithic or reindeer period, be
come ruder and then disappear. Pottery
which is extremely abundant in the
Neolithic period, either disappears alto
gether or becomes so scarce that it is
a moot question whether a few of the
rudest fragments found in caves are
really Palaeolithic. If so, they clearly
date from the later Palaeolithic, and
pottery was unknown in the earlier
Palaeolithic times.
Judging from the portraits engraved
on bone . during the reindeer period,
Palaeolithic man pursued the chase in
a state of nature, though from the pre
sence of bone needles it is probable
that the skins of animals may have
been occasionally sewed together by
split sinews to provide clothing. There
can be no doubt that his habitual
dwelling was in caves or rock-shelters.
Here was his home, here he took his
meals and allowed the remains of his
food, to accumulate. His staple diet
consisted of the contemporary wild
animals, the mammoth, the rhinoceros,
the caA e bear, the horse, the aurochs, and
the reindeer. Even the great cave lion
was occasionally killed and eaten, and
the fox and other smaller animals were
not despised ; while among tribes skilled
m the use of the bow and arrow, birds
were a common article of food, and fish
were harpooned by those who lived near
rivers. Wild fruit and roots were also
doubtless consumed, and from the forma
tion of their teeth and intestines it is pro
bable that if we could trace the diet of the
earliest races of men we should find them
to have been frugivorous, like their con
geners the anthropoid apes.
The abundance of wild animals and the
•
for which hunting savages
inhabited the same spots may be inferred
fkat at one station alone
that of Solutr6 in Burgundy, it is com
puted that the remains of no less than
40,000 horses have been found. All the
long bones of the larger animals have
been split to extract the marrow, which
was, as with the modern Eskimos and
other savages, a great delicacy, and seems
also to have been used for softening skins
tor the purpose of clothing.
Among the split bones a sufficient
number of human bones have been found
to make it certain that Palaeolithic man
was, occasionally at least, a cannibal;
and m several caves, notably that of
Chaleux, in Belgium, these bones, in
cluding those of women and children
have been found charred by fire, and in
such numbers as to indicate that they
had been the scene of cannibal feasts.
It is a remarkable fact that cannibalism
seems to have become more frequent as
man advanced in civilisation, and that
whne its traces are frequent in Neolithic
times, they become very scarce or alto
gether disappear in the age of the mam
moth and the reindeer.
As regards religious ideas they can
only be inferred from the relics buried
with the dead, and these are scarce and
uncertain for the earlier periods. The
caves in which Palaeolithic man lived on
the flesh of the Quaternary animals,
have been so often used as buryingplaces in long-subsequent ages, that it is
extremely difficult to ascertain whether
the skeletons found in them are those of
the original inhabitants.
Thus the
famous cave of Aurignac, in which Lartet
thought he had discovered the tomb of
men at whose funeral feast mammoths
and rhinoceroses were consumed, is now
generally considered to be a Neolithic
burying-place superimposed on an
abandoned Palaeolithic habitation.
There are not more than five or six
well authenticated instances in which
entire Palaeolithic skeletons have been
found . under, circumstances in which
there is a fair, presumption that they
may have been interred after death, and
these afford no clear proof of articles
intended for use in a future life having
been deposited with them. All we can
�MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE
say, therefore, is that from the commence
ment of the Neolithic period downwards,
there is abundant proof that man had
ideas of a future state of existence very
similar to those of most of the savage
tribes of the present day ; such proof is
wanting for the immensely longer Palaeo
lithic period, and we are left to con
jecture. The only arts which can with
certainty be assigned to our earliest
known ancestors are those of fire and
of fashioning rude implements from stone
by chipping. Everything beyond this is
the product of gradual evolution.
CHAPTER VI.
man’s place in nature
Origin of Man from an Egg—Like other
Mammals—Development of the EmbryoBackbone—Eye and other Organs of Sense
—Fish, Reptile, and Mammalian Stages—
Comparison with Apes and Monkeys—
Germs of Human Faculties in Animals—The
Dog—Insects—Helplessness of Human In
fant—Instinct—Heredity and Evolution—
The Missing Link—Races of Men—Leading
Types and Varieties—Common Origin Dis
tant—Language—How Formed—Grammar
—Chinese, Aryan, Semitic,etc.—Conclusions
from Language—Evolution and Antiquity
—Religions of Savage Races—Ghosts and
Spirits—Anthropomorphic Deities—Traces
in Neolithic and Palaeolithic Times—De
velopment by Evolution—Primitive Arts—
Tools and Weapons—Fire—Flint Imple
ments—Progress from Palaeolithic to Neo
lithic Times—Domestic Animals—Clothing
—Ornaments—Conclusion, Man a Product
of Evolution.
Although the establishment of the
great antiquity of the human race has
attracted more immediate attention,
being a fact at once intelligible to the
general public, the researches of ana
tomists and physiologists, aided by the
microscope, have brought to light results
quite as remarkable as regards the
individual man and his place in Nature.
Until recently it was taken for granted
that man was a special miraculous
creation, altogether superior to and
distinct from the rest of the. animal
world. This assumption, gratifying alike
to our vanity, and our laziness in the
laborious search for truth, has been to a
65
great extent disproved and replaced ny
the Law of Evolution.
The most striking proof of this is found
when we trace scientifically the growth
of each individual man from his first
origin to his final development. Man,
like all other animals, is born of an egg.
The primitive egg, or ovum, which was
the first germ of our existence, is a small
cell about the one-hundred-and-twentyfifth of an inch in diameter, consisting of
a mass of semi-fluid protoplasm enclosed
in a membrane, and containing a small
speck or nucleus
of more con
densed
proto
plasm. This nu
cleated cell is it
self the first form
into which a
mass of simple
jelly-like proto
plasm is differen
tiated in the
course of its evo
Human Egg.
lution from its
Magnified 100 times.
original uniform
composition. The
nucleated cell is the starting-point of
all higher life, and.by splitting up and
multiplying repetitions of itself in geo
metrical progression, provides the cell*
material out of which all the complicated
structures of living things are built up.
In sexual generation, which prevails in
all the higher forms of life, this process
requires, in order to start it, the co*
operation of two such cells or germs of
life, one male, the other female.
The first remarkable fact is that the
human egg is, at its commencement, undistinguishable from that of any other
mammal, and remains so for a long period
of its growth, going through its earlier
stages of development in precisely the
same way. At first the egg behaves
exactly as any. other single-celled
organism, as for instance that of the
amoeba, which is considered the simplest
form of organised life. It contracts in
the middle and divides into two cells,
each with its nucleus and each an exact
counterpart of the original cell. These
two subdivide into four, the four into
eight, and so on, until at last a cluster of
cells is formed which is called a morula
from its resemblance to the fruit of the
mulberry-tree. Development goes on,
a.n4 the globular lump of cells changes
i
F
�66
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
into a globular bladder whose outside
skin is built up of flattened cells. Then
condensation takes place, from the more
rapid growth of cells at particular points,
and the foundation is laid of the actual
body of the germ or embryo, the other
cells of the germ-bladder serving only for
its nutrition. Up to this point the germs
not only of all mammals, including man,
but _ of all vertebrate animals, birds,
reptiles, and fishes, are scarcely dis
tinguishable.
In the next stage the outer surface of
the embryo develops three distinct layers,
the outer one of which, or epidermis, is
modified into the skin, sense-organs, and
nervous system; the inner one, of
epithelium, into the mucous membrane
or lining of all the intestinal organs ;
while the intermediate layer is the raw
material of muscles, bones, and blood
pression in the outer skin extends until
the edges close and form a hollow space
in which the eye is formed- At first it is
a mere black pigment mark on the in
terior surface of the enclosed space,
which develops into the retina, with a
wonderful apparatus of optic nerves for
conveying impressions photographed on
it to the brain. The enclosed space itself
is filled with a fluid, or vitreous humour,
from which a lens is condensed for
collecting the rays of light and con
centrating them on the retina, and by
degrees all the beautiful and complicated
organs are evolved for perfecting the
work of the eye and protecting’it from
injury. But this fact must* be kept
clearly in view : the process is identically
the same as that by which the eyes of
other animals are formed, and its various
stages represent those by which the
Mammalian Egg.
First Stage.
Second Stage.
vessels. The embryo is now contracted
in the middle and assumes the form of a
violin-shaped disc, and a slight longi
tudinal furrow appears, dividing it into
two equal right and left parts, which is
gradually converted into a tube con
taining the spinal marrow, to protect
which a chain of bones or vertebrae is
developed, forming the back-bone.
And now comes what is the most
marvellous part of the process, viz., the
development of the brain, eye, ear, and
other organs of sense, from these simple
elements. The brain begins as a
swelling of the foremost end of the
cylindrical marrow-tube. This divides
itself into five bladders, lying one behind
the other, from which the whole com
plicated structure of the brain and skull
is subsequently developed.
The eye, ear, and other sense-organs,
begin in the same way. A slight de- |
Third Stage.
organs of vision have gradually risen to
the development of a complete eye, in
advancing from the lowest to the higher
forms of life. Thus in the lowest, or
Protista, the eye remains a simple pig
ment spot, which probably perceives
light by being more sensitive to variations
of temperature than the surrounding
white cells. The next higher family
develop a lens, and so on in ascending
order, different families developing dif
ferent contrivances for attaining the same
object, but all starting from the same
origin, development of the cells of the
epidermis, and leading up to the same
result, organs of vision adapted for the
ordinary conditions of life of the creature
which uses them. I say the ordinary
conditions, for there are curious instances
of the eye persisting, dwindling from
disuse, and finally disappearing, in
animals which live underground like the
�MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE
mole, or in subterranean waters like
some fish in the Mammoth Cave of
Kentucky and underground lakes of
Carinthia, where the stimulus of light is
no longer felt for many generations.
The history of the ear and other organs
of sense is the same as that of the eye.
They are all developments of the cell
system of the outer skin, and all pass
through stages of development identical
with those at which it has been arrested
in the progression from lower to higher
forms of life. The same principles apply
to the development of the inner organs,
such as the heart, lungs, liver, etc., a
striking illustration of which is found in
67
of development remains the same as that
of other mammalia. The rudimentary
limbs are exactly similar, the five fingers
and toes develop in the same way, and
the resemblance after the first four
weeks’ growth between the embryo of a
man and a dog is such that it is scarcely
possible to distinguish them. Even at
the age of eight weeks the embryo man is
an animal with a tail, hardly to be
distinguished from an embryo puppy.
As evolution proceeds, the embryo
emerges from the general mammalian
type into the special order of Primates
to which man belongs. This order, be
ginning with the lemur, rises through
Dog (six weeks).
Man (eight weeks).
From Haeckel’s “ Schdpfungsgeschichte.”
the fact that the gill arches, or bones
which support the gills by which fishes
breathe, exist originally in man and all
other vertebrate animals above the ranks
of fish, but, in the development of the
embryo, they are superseded by the air.breathing apparatus of lungs, and con
verted to other purposes in the formation
of the jaws and organ of hearing. In
fact, we may say that every human being
passes through the stage of fish and
reptile before arriving at that of mammal,
and finally of man.
If we take him up at the more ad
vanced stage, where the embryo has
already passed the reptilian form, we
find that for a considerable time the line
the monkey, the baboon, and tailed ape,
up to the anthropoid apes, the chim
panzee, gorilla, orang, and gibbon, which
approach nearest to the human type.
The succession is gradual from the lower
to the higher forms up to the anthropoid
apes, but a considerable gap occurs be
tween these and man. It is true that in
his physical structure man resembles
these apes closely, every bone and muscle
of the one having its counterpart in those
of the other. But even at its birth the
human infant is already specialised by
considerable differences. The brain is
larger, its convolutions more complex, the
spine has a double curvature, adapting it
for an erect posture, and the legs, with a
F 2
�68
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
corresponding object, are longer and
stronger, while the arms are shorter and
less adapted for climbing. The thumb
also is longer, making the hand a better
instrument for all purposes, except that
of clasping the branches of trees, for
which the long, slender fingers of the ape
are more available. The great toe also is
less flexible, and the foot more adapted
for giving the body a firm support and
less for being used as a hand.
As growth proceeds after birth these
differences become more and more ac
centuated. The infant chimpanzee is
not so very unlike the infant negro, but
after a certain age the sutures of the
skull close in the former, making the
skull a solid box, which prevents further
expansion of the brain, and the growth
of the bone is directed towards the lower
part of the face, giving the animal a
projecting muzzle, massive jaws, and a
generally bestial appearance, while at
the same time its intelligence is arrested
and its ferocious instincts become more
prominent. Still these higher apes re
main creatures of very considerable in
telligence and warm affections, as may
be seen in the behaviour of those which
have been caught young and brought up
under the influence of kind treatment.
There is a chimpanzee now1 in the Zoo
logical Gardens at Regent’s Park, which
can do all but speak, which understands
almost every word the keeper says to it,
and when told to sing will purse out its
lips and make an attempt to utter con
nected notes. In the native state they
form societies, obey a chief, and often
show great sagacity in their manner of
foraging for food and escaping from
danger.
Even in lower grades of life than the
anthropoid apes we can see plainly many
of the germs of human faculties in an
undeveloped state. Those who are fond
of dogs, and have lived much with them
and understood their ways, must have
been struck by the many liuman-like
qualities they possess, and especially by
the very great resemblance between
young dogs and young children. They
both like and dislike very much the same
people and the same mode of treatment.
They like those who take notice of them,
caress them, talk to them, and, above all,
those whom they can approach with per1 1888.
feet confidence of receiving uniform kind
treatment. They dislike those who have
no sympathy with them, or whose treat
ment of them is either cold or capricious.
Their great delight is to play with one
another, and often to tease and make a
pretence of quarrelling and fighting.
Both have an instinct for mischief, and
are constantly trying it on how far
they can go without getting into serious
difficulties.
Later in life, and in more serious
matters, the dog has certainly the germs
of higher intelligence, and does a number
or things which require a certain exercise
of reasoning power. He has a good
memory, and imagination enough to
be excited at the prospect of a walk
where there is a chance of finding a rat
or a rabbit, and to dream of chasing
imaginary rabbits when he is lying curledup on the hearthrug. Every dog has
an individual character of his own as
clearly defined as that of an individual
man, nor can the rudiments of reason
ing be denied to the hound who, in a
kennel of twenty others, knows perfectly
well that he is Rover, and not Rattler or
Ranger, and waits till his name is called
to come forward for a biscuit. When he
has got it, his sense of property makes
him appropriate it as his own, and respect
the biscuits appropriated to other dogs,
at any rate to the extent of knowing per
fectly well that he is doing wrong if he
takes them by force or steals them.
In moral qualities the dog approaches
even more closely to man. His fidelity,
affection, and devotion even to death,
are proverbial. He feels shame and re
morse when he has departed from the
canine sense of right and wrong or from
the canine standard of honour, and is
happy when he feels that he has done his
duty. What is this but the working of
an elementary conscience ? Even in the
higher’ sphere of religious feeling, the
dog feels unbounded love and reverence
for the master who is the highest being
conceivable to him, or in other words,
his God ; and he shudders as that master
does in the presence of anything weird
and supernatural. Every good ghost
story begins by describing how the
dogs howled and cringed at their master’s
feet when the first shadow of super
natural presence was cast on the haunted
castle.
Capacity for progressive improvement
�MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE
09
ER hardly be denied to a race which young of other animals, viz., in. the
for which
a
has developed such qualities from ances long period of utter it remains m In
condition
helplessness.
tors who, like the wild and half-wild dogs many of the lower forms of lite the
of Asia and America, had not even learned young creature emerges into the world
to bark, and were as unlike the civilised with many of its necessary faculties com*
and affectionate collie as Palaeolithic
man to his modern successor. In fact, the plete, and has to learn comparatively
The chicken runs
progress of the dog seems only to be little from education.food on the day it
about and picks up
limited by the want of organs of speech,
egg, and the
and of an instrument like the hand by escapes from thefragments of 'the shell
which to place himself in closer relation flycatcher, while
still adhere to it, will peck at flies.
with the outer world.
The same remarks apply to the elephant, As we rise in the scale of creation,
these instinctive aptitudes become fewer*
whose great sagacity seems clearly at and more time is required before, the
tributable to the possession, of such an
instrument in the trunk, inferior .no young animal can shift for itself ; till, at
doubt to the hand, but still very superior length, in the human infant, we arrive
at a stage where for some time it can do
to the paw of the dog or to the hoot- little to preserve its existence except to
enclosed fore-foot of the horse. In all
breathe and suck.
animals the greater or less perfection of
The reason of this is doubtless to be
the instruments by which they act upon found in the higher development which
and are acted upon by the outer world, it is destined to attain. The facul
seems to be the principal factor in deter ties of every animal depend on two
mining the quality of the brain as an causes—first, heredity, or those which have
organ of intelligence.
been evolved from the type, and become
In the insect world we find still more
wonderful exemplifications of the 1 esem fixed by succession through a long series
of ancestors; secondly, adaptation,, or
blance between animal and human in
those which are acquired by education,
telligence.
Ants . live in organised including in the term everything that is
societies, build cities, store-up food for
winter, keep aphides as milk-cows, cariy requisite to place the animal m harmony
on slave-hunting raids, and push the with its surrounding environment, IhB
first are what are called instincts, which
division of labour to such an extent that exist from the birth, and are preserved
some tribes are all workers, others all unconsciously and without an effort.
warriors
and
slave-owners.
These
and reference
actions are not all merely mechanical The last involve an effort, of the senses
from the outer stations
and instinctive, for ants can to a con along the telegraph wires called nerves,
siderable extent adapt themselves to cir to the central office of the brain, wherg
cumstances, and alter their habits and
mode of life when it becomes neces the message is recorded and the reply
considered and transmitted along another
sary in the “struggle for existence.
The same is true of bees, beetles, and set of nerves to the muscles, where it
other insects, but it. is useless to dwell on translates itself into action. In eithfit
case the fundamental fact seems to re
these, for the organisation of the insect
solve itself into a tendency of molecular
world is so different from that of the
follow beaten rather,
mammalian, to which man belongs, that motion to paths. What the brainthan
unknown
has
no safe analogy can be drawn from one once thought or perceived, it will think
to the other. It is from the higher
mammalian types that we can fairly or perceive more readily a second
draw the inference that, if like effects and in like manner, a message which has
transmitted
read
are produced by like causes, the more once beenfrom muscle andbrain off along
a nerve,
to
or from
perfect intelligence and morality of man
brain to muscle, will be transmitted and
must be the same in kind though higher
in degree than the less perfect manifest read off more readily by practice, until
ations of the same qualities in animals at length it ceases to require conscious
of similar though less perfect physical effort and becomes instinctive. We may
see an illustration of this in the facility
organisation.
.
.
with which a piano player, who began
There is one respect m which trie
human infant differs greatly from the by learning the notes with difficulty,
�70
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
acquires such aptitude that the execution
of rapid passages becomes mechanical,
and can be carried on without a mistake,
even when the performer is thinking of
something else or talking to a bystander.
The outer world with which every
animal has to deal from its birth upwards
may be compared to a dense forest or
jungle through which it has to find its
way. A certain number of paths have
been cut by its ancestors, and it finds
them ready made by heredity ; others it
constructs for itself by repeated efforts
until they become as broad and easy as
those which. it inherited ; and finally,
if the forest is thick and its area exten
sive, it can only be. explored by leaving
the beaten paths of inherited or acquired
instinct, and groping the way painfully
by conscious effort and attention.
We can now see why the lower the
animal, or in other words the less exten
sive the forest, the whole vital energy
may be concentrated on the few beaten
paths opened by heredity, and a few
necessary actions may be performed from
the first, instinctively and with great
perfection, while in higher organisms the
vital energy is employed in developing a
great mass of future possibilities rather
than a small number of inferior present
realities. The baby cannot run about the
room and feed itself like the chicken,
because the baby has to growinto a man or
woman, while the chicken has only to
grow into a fowl which can do very little
more in its adult than in its infant state.
w^en we come to analyse the
sum of faculties of the adult man, we find
that they are derived to a surprisingly
small extent from heredity as compared
with education. In saying this, however,
it must be understood that the term
heredity” is limited to that direct
heredity which transmits characters by
instinctive necessity, and not to the far
larger sphere of indirect heredity by
which faculties, arts, modes of thought,
and rules of conduct, are accumulated
m. civilised societies, and become the
principal instrument of education in its
larger sense. If it were possible to
suppose a human infant, born of civilised
parents, left entirely to itself, what would
®?*OY into'? It would have the
physical characters and advantages of
its human ancestry which heredity transP11*8,’ bipedal movement, large, convo
luted brain with potential capacities;
aptness of hand and opposable thumb •
but its solitariness would be fatal to its
progress. It would not learn to speak,
in the sense of using any articulate
language; its arts might not extend
beyond recognising a few articles of food,
and perhaps using stones to crack nuts
and constructing some rude shelter
from branches of trees. It would know
nothing of fire, and on the whole it would
not be so far advanced as its oldest
1 alagolithic ancestor.
As regards a moral sense, and all that
we are accustomed to think the highest
attributes of humanity, it is clear that
its mind would be a blank. Even at a
much more advanced stage, such ideas
evidently come .from education, and are
not the results either of inherited instinct
or of supernatural gift. An English child
kidnapped at an early age by Apache
Indians or head-hunting Dyaks, would,
to a certainty, consider murder one of
• ie«.n® ar^s> and the slaughter of an
inoffensive stranger, especially if accom
plished with a treachery that made the
°n1e
^le risk, an achievement
ot the highest manhood. If brought up
among Mahometans he would consider
polygamy, if among the Todas polyandry,
as the natural and proper relation of the
sexes. All that can be said is, that if
recaptured and brought back to civilised
society, he would perhaps be assisted by
heredity in adopting its ideas more
readily than would be the case if he had
been.born a savage.
It is clear, therefore, that the history
of the individual man tells the same
story of evolution from low beginnings
as is told by that of the human race as
traced from Palaeolithic, through Neo
lithic, into modern times. His law is
progress, worked out by conscious effort
called forth by the environment of out
ward circumstances, and accelerated from
time to time, by the successful efforts of
a few superior men, whose greater sum
of energy or happier organisation for
development, enables them to pioneer
new paths through the vast unexplored
forests of science, art, and morality.
The difficulty of accounting for the
development of intellect and morality by
evolution is not so great as that presented
by the difference in physical structure
between man and the highest animal.
Given a being with man’s brain and man’s
hand and erect stature, it is easy to see
�MANS PLAOE IN NATURE
71
the time is insufficient, and if man and
how intelligence must have been gradually the ape had a common ancestor that
evolved, and rules of conduct best adapted 1 as a highly developed anthropoid ape
for his own good and that of the society certainly, and man probably, already
in which he lived must have been formed <existed in the Miocene period such an
and fixed by successive generations
<cestor must be sought still further back,
according to the Darwinian laws of the at a distance compared with which the
“ struggle for life ” and the survival of ■ whole Quaternary period sinks into in
^ButMt is not so easy to see how this significance. It is said also that the is
covery of man’s antiquity is ot quite
difference of physical structure arose, recent date, and that fifty years ago
and how a being who had such a biam the same negative evidence was quoted
and hand, and such undeveloped capa as conclusive against his existence in
bilities for an almost ^limited pro timesand places which now afford his
gress, came into existence. The difficulty remains by tens of thousands. Ail this
is this: the difference in structure be is true, and it may well make us hesi
tween the lowest existing race of man and tate before we admit that man, whose
the highest existing ape is too great to structure is so analogous to that ot the
admit of the possibility of one being the animal creation, whose embryonic growth
direct descendant of the other. The negro is so strictly accordant with that ot
in some respects makes a slight approxi other mammals, and whose higher
mation towards the Simian type. His skull faculties of intelligence and morality
is narrower, his brain less capacious, his are so clearly not miraculous instincts
muzzle more projecting, his arm longer but the products of evolution and
than those of the average European man. education, is alone an exception to the
Still he is essentially a man, and separated general law of the universe, and is the
bv a wide gulf from the chimpanzee or creature of a special creation.
gorilla Even the idiot or cretin, whose
This is the more difficult to believe,
brain is no larger and intelligence no as the ape family, which man so closely
greater than that of the chimpanzee, is resembles in physical structure, con
an arrested man and not an ape.
tains numerous branches which graduate
If, therefore, the Darwinian theory into one another, but the extremes ot
holds good in the case of man and ape, which differ more widely than man does
we must go back to some common from the highest of the ape series. If a
ancestor from whom both may have special creation is required for man,
originated by pursuing different lines ot must there not have been special
development. But to establish this as a creations for the chimpanzee, the gon a,
fact and not a theory we require to find the orang, and for at least 100 different
that ancestral form, or, at any rate, some species of apes and monkeys which are
intermediate forms tending towards it. all built on the same lines 1
We require to find fossil remains proving
What are the facts really known to us
for the genus man what the Hipparion as to man, his nature, and his origin
and Anchitherium have proved for the
Man is one of a species of which there
genus horse, that is, gradual progressive are in round numbers, according to the
specialisation from a simple, ancestral computations of Wagner and bupan, some
type to more complex existing forms. 1,480 millions of individuals living at the
In other words, we require to discover present time on the earth. Taking thir y
the “ missing link.” Now it must be years as the average duration of each
admitted that hitherto, not only have generation there are thus over 3,600
no such missing links been discovered, millions who are born and die per cen
but the oldest known human skulls and tury, and this has gone on more or less
skeletons show no very decided ap during the period embraced by history,
proximation towards any such pre which extends for a great part of the Old
human type. On the contrary, one oi World over thirty centuries, m the case
the oldest types, that of the men oi of Babylonia perhaps over ninety, and in
the sepulchral cave of Cro-Magnon, Egypt, certainly over seventy centuries.
is that of a fine race, tall in stature,. At the commencement of these historical
large in brain, and on the whole! periods population was dense, probably in
superior to many of the existing races■ Eo-ypt and Western Asia denser than at
of mankind. The reply of course is that
�72
modern science and modern thought
present, and civilisation far advanced. predict with much confidence that they
Ine 1 yramids, which are among the oldest would either not cross, or, if they did,
and the largest buildings in the world
a hybrid ~
prove this conclusively, both from the
mechanical skill and astronomical science
But here he would be wrong, for, in
shown in their construction, and from
tact the
opposite
the great accumulation of capital and together,most produce araces breed freely
and
fertile progeny.
highly artificial arrangements of society
Moreover, when we extend our view
which could alone have rendered such beyond the clearly distinguished types of
works possible. The great mass of the
population in these times lived in what the white, yellow, and black, as seen in
Caucasian
is known as the Old World, and was ac we find Mongoloid, and Negro races
types
into
cumulated mainly in the great valley sub-typesthese shadingbreaking off each
and
off towards
systems of the Nile, and of the various
riversand irrigated plains of the southern other, while a large proportion of the
halt ot the continent of Asia. Northern human race consists of brown, red olive
Asia and Europe were thinly inhabited and copper-coloured people, who may
• by ruder tribes. Of America and the either be original varieties, or descended
interior of Africa we know little until a from crosses between the primitive
much later date, but the population was races. Small _ isolated groups differing
in all probability sparse and savage : in from the mam races also crop un of
Australia, it was still scantier and more whom it is hard to say from whom they
savage-while in New Zealand and are descended or how they got there • as
most of the Pacific Islands it has been tor. instance the Hottentots, in South
introduced by migration only within Africa ; the pigmy b'ack Negritos of the
Andamans and other South Asiatic
comparatively recent times.
The next leading fact we have to islands ; the Papuans and Australians ;
observe is that the human race is not the so-called hairy Ainos of Japan, and
everywhere the same, but is divided some of the aboriginal races of India.
io a certain extent climate seems to
into several well-marked varieties. The
most obvious distinction is that of have had an influence in creating or de
colour In the Old World there are veloping the main typical differences.
hus
line of black races lies
three distinct and clearly characterised . along the mamtropical belt of the earth
the hot
groups-the white the yellow, and the from Old to New Guinea. But the rule
black, these are found mainly in three
separate zoological provinces : the white is not universal, there is no similar type
America, where a
m the temperate and north-temperate m tropical of type and colour singular
prevails
zones of Europe and Western Asia, the uniformity
yellow in those of Eastern Asia, and the throughout the whole continent. Even
black in the tropical zone, principally of m Africa we find the Negro type, while
Central Africa. Where they are pure and retaining its black colour, shading off
unmixed, these race-types differ from one towards higher types and losing its more
another not in coiour only but in many animal-like characteristics. Again, colour,
other important and permanent charac the origin of which remains a perplexing
ters. lhe average size of the brain, the problem to the physiologist, becomes
complexity of its convolutions, tlie shape generally lighter as we pass from tropical
of the skull, the bones of the face and to south-temperate and from south to
jaws, the comparative length of the north-temperate regions, probably be
cause the skin needs less protection from
imbs, the structure of the hair and skin
the characteristic odour, the suscepti the suns rays which the pigmentation
bilities to various diseases, are all es affords. The exceptions supplied bv the
sentially different, so that no observant Esquimaux may be due to their having
naturalist, or even observant child or six months unbroken sunlight, and by
dog, could ever mistake a Chinaman for the now extinct Tasmanians to their
migration from tropical regions.
a £egro, or a Negro for an Englishman.
Even within great and well-defined races
ouch a naturalist, seeing for the first
time typical specimens of the three races, themsel ves there are clearly marked varie
would pronounce them without hesita ties. thus the white race consists of
tion to be distinct species, and would the two distinct types of the fair-whites
and dark-whites, the former prevailing in
�MAN’S PLAGE IN NATURE
Northern Europe and the latter in South
ern Europe, Western Asia, and North
Africa; the contrast between a fair Swede
with flaxen hair and blue eyes, and a
swarthy Spaniard with black hair and
eyes, being almost as marked as between
the latter and some of the higher black
or brown races. Throughout a great part
of Europe, including specially England,
it is evident that the existing population
is derived mainly from repeated crosses
of these two races with one another and
probably with earlier races.
In the existing state of things also it is
evident that if the different races of man
kind ever really did pass into one another
under influences like those of climate, the
time of their doing so is long past. A
colony of English families transported to
tropical Africa would to acertainty dieout
long before they had taken even the first
step towards acquiring the black velvety
skin, the woolly hair, the proj ecting muzzle,
and the long narrow skull of the typical
Negro, while a Negro colony transported
to Scotland or Scandinavia would as cer
tainly disappear from diseases of the chest
and lungs, long before they began to vary
towards the European type. The yellow
race seems to be on the whole the best
fitted to withstand climate and other ex
ternal influences, and it certainly shows
no signs anywhere of passing over either
into the Caucasian or the Negro type.
On the whole, therefore, if the fact of
fertile inter-crossing is to be • taken as
proving the unity of the human race and
their probable descent from a common
ancestor, and we are to assume that all
the great varieties which we find existing
are the result of modifications gradually
introduced by climate and surrounding
circumstances, it is evident that the point
of divergence must be put at an immense
distance.
This is the more certain, as when we
look back for a period of more than 4,000
years, we find from the Egyptian monu
ments that some of the best-marked ex
isting types have undergone no sensible
change. The portraits of negroes and of
Semitic dark-whites painted on the walls
of temples and tombs of the 12th dynasty,
about 2,000 B.C., might be taken as charac
teristic portraits of the negro and Jew of
the present day, and the modern Egyp
tian fellah reproduces with little or no
change the features of the ancient Egyp
tians of the days of Raineses and Ameno-
73
phis. It is evident, therefore, that where
no great change has taken place from
crossing of races, they will maintain their
special characters unaltered for more than
100 generations. Indeed we might say
for 200 generations, for the statues and
wooden statuettes from the tombs, of Sakkara, the ancient Memphis, which cer
tainly date back for more than .5,0.00
years, show us the Egyptian type in its
highest perfection, and with a more intel
lectual and I might say modern expression
than is found 1,000 or 2,000 years later,
when the type of the higher classes had
evidently deteriorated somewhat from a
slight infusion of African elements.
The same conclusion of the great dis
tance at which any common point of
divergence of the various races of man
kind must be placed, is confirmed by a
totally different line of inquiry, that into
the origin of language.
Philologists have clearly proved that
languages did not spring into existence
ready made, like Minerva from the brain
of Jupiter, but have followed the general
law of Nature, and have had their pe
riods of birth, growth, and evolution from
simple into complex organism. Now there
is a vast variety of languages, some say
more than a thousand. A large propor
tion of these are, of course, only what may
be called dialects of the same original lan
guage, as in the case of the whole IndoEuropean family, includingSanscrit, Zend,
Greek, Latin, Teutonic, Celtic, and Sla
vonic, with all their offshoots and derived
branches, as well as many others. . Any
one who wants to be convinced of this has
only to refer to Max Muller’s works and
trace the history of one verb, viz., that
used to denote individual existence.
Asmi in Sanscrit has become eimi in
Greek, sum in Latin (whence sono, suis,
and all the modern derivatives of . Latin
races), and “ am ” in English ; while the
Latin est, the Greek esti, and the German
1st, are clearly akin to the . original asti.
It may help in understanding how lan
guage has been formed if we point out that
“ I am ” originally meant “ I breathe,” and
“ he is ” is the more general and abstract
form of “ he stands.”
But there are a number of languages
between which no such relationship can
be traced, which are constructed on radi
cally different principles, and have no
resemblance with one another in their
roots, or primitive sounds used to express
�74
modern science and modern thought
objects and simple ideas, except in the few
cases where it can be traced to importation
from abroad, or to imitation of naturallysuggested sounds, such as those which
have led so many nations to express the
idea of “mother” by a sound resembling
the bleating of a lamb. Obviously, simi
larity of sound in such words as are used
for the ideas of father, mother, cow, crow,
thunder, crack, splash, and so on, sug
gests no common origin, and as most, or
at any rate a great many roots, were prob
ably derived originally in this manner,
though long since, diverted to express
other ideas by associations which it is im
possible to trace, the wonder rather is
that we should find so many languages
with so few roots in common. The best
authorities tell us that a list of fifty to
one hundred languages could be made
of which no one has been satisfactorily
shown to be related to any other.
The main distinction between lan
guages, however, is. to be found in
their inner .mechanism, or grammar,
rather than in the mere difference of
root-sounds. The result of years of
mechanical training in barbarous Latin
and Greek grammars in our English
public schools has been to leave the
average Englishman completely ignor
ant of the real meaning of the word
“grammar,” and almost incapable of
comprehending that it can mean any
thing else than a string of arbitrary
rules to be learned by heart for the
vexation of small boys.
And yet grammar is really most
interesting, as showing the modes by
which the dawning human intellect has
proceeded, at remote periods and among
different races, in working out the great
problem of articulate speech, by which
man rises into the higher regions of
thought and is mainly distinguished from
the brute creation. Consider first what
the problem is, and then some of the
principal modes which have been in
vented to solve it.
Suppose some primitive race to have
accumulated a certain stock of root
words, or simple sounds to signify definite
objects and simple ideas, they must soon
find that these alone are not sufficient to
convey briefly and clearly to other minds
the ideas which they wish to express.
For instance, suppose a tribe had got
root-words to express the ideas of “man,”
bear,’ and “ kul.” What one of the I
tribe wants to convey from his own mind
to that of his neighbour may be, “ The
man has killed the bear,” or “The bear
has killed the man,” or “The” (or “A)
man has killed a bear,” or “bears,” or
will ” or “ may have ” killed, and so on
through, a vast number of variations on
the original three-note theme. Up to a
certain point, a man might succeed in
making himself understood by using his
three root-sounds in a certain order, aided
by the pantomime of accent and gesture ;
and the Chinese, though one of the oldest
civilised peoples of the world, have
scarcely got beyond this stage. But the
process would be difficult and uncertain,
and. at length it would occur to some
genius that such modifications as those of
definite and indefinite, past and present,
singular, and plural, etc., were of general
application, not to the particular three or
four roots which he wished to connect,
but to all roots. The next step would be
to invent a set of sounds which, attached
in some way to the root-sounds, should
convey, to the hearer the sense in which
it was intended that he should take them.
This is the. fundamental idea of
grammar, but it has been worked out
by different races in the most different
manner. The Chinese and other allied
races in the South-east of Asia, such as
the Burmese and Siamese, have solved it
in the simplest manner. Their languages
are what is called monosyllabic—that is,
each, word consists of a single syllable,
and is a. root expressing the fundamental
idea, without distinction of noun from
verb, active from passive, or other modi
fications. They have to trust, therefore,
to express their meaning, mainly to
syntax, or the order in which words
succeed one another, which, up to a
certain point, is the simplest method,
and is largely adopted in modern English.
Thus, “ Man kill bear,” “ Bear kill man,”
convey the meaning just as clearly as the
classical languages do by cases, when they
distinguish whether, the man is the killer
or the killed by saying homo or hominem.
But. the monosyllabic system limits the
nations who use it to an inconveniently
small number of words, and fails in
expressing their more complex relations,
so that we find the same word in Chinese
or Siamese often expressing the most
different ideas, and the meaning can only
be conveyed by supplementing the root
words and syntax by accent and other
�MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE
conventional signs which are akin to the
primitive devices of gesture language.
Thus, in Siamese, the syllable ha, according to the note in which it is intoned,
may mean a pestilence, the number five,
or the verb “ to seek.”
This very primitive and almost in
fantine form of language is confined to
one family, that of the Chinese and IndoChinese, who, it may be observed, are by
no means simple or primitive in other
respects, but stand and have stood for
centuries at a comparatively high level
of civilisation. All other races, including •
the most savage, have adopted some form
or other of grammar, i.e., of modifying
original root-sounds by additional generic
sounds of definite determination ; but
the devices on which they have hit for
this purpose are most various. Thus, the
grammar of the Aryan family of languages
has been formed by reasoning out such
general categories of thought as articles,
pronouns, and prepositions, coining
sounds for them and prefixing these
sounds to the root-sounds as separate
determinating signs.
More complex
shades of meaning are conveyed prin
cipally by inflections, i.e., by adding
certain generic new sounds to the original
root-word, and incorporating them with
it so as to form modifications which area
sort of secondary words. Thus the ideas
of present, past, and future love, loving,
and being loved, lovely, and so on, are
formed by transforming the root amo into
such modifications as amor, amavi, amabo,
amans, amabilis, etc. We can see this
process in the course of formation in the
change which converted the old English
form “Caesar his” into the modern
genitive “ Caesar’s.”
Other families again obtain the same
results by very different processes. The
Semitic languages, for instance, including
Hebrew, Arabic, Assyrian, and Phcenician,
are what is called “triliteral,” i.e., they
consist of roots mostly of three con
sonants, and express different shades of
grammatical meaning by altering the
internal vowels. Thus, from the root
m-l-k are derived melek, a king ; malak,
he reigned, and so on.
The so-called Turanian family, com
prising Huns, Turks, Finns, Lapps, and
other Mongolian races of Northern Asia,
all speak agglutinative languages, i.e.,
languages in which the root is put first
and is followed by suffixes strung on to
7b
it, but not incorporated, with it and
remaining distinct. Thus in Turkish,, the
root sev, to love, is. expanded into
sevishdirilmedeler, meaning “ incapable of
being brought to love one another.
These are only given as specimens of
some of the most marked of the vast
varieties of language which have been
examined and classified by philologists.
They suggest a great many interesting
reflections, but I confine myself to those
which bear more immediately on the
subject of man’s origin and development.
It is evident that . they imply great
antiquity for the existence, not of man
only, but of separate races of men speak
ing separate languages.
Babylonian inscriptions, estimated by
Dr. Hilprecht to be 9,000 years old, show
that the characteristic features of the
Semitic languages were as clearly estab
lished then as they are now; and the hiero
glyphics of Egyptian monuments, 7,000
years old, show the Coptic language essen
tially the same as modern Coptic, and al
though presenting some points of analogy
with Semitic, too different to be classed
with it. If these are descended from a com
mon ancestor, clearly their origin must be
extremely remote. And even with un
limited time it is difficult to conceive how
such radical differences in the structure of
languages could have arisen unless the dif
ferent races had branched off before any
clear form of articulate speech had be
come fixed. Could a race accustomed
for generations to the free-flowing inflec
tional Aryan, have deserted it for the
cramped forms of the Semitic, or, vice
versa, could the Semite have adopted the
modes of thought and expression of
Sanscrit ? And the same difficulty would
apply in at least twenty or thirty cases
of other families of language.
It must be recollected that language is
not merely the conventional instrument
of thought, but to a great extent, its
creator, and the mould in which it is
cast. The mould may be broken, and
races abandon old and adopt new lan
guages by force of external circumstances,
such as conquest or contact with and
absorption by superior races, but there
is no instance of its being so transformed
from within as to pass into a totally
different type. Nor can we very well
see how root-words once attached to
fundamental ideas, such for instance as
the simpler numerals, should come to be
�76
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
forgotten and new and totally diCerent
words invented.
Of course, the explanation was easy in
the olden days, when everything was
referred to miracle. Languages were
different because God, to baffle the at
tempt of united mankind to build a tower
high enough to reach to heaven, had made
them so. But the theory of special
miraculous creation for each language
cannot stand a moment’s investigation.
As in the. case of the animal world,
special creations, if admitted at all, must
be multiplied to an extent which becomes
absurd. Is every petty tribe of savages
who speak a language unintelligible to
others to be supposed to have had it
conferred upon it as a miraculous gift ?
Was the language of the extinct Brazilian
tribe, of which Humboldt tells us that a
very old parrot spoke the last surviving
words, one of the languages used to
scatter the builders of the Tower of
Babel ? Or, still more conclusively, where
we know and can prove that one part of
a language is the product of natural
laws, can we assume that another part of
the same language is the result of miracle ?
Did it require Divine inspiration to
make the old Egyptians call a cat miaou,
or to teach so many nations to ex
press the idea of mother by imitating
the bleating of a lamb? If not, why
should half the words in a dictionary be
miraculous and half natural ?
And if Caesar is correctly reported to
have been more proud of discovering a
new case than of conquering Gaul, ought
we not to “render unto Caesar the
things that are Caesar’s,” and assign
grammar as well as words to human
invention ? In short, no reasonable man
who studies the subject can doubt that
language is just as much a machine of
human invention for communicating
thought, as the spinning jenny is for
spinning cotton.
8eneral conclusion, then, to be
a'rawn from the study of language points
m the same direction as that of all other
branches of science, viz., that their true
history is that of evolution from simple
origins by the operation of natural laws
over long periods of time into forms of
greater complexity and higher develop
ment. What language really does for us
is to take up the thread where the oldest
history fails us, and show that even at
this date it is impossible to doubt that
the human race must have been already
in existence for a very long period, and
in existence as at the present day in
several sharply distinguished varieties,
so that the common origin, if there be
one, must be placed still further back.
As history verified by the Babylonian
monuments extends over a period of, say
nearly 9,000 years, this, is equivalent to
saying that such a period can only be a
very small part of the total time which
has. elapsed since man became an in
habitant of the earth.
The origin and development of re
ligions have been much discussed, but
too often with a. desire to make theories
square with .wishes. The subject also
does not admit of such precise determina
tion as in treating of arts and languages,
which have left traces of themselves in
the form of primitive implements and
primitive roots.
The history of religions really begins
with written records, or, at the earliest,
. with the older myths which are embodied
in these records. But these are all com
paratively modern, and imply a con
siderable progress in civilisation before
they could have existed. If we wish to
form some idea of what may have been
the primitive elements from which re
ligion was evolved during the long
Neolithic and still longer Palaeolithic
periods which preceded history, we must
look at what are actually the religious
ideas of contemporary savage and semibarbarous races.
As we rise above the level of the lowest
savagery we find ideas of religion be
ginning to grow from two main tap-roots.
One is the idea of ghosts or spirits,
which arises naturally from dreams and
visions and develops itself into ancestor
and hero-worship, and belief in a world
of spirits, good and evil, influencing men’s
lives and fortunes, and in many forms of
sickness taking possession of their bodies.
This spirit-worship also necessarily leads
to some dim perception of a future life.
The. other tap-root is the inevitable
disposition to account for the phenomena
of nature, when men first began to reflect
on. them, by the agency of invisible
beings like themselves ; in other words, of
anthropomorphic gods. Perhaps this is a
higher and later stage of religious belief
than the former, for it implies a certain
disposition to inquire into the causes of
things and a certain amount of reasoning
�MAN'S PLAGE IN NATURE
power to infer like causes from like
results.
But the two often blend together, as m
the religions of the Aryan-speaking
peoples, in which we see deified heroes
and ancestors crowding the courts of
Olympus, with a multitude of anthropoSnorphic gods, who are often merely
obvious personifications of natural pheno
mena or astronomical myths. Thus,
Varuna, Ouranos, or Uranus, are said to
be personifications of the vault of heaven ;
Phoebus, the shining one, of the sun;
Aurora, of the dawn; while Hercules is
half deified hero and half solar myth.
Sometimes, however, of the two stems of
religion one only has flourished, and the
other has either never existed, or been
overshadowed by the first and relegated
to a lower sphere. Thus the great
Chinese civilisation, comprising such a
large portion of the human race, has
apparently developed its popular religion
from the idea of spirits and spirit
worship. The worship of ancestois is its
main feature, and its sacred books are, in
effect, treatises on ethics and political
economy, with rules for rites and cere
monies to enforce decent and decorous
behaviour, rather than what we should
call works of religion.
With other races again, and specially
the Hebrew, the idea of a tribal anthropo
morphic God has gradually swallowed
up that of other gods, developed into
that of one Almighty Being, and dwarfed
that of ghosts and spirits. Their primi
tive God was anthropomorphic,. and
modelled on the idea of an Oriental
sultan—sometimes good and beneficent,
but sometimes cruel and capricious, and
above all jealous of any disrespect and
enraged by any disobedience. Morality
seems at first to have had little or nothing
to do with these conceptions, and there
is not the remotest trace in. the early
history of any religion, of its having
been bom ready-made from the necessary
intuition of one Almighty God of love,
mercy, and justice, which is so. con
fidently assumed by many metaphysicians
and theologians. On the contrary, con
science had to be first evolved, and the
process may be followed step by step by
which, as manners became milder and
ideas purer, the grosser attributes of
Deity gradually yielded to the idea of a
just and merciful God.
These considerations, however, lead us
far from the question of the first dawn
of religion among primitive man. Judg
ing from the earliest facts of history, and
the analogy of modern savage races,
we might look for the first traces of
religious ideas from the contents . of
tombs and from idols. When a tribe
had attained to some definite idea of a
future life it would almost certainly bury
weapons and implements with its dead,
as is the case with modern savages. When
it had reached the stage of worshipping
anthropomorphic deities, it would prob
ably frame images of them, some of which
would be found in their tombs and dwell
ingsThe latter test soon fails us. In the
early Egyptian tombs, and in the remains
of the prehistoric cities excavated by
Dr. Schliemann, images of owl and ox
headed goddesses, and other symbolical
figures or idols, are found in abundance.
But when we ascend into Neolithic times,
such idols are no longer found, or,, if
• found, it is so rarely that archaeologists
still dispute as to their existence. Cer«
tain crescents found in the Swiss lake
dwellings were at one time thought to
indicate a worship of the moon, but the
better opinion seems to be that they were
used as rests for the head during sleep, as
we find similar objects now used in many
parts of the world. Among the many
thousand objects recovered from these
Swiss lake-dwellings and other Neolithic
abodes, there are only a very few which
may possibly have been rude idols or
amulets, and the only ones which may be
said with some certainty to have been
idols, are one or two discovered by Mons,
de Braye in some artificial caves of the
Neolithic period, excavated in the chalk
of Champagne, which appear to be in
tended for female figures of life size with
heads somewhat resembling that of the
owl-headed Minerva.
When we pass to Palaeolithic times the
evidence of idols becomes more faint, and
rests solely on the slender conjecture that
some of the figures carved by the Reindeer
men of La Madeleine.and other caves, may
probably have been intended for amulets.
As they were skilful carvers, and fond of
drawing whatever impressed itself on their
imagination, the presumption is strong
that they had not advanced to the stage
when the worship of gods symbolised by
idols had come into existence, as other
wise more undoubted idols must have
�78
MODERN SGIENGE AND MODERN THOUGHT
been found in the caves which were so viduals, and it may be doubted whether
long their habitations, and which have they were buried there, or merely died in
yielded such a number of remains of works the caves in which they lived, in which
of art.
case any implements found with them
The evidence for a belief in a future ex do not necessarily imply that they were
istence and in spirits is more conclusive. placed there for use in a future life. On
Throughout the whole Neolithic period we the whole it seems doubtful whether any
find objects which were evidently intended certain proofs of burials denoting know
for use in a future life buried with the ledge of a future life can be found in
dead. Wefind alsoinmany Neolithic tombs Palaeolithic times, and if there are, they
a singular fact which points to the exist are certainly few and far between, and
ence of a very long belief in evil spirits. C0^.ned
ie W'er stages of that period.
Many of the skulls, especially of young
All we can say is, that religion certainly
people, have been trepanned, that is, a did not descend ready-made among these
piece of the skull has been cut out, making aboriginal savages, butthat, like language,
a hole, apparently, to let out the evil spirit it was slowly developed from beginnings
which was supposed to be causing epilepsy as rude as those we now find among the
or convulsions ; and where the patient had lowest races of savages.
recovered and the wound healed, when he
It may be well, however, to say here,
died long afterwards, a piece of the skull, once for all, what is applicable to many
including this trepanned portion, was other. passages in this book, that the
sometimes cut out and used apparently question of the origin of any religion is
as an amulet. The objects deposited in entirely different from that of its truth
graves show that the idea of a future life, or falsehood. To explain a thing is not
as with most savages of the present day’ to disprove it; on the contrary, a thing
was that of a continuation of the same only really becomes true to us when we
life as he had led here, though perhaps in understand it. A stately oak, with widehappier hunting-grounds. In some cases spreading branches, that give shade and
a great chief seems to have had wives shelter to the cattle of the fields, is not
and slaves slaughtered and buried with the less a fact because we know that it
him, though the proofs of this are did not drop ready-made from heaven,
more clear and abundant in later times but grew from, an acorn. The intrinsic
than during the Neolithic period. Can truth of a religion must be tested by the
nibalism, however, seems to have occasion conformity which, in a given stage of its
ally prevailed both in Palaeolithic, Neo evolution, it bears to the facts of the
lithic, and prehistoric times, as it did so universe as disclosed by science, and to
extensively among modern savage races the feelings and moral perceptions which
before they came under civilising influ have been equally developed by evolution
ences. This is clearly proved by the num in the contemporary world.
ber of human bones, chiefly of women and
All I contend for is, that all religions
young persons, which have been found have grown and been developed from
charred by fire and split open for extrac humble origins, and that their history,
tion of the marrow.
impartially considered, does not contra
The evidence of belief in a future life dict, but on the contrary greatly confirms
becomes more rare and uncertain in Palaeo the law of natural evolution.
lithic times. Perhaps it may be because
Of the two faculties by which man is
we have so few authentic discoveries of commonly distinguished from the brute
Palaeolithic burying-places, and so many creation, viz., that, of being the speaking
instances of caves, once inhabited by and, the tool-making animal, the former
Palaeolithic races, being used long after attribute has been shown to be the pro
wards as Neolithic sepulchres. After the duct of evolution from origins long
famous cave of Aurignac it is difficult to since lost in the far-off distance of remote
trust any evidence as to the discovery of a ages.
real Palaeolithic sepulchre which has not
The same remark is even more certainly
been subsequently disturbed.
true.as regards the other attribute of tool
In the few cases also where Palaeolithic making, or, in its widest sense, adapting
skeletons have been found, as in that of natural laws and. natural objects to the
the men of Neanderthal and Mentone, arts of life by intelligent application.
they have often been those of single indi The primitive roots, so to speak, of this
�MAN’S PLACE IN NATURE
industrial language, which in the case of
spoken language for the most part elude
our search, are here furnished by the
Palaeolithic remains found so abundantly
in river drifts and caves. There can be no
doubt whatever that the modern wood
cutter’s axe and carpenter’s adze are the
lineal descendants of the rudely-chipped
haches, or celts, which are dug out of the
gravels of St, Acheul, or from below the
stalagmite of Kent’s Cavern. The regu
lar progression can be traced from the
mass of flint rudely chipped to a point,
with a butt-end left rough to grasp in
the hand, up to more symmetrical and
carefully-chipped forms ; to implements
intended to be hafted or fastened to
a handle; to implements ground and
polished to a sharp edge and pierced for
the handle; and finally to the finished
specimens of the later Neolithic period,
which exactly represent the adze and
battle-axe, and are almost identical with
those used quite recently by the Polyne
sians and other semi-civilised races who
had no access to metals. From these the
transition to metals is easily traced, the
first bronze implements and weapons be
ing facsimiles of those of polished stone
which they superseded, and the gradual
development of bronze, and from bronze
to the cheaper and more generally use
ful metal, iron, being a matter of quite
modern history.
In like manner, the development of
the knife, sword, and all cutting instru
ments, from the primitive flint-flake,
can be traced step by step, and is
beyond doubt; and equally so the
development of all missiles, from the
primitive chipped flint, used as a javelin
or arrow-head, up to the modern rifle.
When we catch the first glimpse of the
beginnings of human art or industry, the
furniture or stock-in-trade of Palaeolithic
man appears to have been as follows :
He was acquainted with fire. This
seems to be clearly established by the
charred bones, charcoal, and other traces
of fire which are found in the oldest
Palaeolithic caves, and even in the. far
distant Miocene period, if we can believe
in the flints discovered by the Abbe Bour
geois in the strata of Thenay, some of
which appear to have been split by the
action of fire.
This is a remarkable
fact, for a knowledge of the means of
kindling fire is by no means a very
simple or obvious attainment. Apes
79
and monkeys will sit before a fire and
enjoy its warmth, but no monkey has yet
developed intelligence enough even to
put fresh sticks on to keep up the fire,
much less to rekindle it when extinct.
Primaeval man must often have had
experience of fire from natural causes,
as from forests and prairies scorched by
a tropical sun being set on fire by light
ning, or from volcanic eruptions ; but
how he learned from these to kindle
fire for himself is not so obvious. Savage
races, as a rule, do so by converting
mechanical energy into heat, by. the
friction of a stick twirled round in a
hole, or rubbed backwards, and forwards
in a groove in another piece of wood ;
and there are old observances among
civilised nations which show that this
was the mode practised by their an
cestors, as when the sacred fire, in the
Temple of Vesta was relighted in this
manner by the old Romans if. it had
chanced to be extinguished. It is prob
able, therefore, that . this was the
original mode of obtaining fire, but if so,
it must have required a good deal of
intelligence and observation, for. the dis
covery is by no means an obvious one,
nor is it easy to see any natural process
that might suggest it.
Neither ancient history nor the
accounts of existing savage races throw
much light on the question.
The
narratives of the discovery of fire con
tained in the oldest records are obviously
mythical, like the fable of Prometheus,
which is itself a version of the older
Vedic myth of the god Agni (cognate
with Latin ignis or fire) having been
taken from a casket and given to the
first man, Manou, by Pramantha, which
in the old Vedic language means taking
forcibly by means of friction. Of the
same character are the mythical legends
of savage races of fire having been first
brought by some wonderful bird or
animal; and there is nowhere anything
like an authentic tradition of the fact
of its first introduction. There have
been reports of savages who were unac
quainted with'"fire., but they have never
been well authenticated, and the nearest
approach to such a state of things was
probably furnished by the aborigines
of Van Diemen’s Land, of whom it is said
that in all their wanderings they were
particularly careful to bear in their hands
the materials for kindling a fire, in the
�80
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
shape of a firebrand, which it was the
duty of the women to carry, and to keep
carefully refreshed from time to time
as it became dull.
On the whole, traditions all point to fire
having been first obtained from friction,
and it is possible that the first idea may
have been derived from the boughs of
trees, or silicious stalks of bamboos, having
been set on fire when rubbed together by
the action of the wind, or by the rubbing
of the hands together.
It is easier to see the origin of the
remaining equipment of primitive man,
viz., chipped stones, for flints splintered
by frost or fire often take naturally the
forms of sharp-edged flakes and rude
hatchets or hammers, and very little
invention was required to improve these
specimens, or endeavour to imitate them
by artificial chippings. It is rather
surprising that this art did not improve
more rapidly, for it is evident that the
old Palaeolithic period must have lasted
a long time before any decided progress
began to show itself. And during this
long period a singular uniformity
appears to have prevailed throughout
the Palaeolithic world. The rude form of
the celt or hache, with a blunt butt and
chipped roughly to a point, is found in
the oldest river gravels and caves wher
ever they have been investigated, and
the forms of the Somme and the Thames
specimens are repeated in the quartzite
implements of the Madras laterite.
In the very oldest caves and river
deposits the tool-equipment of man seems
to have been very much limited to these
rude celts, used probably for smashing
skulls in war and the chase, and splitting
bones to get at the marrow; sharpedged flakes for cutting ; rude javelin
heads ; and stones chipped to a rounded
edge, very like those used by the Esqui
maux for scraping bones and skins. As
we ascend in time we find arrow-heads
of stone and bone, at first unbarbed and
gradually becoming barbed, showing that
the bow had been discovered ; harpoons
of bone and fish-hooks; bone pins and
needles; and a much greater variety
and more carefully-chipped forms of
flint tools and weapons ; until we finally
reach the upper reindeer stage of caves
like that of La Madeleine, where artistic
drawings and carvings are found, and
the equipment generally is superior to
that of many existing savage tribes, and |
not much inferior to that of the Esqui
maux and other Arctic races.
We then pass into Neolithic times,
when many of the chief elements of
civilisation are already in full force.
Man has emerged in many localities
from the hunter into the pastoral stage,
the principal domestic animals are
known, and in some of the later lake
dwellings he has advanced a stage
further, and has become an agriculturist
living in villages.. From this to the
Bronze and early historical periods, there
is no great break, and the ruder tribes of
barbarians described by Caesar and
Tacitus may well have. been the lineal
descendants of the Neolithic men whose
polished axes and finely-shaped arrow
heads lie scattered over the surface of
Europe and are found in innumerable
burial-mounds and dolmens.
But in Palaeolithic times, though we
can see constant progress, mankind is
still.in a state of unmitigated barbarism.
Agriculture was clearly unknown, for
the. hand mills, pestles, and mortars,
which are among the most enduring and
abundant relics where grain was used for
food, are never met with. Pottery was
unknown in. all the earlier periods, and
it is questionable whether even the
rudest forms of baked clay, moulded by
hand, are found where there is no inter
mixture of a subsequent Neolithic habi
tation. The dog was clearly not a
companion of man prior to the era of
the Danish kitchen-middens, for the
spongy parts of bones which are always
gnawed by dogs when dogs are present,
are invariably preserved in the debris
of Palaeolithic caves, and the few bones
of dogs, wolves, and foxes found with
human remains in these caves almost
always show that the animals had formed
part of the food of the inhabitants.
Other. domestic animals were, in all
probability, equally unknown, although
it has been thought possible that some of
the tribes of the reindeer period may
have had herds of the half-tame deer,
like the modern Laplanders. This con
jecture, however, appears to rest solely
on the large number of bones and horns
found at certain stations, which may
have arisen from their having been occu
pied for a very long period, and as the
dog was unknown, it seems probable that
no other animals had been domesticated.
As regards clothing, the first certain
�DEVELOPMENT OE THE ARROW.
Flint Arrow
in
Vertebra
of
Reindeer.
Palaeolithic. La Madeleine.
Mammoth Period. Le Moustier.
Palaeolithic.
Reindeer Period.
Palaeolithic.
Reindeer Period.
First vestige of barb.
Palaeolithic
Reindeer Period.
Neolithic.
Recent.
Denmark.
Esquimaux.
a
�82
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
proofs of its use are afforded by the bone
pins and needles, which were evidently
employed for fastening the skins of
animals together, while the scrapers
were used for scraping these skins
and fashioning the bone implements. It
is probable, therefore, that the use of
skins as a protection against the cold of
the Glacial period, was known at a very
early period.
Ornaments, also, are of very early date.
Perforated shells, sometimes fossil, and
pierced teeth of the bear and other ani
mals are frequently found under circum
stances which show that they must have
been strung together as necklaces. The
skeleton found in a cave at Mentone had
a number of perforated shells of Nassa,
and a few stags’ teeth also perforated,
dispersed about the skull, evidencing
that they had formed some sort of head
ornament. Lumps of red hematite, also,
probably used for paint, have been found
in some of the caves of the reindeer
period.
Captain Cook’s description of the sav
ages of Tierra del Fuego would have ap
plied to the men of that period, “although
content to be naked, they were very am
bitious to be tine; ” and probably like
these poor Fuegians, they adorned them
selves with streaks of red, black, and
white, and wore bracelets and anklets of
shell and bone.
If we wish to form some ideas of the
manners and customs of our Palaeolithic
ancestors, we must look for them among
existing savage races whose mode of
life, and equipment of tools and weapons,
most nearly resemble those of the earliest
cave-dwellers. The Australians, the Bush
men of South Africa, the Mincopies of
the Andaman Islands, and the Fuegians
are probably the lowest specimens of the
human race known in modern times ; but
even these are in some respects further
advanced in the arts than Palaeolithic
man. The Bushmen are skilled in the
use of the bow, and have discovered
the art of poisoning their arrows. The
Australians, Mincopies, and Fuegians
have canoes, harpoons, and fish-hooks.
The latter approach more nearly to the
conditions of life of the savages who ac
cumulated the kitchen-middens on the
coasts of Denmark at a much later
period, and the Bushmen probably re
present _ those of the cave-men who
lived principally on the produce of the
chase of large animals, such as the mam
moth, rhinoceros, cave bear, horse, and
deer. The pigmy Bushman will attack
the elephant, the rhinoceros, and even
the lion, and often succeed in killing
them by pitfalls or poisoned arrows.
The inferences, therefore, to be drawn,
alike from the physical development of
the individual man, and from the origin
and growth of all the faculties which
specially distinguish him from the brute
creation—language, religion, arts, and
science—point to the conclusion that he
is a product of laws of evolution, and
not of special or miraculous creation.
Still, granting this, we must admit on
the other hand, that until more of the
“ missing links ” are discovered, and the
origin of man thus placed on a basis of
scientific certainty, there is an opening
left for the belief that here, if nowhere
else, there was some supernatural inter
ference with the laws of Nature, and
that the finger of the clock-maker did
here alter the hands of the clock from
the position which they would have occu
pied under the original law of its con
struction. But if this were so, it must
equally in candour be admitted that the
miracle did not consist in placing man
and woman upon earth, at any recent
period, or with faculties in any way de
veloped, but could only have consisted in
causing a germ or germs to come into
existence, different from any that could
have been formed by natural evolution,
and containing within them the possi
bilities of conscious and civilised man, to
be developed from the rudest origins by
slow and painful progress over countless
ages.
�PART II.—MODERN THOUGHT
That I, considering everywhere
Her secret meaning in her deedsj
And finding that of fifty seeds
She often brings but one to bear,
I falter where I firmly trod,
And falling with my weight of cares,
Upon the great world’s altar-stairs
That slope thro’ darkness up to God,
I stretch lame hands of faith, and grope,
And gather dust and chaff, and call
To what I feel is Lord of all,
And faintly trust the larger hope.
CHAPTER VII
MODERN THOUGHT
Lines from Tennyson—The Gospel of Modern
Thought—Change exemplified by Carlyle,
Renan, and George Eliot—Science becom
ing Universal—Attitude of Orthodox Writ
ers—Origin of Evil—First Cause unknow
able—New Philosophies and Religions—
Herbert Spencer and Agnosticism—Comte
and Positivism—Pessimism—Mormonism—
Spiritualism—Dreams and Visions Som
nambulism-Mesmerism.
LVI.
“ So careful of the type ? ” but no.
From scarped cliff and quarried stone
She cries, “ A thousand types are gone :
I care for nothing, all shall gof
“ Thou makest thine appeal to me :
I bring to life, I bring to death :
The spirit does but mean the breath :
I know no more.” And he, shall he,
LIV.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good
Will be the final goal of ill,
To pangs of nature, sins of will,
Defects of doubt, and taints of blood ;
That nothing walks with aimless feet;
That not one life shall be destroy'd,
Or cast as rubbish to the void,
When God hath made the pile complete ;
Man, her last work, who seem’d so fair,
Such splendid purpose in his eyes,
Who roll’d the psalm to wintry skies,
Who built him fanes of fruitless prayer,
That not a worm is cloven in vain ;
That not a moth with vain desire
Is shrivel’d in a fruitless fire,
Or but subserves another’s gain.
Who trusted God was love indeed,
And love Creation’s final law—
Tho’ Nature, red in tooth and claw
With ravine, shriek’d against his creed—
Behold, we know not anything.
I can but trust that good shall fall
At last—far off—at last, to all,
And every winter change to spring.
Who loved, who suffer’d countless ills,
Who battled for the True, the Just,
Be blown about the desert dust,
Or seal’d within the iron hills ?
So runs my dream : but what am I ?
An infant crying in the night:
An infant crying for the light:
And with no language but a cry.
No more ? A monster then, a dream,
A discord. Dragons of the prime,
That tare each other in their slime,
Were mellow music match’d with him.
LV.
The wish, that of the living whole
No life may fail beyond the grave,
Derives it not from what we have
The likest God within the soul ?
Are God and Nature then at strife,
That Nature lends such evil dreams ?
So careful of the type she seems,
So careless of the single life;
0 life as futile, then, as frail !
0 for thy voice to soothe and bless 1
What hope of answer, or redress ?
Behind the veil, behind the veil.
Tennyson, Tn Jifemoriam.
I
(By kind permission of Lord Tennyson.
G 2
�Si
modern science and modern thought
These noble and solemn lines of a great
poet sum up in a few words what may be
called “ the Gospel of Modern Thought.”
They describe what is the real attitude
of most of the thinking and earnest
minds of the present generation. On
the one hand, the discoveries of science
have so far established the universality
of law, as to make it impossible for sin
cere men to retain the faith of their an
cestors in dogmas and miracles. On the
other, larger views of man and of history
have shown that religious sentiment is
an essential element of human nature,
and that many of our best feelings, such
as love, hope, conscience, and reverence,
will always seek to find reflections of
themselves in the unseen world. Hence
faith in dogma has diminished and charity
increased. Fewer believe old creeds, and
those who do, believe more faintly ; while
fewer denounce them, or are insensible to
the good they have done in the past and
to the truth and beauty of the essential
ideas that underlie them.
On the Continent, and especially in
Catholic countries, where religion inter
feres more, with politics and social life,
there is still a large amount of active
hostility to it, as shown by the massacre
of priests by the French Communists;
but, in this country, the old Voltairean
infidelity has died out, and no one of
ordinary culture thinks of denouncing
Christianity as an invention of priest
craft. On the contrary, many of our lead
ing minds are at the same time sceptical
and religious, and exemplify the truth
of another profound saying of Tennyson:
There lives more faith in honest doubt,
Believe me, than in half the creeds.
The change which has come over modern
thought cannot be better exemplified
than by. taking the instance of three
great writers whose workshave produced
a powerful influence—Carlyle, Eenan,
and George Eliot. They were all three
born and brought up in the very heart
of different phases of the old beliefs—
Carlyle, in a family which might be taken
as a type of the best qualities of Scottish
Presbyterianism, bred in a Lowland farm
house, under the eye of a father and
mother whom he loved and revered, w*ho
might have been the originals of Burns’
“Cotter’s Saturday Night,” or the de
scendants of the martyrs of Claverhouse.
His own temperament strongly inclined to
a stern Puritanical piety; his favourite
heroe? were Cromwell and John Knox;
his whole nature was antipathetic to
science. As his biographer, Froude, re
ports. of him, “He liked ill men like
Humboldt, Laplace, and the author of
the ‘Vestiges.’ He refused Darwin’s
transmutation of species as unproved;
he fought against it, though I could see
he dreaded that it might turn out true.”
And yet the deliberate conclusion at
which he arrived was that “He did not
think it possible that educated honest
men could even profess much longer to
believe in historical Christianity.”
The case of Eenan was equally remark
able. He was born in the cottage of
Breton peasants of the purest type of
simple, pious, Catholic faith. Their one
idea of rising above the life of a peasant
was to become a priest, and their great
ambition for their boy was that he might
be so far honoured as one day to become
a country curd. Young Eenan, accord
ingly, from the first day he showed
cleverness, and got to the top of his class
in the village school, was destined for the
priesthood. He was taken in hand' by
priests, and found in them his kindest
friends ; they sent him to college, and in
due time to the Central Seminary where
young men were trained for orders.' All
his traditions,, all his affections, all his
interests, led in that direction, and yet
he gave up everything rather than sub
scribe to what he no longer believed to
be true. His conversion was brought
about in this way. Having been ap
pointed assistant to a professor of Heb
rew he became a profound scholar in
Oriental languages; this led to his
studying the Scriptures carefully in the
original, and the conclusion forced itself
upon him that the miraculous part of the
narrative had no historical foundation.
Like Carlyle, the turn of his mind was
not scientific, and while denying miracles
he remained keenly appreciative of all
that was beautiful and poetical in the
life and teaching of Jesus, which he has
brought more vividly before the ’world in
his writings than had ever been done by
orthodox commentators.
George Eliot, again, was brought up
in yet another phase of orthodox Chris
tianity—that of middle-class nonconform
ist Evangelicalism. She embraced this
creed fervently, and, as we see in her
“Dinah,” retained a keen appreciation
�MODERN TH OUGHT
of all its best elements. But as her
intellect expanded and her knowledge
widened, she too found it impossible to
rest in the old belief, and, with a painful
wrench from a revered father and loving
friends, she also passed over from the
ranks of orthodoxy. She also, after a life
of profound and earnest thought, came
.to the conclusion recorded of her by an
intimate friend and admirer, M”. Myers :
“I remember how at Cambridge, I
walked with her once in the Fellows’
Garden of Trinity, on an evening of
rainy May; and she, stirred somewhat
beyond her wont, and taking as her text
the three words which have been used so
often as the inspiring trumpet-calls of
men—the words God, Immortality, Duty—pronounced, with terrible earnestness,
how inconceivable was the first, how un
believable the second, and yet how per
emptory and absolute the third. Never,
perhaps, had sterner accents affirmed the
sovereignty of impersonal and unrecom
pensing law. I listened, and night fell;
her grave, majestic countenance turned
toward me like a Sibyl’s in the gloom ; it
was as though she withdrew from my
grasp, one by one, the two scrolls of pro
mise, and left me the third scroll only,
awTful. with inevitable fates.”
Such instances as these cannot be the
result of mere accident. As long as scep
ticism was confined to a limited number
of scientific men it might be possible to
think that it was merely the exaggera
tion of a particular train of thought pur
sued too exclusively. But when science
has become the prevailing mode of
thought, and has been brought home to
the minds of all educated persons, it is
no longer possible to represent it as an
exceptional aberration. And where the
bell-wethers of thought lead the way, the
flock will follow. What the greatest
thinkers think to-day, the company of
thinkers will think to-morrow, and the
great army of non-thinkers will treat as
self-evident the day after. This is very
nearly the case at the present day ; the
great thinkers have gone before, the mass
of thinkers have followed, and the still
greater mass of non-thinkers are waver
ing and about to follow. It is no longer,
with those who think at all. a question
of absolute faith against absolute dis
belief, but of the more or less shade of
“ faintness ” with which they cling to the
“ larger hope,”
85
This is nowhere more apparent than
in the writings of those who attempt to
stem the tide which sets so strongly
against orthodoxy. They resolve them
selves mainly into one long wail of “oh
the pity of it, the pity of it 1 ” if th®
simple faith of olden times should dis
appear from the world. They show
eloquently and conclusively that science
and philosophy cannot satisfy the as
pirations or afford the consolations of
religion. They expose the hollowness of
the substitutes which have been pro
posed, such as the worship of the un
knowable, or the cult of humanity.
They win an easy triumph over the ex
aggerations of those who resolve all the
historical records of Christianity into
myths or fabulous fulfilment of pro
phecies, and they wage fierce battles over
minor points, as, for example, whether
the first quotations from the Gospels are
met with in the first or second half of the
second century. But they nowhere at
tempt to grapple with the real diffi
culties, or to show that the facts and
arguments which converted men like
Carlyle and Kenan are mistaken facts
and unsound arguments. Attempts to
harmonise the Gospels and to prove the
inspiration of writings which contain
manifest errors and contradictions, have
gone the way of Buckland’s proof of a
universal deluge, and of Hugh Miller’s
attempt to reconcile Noah’s ark and the
Genesis account of creation with the
facts of geology and astronomy. Not a®
inch of ground that has been conquered
by science has ever been reconquered in
fair fight by theology
This great scientific movement _ is
of comparatively recent date. Darwin’s
“ Origin of Species ” was published only
in 1859, and his views as to evolution,
development, natural selection, and the
prevalence of universal law, have already
annexed nearly the whole world of
modern thought and become the founda
tion of all philosophical speculation and
scientific inquiry.
Not only has faith been shaken in the
supernatural as a direct and immediate
agent in the phenomena of the worlds of
matter and of life, but the demonstration
of the “ struggle for life ’’ and “ survival
of the fittest ” has raised anew, and with
vastly augmented force, those questions
as to the moral constitution of the uni
verse and the origin of evil, which have
�MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
so long exercised the highest minds. Is
it true that “ love ” is “ Creation’s final
law,” when we find this enormous and
apparently prodigal waste of life going
on; these cruel internecine battles be
tween individuals and species in the
struggle for existence; this cynical in
difference of Nature to suffering ? There
are, approximately, 3,600 millions of
deaths of human beings in every century,
of whom at least 20 per cent., or 720
millions, die before they have attained
to clear self-consciousness. What be
comes of them ? Why were they born ?
Are they Nature’s failures, and “cast as
rubbish to the void ” ?
To such questions there is no adequate
answer. We are obliged to admit that
as the material universe is not, as we once
fancied, measured by our standards and
regulated at every turn by an intelligence
resembling ours ; so neither is the moral
universe to be explained by simply mag
nifying our own moral ideas, and explain
ing everything by the action of a Being
who does what we should have done in
his place. If we insist on this anthropo
morphic conception we are driven to this
dilemma. Carlyle bases his belief in a
God, “the infinite Good One,” on this
argument: “All that is good, generous,
wise, right—whatever I deliberately and
for ever love in others and myself, who
or what could by any possibility have
given it to me but One who first had
it to give 1 This is not logic; this is
axiom.”
But how of the evil 1 No sincere man
looking into the depths of his own soul,
or at the facts of the world around, can
doubt that along with much that is good,
generous, wise, and right, there is much
that is bad, base, foolish, and wrong. If
logic compels us to receive as an axiom a
good author for the former, does not the
same logic equally compel us to accept
the axiom that the author of the latter
must have been one who “ first had it in
himself to give ” ? That is, we must ac
cept the theory of a God who is half
good, half evil; or adopt the Zoroastrian
conception of a universe contested by an
Ormuzd and Ahriman—a good and evil
principle, whose power is, for the present
at any ratoj equally balanced.
From this dilemma there is no escape,
unless we give up altogether the idea
of an anthropomorphic God, and adopt
frankly the scientific idea of an “ Infinite |
and Eternal Energy,” inscrutable and
past finding out; and of a universe whose
processes we can trace, but of whose ulti
mate essence we know nothing, only
suspecting, or faintly discerning, a funda
mental law which may make the polarity
of good and evil a necessary condition of
existence. This is a more sublime as well
as more rational belief than the old
orthodox conception ; but there is no
doubt that it requires more strength of
mind to embrace it, and that it appears
cold and cheerless to those who have
been accustomed to see special provi
dences in every ordinary occurrence, and
to fancy themselves the special objects
of supernatural. supervision in all the
details of daily life. Hopes and fancies,
however, are powerless against facts; and
the world is as surely passing from the
phase of orthodox into that of scientific
belief as youth is passing into manhood ;
and as the planet which we inhabit is
passing from the more fiery state into
that of temperate heat, progressive cool
ing, and final extinction as the abode of
life. In the meantime, what can we do
but possess our souls in patience, follow
truth wherever it leads us, and trust, as
Tennyson advises, that in the long run
everything will be for the best, and
“every winter turn to spring ” ?
The decay of old religious beliefs, and
the introduction of new conceptions
based on scientific discovery, have given
rise to many attempts to found new
philosophies, and in some cases hew sects
and religions, of some of the principal of
which a short account may be given.
, One of the greatest thinkers of modern
times, Herbert Spencer, has expanded
the theories of modern science, especially
those of the conservation of energy and
of Darwinian evolution, into a general
ised philosophy, embracing not only
the phenomena of the material and liv
ing universe, but also history, religion,
politics, and all the complex relations of
social life. He starts from the principle
that throughout the universe, in general
apd in detail, there is an unceasing re
distribution of matter and motion. This
shows itself as evolution where there
is a predominant aggregation of matter
and diminution of motion, and as dissolu
tion where matter is disintegrated and
motion increased. Thus, in the formation
of coal, the motion of the sun’s rays is
fixed in the condensed matter of the
�MODERN THOUGHT
chemical products of vegetation, and is
dissipated when, after, countless ages,
the coal is burned and its substance dis
solved into its elements. . These changes
constitute a transformation of the uni
form or homogeneous into the differenti
ated or heterogeneous, as seen in rhe con
densation of nebulous or cosmic matter
into suns and planets; in the varied
elements of the inorganic world ; in
each organism, vegetable or animal , in
the aggregate of organisms, thought and
geologic time ; in the mind ; in society ;
in all products of social activity.” These
changes are all in the direction of
passage from an indefinite whole to de
finite parts, and they are inevitable, un
less the original substance were so absolutely uniform as to Bo absolutely stable.
Once started, this process of differen
tiation tends necessarily to go on, the sur
rounding conditions being ever at work,
whether by aggregation or dissolution,
by joining like to like, or separating un
like from unlike, to sharpen and make
more definite existing differences.
This is in effect a generalised conception
of Darwin’s laws of the “ struggle for life
and “survival of the fittest.” J inally, however, the result of all these changes is that
an ultimate equilibrium will be reached,
which is rest in the inorganic and death
in the organic world ; as when the sun
with all its planets shall have parted
with all its heat, and all its energy shall
have run down to one uniform level.
From this state it can only be roused by
some fresh shock from without, dissipat
ing it again into a mass of diffused matter
and unbalanced motions.
Hence we come to the final statements
of the Spencerian philosophy, as given in
the words of its author
11 This rhythm of evolution and dissolu
tion, completing itself duringshortperiods
in small aggregates, and in the vast aggre
gates distributed through space com
pleting itself in periods which are im
measurable by human thought, is, so far
as W0 can. sec, universal and eternal, each
alternating phase of the process predo
minating, now in this region of space and
now in that, as local conditions determine.
All these phenomena, from their great
features even to their minutest details,
are necessary results of the persistence
of force under its forms of matter and
motion.
Given these as distributed
through space, and their quantities being
8?
unchangeable either by increase or de
crease, there inevitably result the con
tinuous redistributions distinguishable as
evolution and dissolution, as well as those
special traits above enumerated. That
which persists, unchanging in quantity,
but ever changing in form, under these
sensible appearances which the universe
presents to us, transcends human know
ledge and conception, is an unknown
and unknowable power,. which we are
obliged to recognise as without limit in
space and without beginning or end in
time.”
This is, in its highest form, the philo
sophy of Agnosticism. A very different
thing, be it observed, from Atheism, for
it distinctly recognises an underlying
power which, although “ unknown and
unknowable,” may be anything harmon
ising with the feelings and aspirations
in which all religious sentiment has its
origin, so long as it fulfils tne condition
of not, by too precise definition, coming
into collision with something which is
not “ unknown ” but “ known ” and irre
concilable with it.
For instance, there is nothing in Agnos
ticism to negative the possibility of a
future state of existence. Behind tae
veil there may be a-nything, and no
one can say that individual conscious
ness may not remain or be restored
after death, and that our condition may
not be in some way better or worse, ac
cording to the use we have made of the
opportunities of life. But if any one at
tempts to define this future state and say
we shall have spiritual bodies, live in
the skies, sing psalms, and wave palm
branches, we say at once, “This is partly
unknowable and partly known to be im
possible.”
.
That which has given the philosophy
of Spencer a wide influence is the manner
in which he applies it to the subjects
which more immediately concern the
mass of thinking minds, such as history,
politics, and the problems of social life.
What Darwin shows in animal life and
the origin of species, Spencer traces in
the rise and fall of empires, the growth
and decline of religions, the increasing
complexity of social relations, the con
flicting forces of evolution and dissolution
at work around us in our every-day life
in the relations of science and theology,
capital and. labour, state socialism and
lai&s.sz-faire. For instance, the decline of
�8»
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
the Roman Empire and its overthrow by homely proverb that “ charity begins at
the barbarians is analogous to the de home, and as we widen the sphere of
cay of a planet from loss of internal heat patriotism or philanthropy we are very
and its dissipation into matter capable of apt to diminish their intensity and find
fresh evolution, by the shock of a comet. them evaporate in a mist of high-sound
The ever-increasing gulf between wealth ing phrases. The “ friend of man ” is
and poverty, science and superstition, very apt to be the friend of no one man
resembles the process by which the one in particular, and to make universal
toed ho rsebecame gradually differentiated philanthropy an excuse for neglecting
more and more from the common five-toed individual charity.
type of its remote ancestor.
Apart, however, from this objection
These speculations of Spencer, pursued and granting that with increased inter
with vast acuteness and research through course and increased culture “Humanity”
all branches of social science, though they might become a more practical idea, we
have not founded a new religion or es
be.
tablished a new sect, have undoubtedly it the .basis of a a l°ng waY from making
new religion. It is here
exercised a great influence on modern that Comte has laid himself open to such
thought, especially among the rising criticism as that of Huxley, who defined
generation.
Positivism as “Catholicism without Chris
Another “ism” which, although it has tianity.” With the narrow systematising
exercised a much narrower influence than logic so characteristic of the French inthe philosophy of Spencer, has founded a tellect Comte has worked out a complete
sect.and put forward more definite claims scheme of ritual, hierarchy, and all the
to give the world a new religion is that apparatus of an old religion. A supreme
which is known as “Positivism,” or pontiff at its head, associated with a
“ Comtism,” from the.name of its founder, supreme priestess to represent the female
Auguste Comte. It is not easy to under element; for saints, the distinguished
stand, but its essence seems to be this :— men of philosophy, theology, art and
Admitting that science has killed theo science ; for days of worship, fete days of
logy, and that the old forms of super these saints, and meetings to commemo
natural religion, inevitable in the child rate their merits, and to observe certain
hood of the world, have become incredible,
sacraments.”
Comte cast about for some idea which
All this savours too much of the “ God
should be at the same time “ positive,” dess of Liberty,” and of the theo-philanor based on ascertained fact, and fervid thropy of the French Revolution, when
enough to satisfy the cravings of re the disciples of Rousseau cut off heads
ligious sentiment. He thought he found in the name of universal benevolence, to
it in “ Humanity ; ” that is, in love and find much acceptance in a sceptical age
veneration for the abstract idea of the and among, a practical people. Robuster
human race, taken collectively, and con intellects,, like George Eliot, even where
sidered in its past, present, and future they incline to accept Humanity as an
relations. As patriotism, a very ardent ennobling idea, and to recognise Comte
feeling, is the love of a limited section as an original thinker, reject all the con
of the human race; and as it has been structive and ceremonial part of his new
gradually enlarged from the limits of a religion as unworthy of notice; while
tribe to those of a city, and from those to the mass of thoughtful persons the
of a city to those of a country or nation whole thing appears unreal and para
ality, he conceived that it might be still doxical.
further enlarged so as to embrace all
One more “ ism ”—Pessimism, the
mankind. . So far it may be admitted gospel of feebleness and failure—has had
that there is a germ of truth in Comte’s a considerable effect on the Continent,
idea, and. that elevated minds may en though little in this country. It is based
large their view beyond the narrow on.the fact that, in accordance with the
bounds of a particular country at a par universal law of polarity, progress is not
ticular period, and may derive fresh an unmixed good, but develops a corre
incentives to action, and fresh sub sponding negative of failure. In simple
jects for ennobling thought, from a con forms of society the distinctions between
templation of the past progress, present wealth and poverty, capital and labour,
condition, and future possibilities of the culture and ignorance, are not so sharply
collective human race. But there is a defined, and the lot of those who fail in
�MODERN THOUGHT
the battle of life is not so hard as when
men are congregated in crowded cities,
exposed to temptations, and tantalised
by the sight of wealth and luxury before
their eyes and yet beyond their reach.
A mass of misery and discontent is thus
created, which in lower natures.translates
itself into anarchism and fanatical hatred
of all above them, while in higher ones it
takes the form of theories for the re
generation of the world by levelling
everything that exists, and .building
anew on fresh foundations. Still higher
minds see the futility of these theories,
and take refuge in a philosophy which
pronounces the world a mistake, life an
evil, and universal suicide the only possible
solution of what is radically bad. This
is, in substance, the philosophy of Scho
penhauer and the school of Continental
Pessimists. It has something in common
with Buddhism, which regards all personal
existence as a painful dream or illusion,
and places supreme happiness in escape
from it by annihilation of individuality.
To understand how such a doctrine can
have found acceptance, we must remem
ber that the tendency of modem civil
isation is to throw more and more work
on the brain and nervous system and less
on other organs. This of itself tends, to
produce more ill-health both of mind
and body, especially of those digestive
organs upon which the sensation of
health and well-being so mainly depends.
A dyspeptic man is of necessity an un
happy and desponding man. Moreover,
in ruder states of society such weaklings
were got rid of by the summary process
of being killed off, while with the more
humane and refined arrangements of
modern times they live on and “ weary
deaf heaven with their fruitless cries.”
It is among such men, with cultivated
intellects, sensitive nerves, and bad
digestion, that we find the prophets and
disciples of the gospel of Pessimism.
They feel, and feel truly,. that as far as
they are concerned life is an evil, the
pains of which far outweigh its pleasures,
and, having lost faith in a future life
where the balance will be redressed, they
see no remedy for the miseries of the
world but that of ceasing to be, or
annihilation.
This affords another illustration of the
extent to which religions and philoso
phies are, like the spectre of the Brocken,
reflections of our own selves on dissolving
mists, clothed with our own clothes and
89
repeating our own gestures.
To a
healthy man or to a strong man the
pessimist view of the universe is simply
impossible. If he has experienced, a fair
average of happiness and success in life,
he instinctively rejects a creed which
tells him that there are no lights as well
as shadows. If he has a mind of average
strength, he feels that suffering is a thing
to be avoided prudently, borne stoically,
or grappled with courageously, and not
to be run away from by moral or physical
suicide.
Accordingly Pessimism is not a creed
which is ever likely to exert much in
fluence on the strong, practical AngloSaxon race, and we can discern some
faint traces of it only in the tendency of
certain very limited cliques of so-called
fiEstheticism to admire morbid and selfconscious ideals, both in poetry and
painting.
.
It is a very curious and remarkable
fact, that while so many highly intellec
tual attempts have been made in vain in
modern times to found new sects and
religions, the only one which has had any
real success is that which is based on the
most gross and vulgar imposture—Mor
monism. Mormonism is a fact which,
without the vestige of a reasonable argu
ment to show for itself, originating in
the vulgar ravings and forgeries of a
vulgar Yankee, and violating the first
instincts of the family and of. society
by polygamy, still flourishes, in spite
of persecutions and prohibitions, llie
reason seems to be that, instead of being
a theory in the air or over the heads of
the masses, it is, with all its faults, a prac
tical system in contact with the actual
realities of life. Its success is mainly
owing to its being an organised system
of emigration, and a faith which places
its Paradise here on earth and not in the
skies. A poor ignorant labourer in Wales
or Norway, who becomes a convert to
Mormonism, is taken in hand at once,
forwarded to his destination, and when
he arrives there looked after and put in
a way of earning an honest livelihood and
probably becoming a landed proprietor.
The ideal set before him is not a very
high one, that of becoming a sober,
industrious, respectable, narrow-minded
citizen of the State of Utah, and a cre
ditable member of the community of
Latter Day Saints. But to a poor
labourer from the slums of Liverpool, to
lead such a life, in the pure mountain air
�90
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
in the valley of the Salt Lake, and see
his flocks and herds increasing and his
family growing up, without care for the
future, is indeed the realisation of an
earthly Paradise. The moral to draw
from this is, that the success of a religion,
under the conditions of modern society,
does not depend so much on its theory as
on the way in which it takes hold of the
practical problems of life and shows an
aptitude for grappling with them.
Another wide-spread modern delusion,
that of Spiritualism, is akin to Mormonism, as showing how little reason has to
do with the beliefs which are most readily
propagated among large classes of the
community.
Nothing but the most
morbid appetite for the supernatural,
combined with the most absolute ignor
ance of the laws of evidence, could induce
sane people to believe that, if a corner
of that mysterious and awful veil were
lifted which separates the living from
the dead, we shall discover what? —
spirits whose vocation it is to turn tables
and talk twaddle.
In vain, medium after medium is de
tected, and the machinery by which
ghosts are manufactured exposed in
police-courts ; in vain, the manifestations
of the so-called spirits are repeated by
professional conjurors like Maskelyne
and Cooke, who disclaim any assistance
from the unseen world. People are still
found to believe the unbelievable because
it gratifies their taste for the marvellous,
and enables them to fancy themselves
the favoured recipients of supernatural
communications.
The explanation that Spiritualism has
received a certain amount of acceptance
from men of a very different order, like
Crookes and Wallace, may be found in
the phenomena associated with it, such
as mesmerism and clairvoyance, which
have a certain basis of fact, and open up
interesting fields for scientific investi
gation. The working of the nervous
apparatus in certainabnormal conditions,
and the physical effects of imagination,
are subjects imperfectly understood, but
well deserving accurate inquiry.
Take, for instance, dreams, which
afford the first certain starting-point
towards a theory of visions and appari
tions. It is as certain that we dream as
that we sleep, and that in our sleeping
state we often live a sort of second life,
which is different from our ordinary
waking life. Dreams are made up of im
pressions which have been recorded by
the brain in its waking state, and which
are revived in new combinations and
imaginary scenes, when consciousness is
suspended. These impressions are thus
0-ten worked, up into a succession of
dreams so vivid as to be scarcely distin
guishable from reality. It happened to
mo, about th© middle period of my life,
to be sent, almost at a day’s notice, to
India, where for more than two years I
had a period of intensely hard work and
great responsibility, as Finance Minister,
this naturally leit a number of strong
impressions on my brain, which for
years afterwards kept reviving in a
series of connected dreams, in which I
fancied myself back in India. I had
thus a dream life as well as a real life of
Indian experiences, and the former was
so vivid that, if I were writing remini
scences, I should sometimes find it difficult to distinguish between the two.
This enables me to realise how dreams
may reaclily pass into visions. If I had
dozed oft" in an arm-chair after dinner,
and fallen into one of my Indian dreams,
I might have seen Lord Canning, who
had been dead for years, walk into the
room as distinctly as if he had been
present in person. In a less critical age,
and with a less sceptical turn of mind, I
might readily have been convinced that
I had seen his ghost.
There can be no doubt that, in this way,
dreams must often, in pre-scientific ages,
have originated a bona fide belief in
spirits. Herbert Spencer traces to this
cause the origin of all religious belief.
Perhaps this may be carrying it too far,
but doubtless it was one of the main
causes, especially of that portion of
religion which took the form of offerings
to the dead, and ancestor-worship.
But a still further step may be taken
from the ordinary dream to the waking
dream or vision. It is a well-established
fact that under peculiar and rare circum
stances. the brain may dream, that is,
revive impressions where there is no
corresponding reality, without losing its
consciousness. There was a celebrated
case of a Berlin bookseller in the last
century, who, having fallen into bad
health, lived formore than a year in the
company of ghosts—that is, he constantly
saw men and women, with every
appearance of being alive, enter the
�MODERN THOUGHT
room and come and go as. if they had
been ordinary visitors. Being a man of
a scientific turn of mind he never sup
posed that these were really ghosts, but
reasoned on them and recorded his ex
periences.
Instead of sending for a
priest and resorting to exorcisms, he
called in a physician and took a course of
medicine, with the result that after a
considerable time the ghostly visitors
gradually became dim and finally disappeared.
.
Numerous other cases are recorded m
which there is no doubt that visions have
been seen, especially under the influence
of religious excitement, and a large
number of so-called miraculous appear
ances and ghost stories are probably
owing to this cause rather than to con
scious imposture.
When we consider the enormous num
ber of dreams, and probably considerable
number of visions, which occur, instead
of being surprised at occasional coinci
dences, the wonder rather is that they
are not more frequent. If only one per
cent, of the 30,000,000 inhabitants of the
British Isles dream every night, that
would give 109,500,000 dreams per
annum, a large proportion of which are
made up of vivid impressions of actual
persons and events. It is impossible that
some of the combinations of these im
pressions should not form pictures which
are subsequently realised, and we. may
be sure that the successes only will be
noted, and the failures forgotten. It is
strange, therefore, that the researches of
the Psychical Society should not have
brought to light more instances of death
warnings and other remarkable coinci
dences. To take the vulgar instance of
horse-racing. A number of minds are
greatly exercised over the problem of
picking out winners, and doubtless a vast
number of dreams show colours flashing
past winning-posts, and numbers hoisted
on the telegraph board. And yet I re
member only two tolerably well-authenti
cated instances in the last half-century,
in which any one is said to have backed
a winner on the faith of a dream. . .The
only positive result of dreams and visions
is that they frequently occur under cir
cumstances where they are almost certain
to be mistaken, by unscientific persons
in unscientific ages, for actual super
natural appearances.
Another field of inquiry is opened out
91
by the effects which are undoubtedly
produced under certain abnormal con
ditions of the brain and nervous system,
as in epilepsy, somnambulism, and mes
merism.
In the simplest case, that of epilepsy,
the effect is mainly shown by a more
intense action of nerve-currents, causing
convulsive motions and an unnatural
increase of muscular strength and
rigidity, so that two strong men may be
scarcely able to hold one weak woman.
In somnambulism, the effects are more
complex. The reception of outward im
pressions seems to be limited, so that the
whole consciousness and vital energy are
concentrated on particular actions, which
are thus performed safely, while in the
ordinary waking state they would be im
possible. Thus a somnambulist walks
securely along a plank spanning an abyss,
because the impressions of surrounding
space do not reach the brain and confuse
it with a sense of danger. In this state
also past impressions photographed on
the brain, which in the ordinary waking
state are obscured by other impressions,
seem to come out occasionally .as in
dreams, enabling the somnambulist to
do and remember things which would
otherwise be beyond his faculties.
Mesmerism is closely akin to somnam
bulism. Apart from delusion and char
latanism the fact seems to be established
that it is possible, by artificial means,, to
induce a state resembling somnambulism
in persons of a peculiar nervous tempera
ment. As regards the means, the essen
tial point seems to be to throw the brain
into this abnormal state partly by keep
ing an unnatural strain on the attention,
and partly by acting on it through the
imagination. The experiments of Dr.
Braid showed that the mesmeric sleep
could be induced just as well by keeping
the eye strained on a black wafer stuck
on a white wall, as by the manipulations
of an operator. This experiment dis
poses of a great deal of mysterious non
sense about magnetic fluids, overpower
ing wills, and other supposed attributes
of professional mesmerisers, and reduces
the question to the plain matter-of-fact
level of the relations between the brain,
will, imagination, and nervous system,
which exist in natural and in artificial
somnambulism. These are undoubtedly
very curious, and open up a wide field for
physiological and mental research. As
�92
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
far as I have seen or read, they seem to
turn mainly on the reflex effects of an
excited imagination on other organs and
faculties. I do not believe that any one
could be mesmerised who was absolutely
ignorant of the subject and unconscious
that any one was operating. On the
other hand, any one who had frequently
been mesmerised would fall into the sleep1
if led to believe that an operator was1
at work when there was really not one.
And the peculiar effects shown in the
mesmeric state are attributable mainly,
to the imagination acting
with, morbid activity on the slightest
hint or suggestion of what is expected,
ihus the will disappears in the more
powerful suggestion of the imagination
that the patient has to obey the will of
the operator, or do certain things which
are. m the programme. I can readily
believe also that in this state the imagination can perform feats which would be
impossible to it in a natural state when
it is kept in check by other faculties, and
that a good deal of what is called clair
voyance may be explained by the way
in which the slightest hint from expresSi.?n’ involuntary muscular motion, or
otherwise, is taken advantage of as a
substitute for the ordinary modes of com
munication. Such a faculty may also
doubtless be cultivated by practice, and
thus explain many of the phenomena of
what are called spiritual communications
and thought-reading. But that imp ressions can be made on the brain, or that
one mind can communicate with another
without some physical medium between
object and subject, is unproved and
remains incredible.
CHAPTER VIII
MIRACLES
Origin of Belief in the Supernatural—Thunef in Miracles formerly Universal
—bt. Paul s Testimony—Now Incredible—
Christian Miracles—Apparent Miracles—
Real Miracles—Absurd Miracles—Worthy
Miracles—The Resurrection and Ascension
—.Nature of Evidence required—Inspiration
—Prophecy—Direct Evidence—St. Paul—
lhe Gospels—What is Known of Them—
® Synoptic Gospels—Resemblances and
th Terences—Their Origin—Papias—Gospel
of St. John—Evidence rests on Matthew,
Mark, and Luke—What each states—Com*
pared with one another and with St. John
— Hopelessly Contradictory—Miracle of
the Ascension-Silence of Mark-Probable
i» their
When men began to reason on the phenoplena of the world around them, it was
inevitable that they should begin bv
referring all striking occurrences to
supernatural causes. Just as they mea
sured space by feet and inches, and time
by days and years, they referred unusual
events to. personal agencies. They knew
by experience that certain effects were
produced by their own wills, muscular
energies, and .passions ; and when they
saw effects which seemed to be of a like
nature, they inferred that they must
have been produced by like causes.
lo take the familiar instance of
thunder. The first savage who thought
about it must have said : “The sound is
very like the roar with which I spring on
a wild beast or an enemy ; the flash of
lightning, is very like the flash of the
arrow or javelin with which I strike him :
the effect is often the same, that he is
killed. Surely there must be some one
m the clouds, very strong, very angry,
very able to do me harm, unless I can
propitiate him by prayers or offerings.”
But aiter long centuries, science steps in
An elderly gentleman at Philadelphia,
.Benjamin Franklin by name, sends up a
silk kite during a thunder-storm, and
behold . the lightning is drawn down
tiom the skies, tamed, and made to emit
harmless sparks, or to follow the course
of a conducting wire, at our will and
pleasure. There is no more room left for
the supernatural in. the fiercest tropical
-storm than there is in turning
the handle of an electrical machine, or
sending-in a tender to light the streets of
London by electricity. And the result
is absolutely certain. In the contest
between the natural and the super
natural, the latter has not only been re
pulsed but annihilated. The most ortho
dox believer in miracles, if his faith
were, brought to. the practical test of
.backing his opinions by his money,
would, rather insure a gin-palace or
gambling saloon protected by a light
ning-conductor than a chapel protected
by the prayers of a pious preacher.
�MIRACLES
This instance of thunder is a type of
the revolution of thought which has been
brought about by modern science in the
whole manner of viewing the phenomena
of the surrounding universe. Former
ages saw miracles everywhere, the age
in which we live sees them nowhere,
except possibly in the single instance of
the miracles recorded in the. Bible. In
the annals of grave Roman historians,
In every page locutus bos.
Not a Caesar or a Consul died, without
an ox speaking, or a flaming sword in the
skies predicting portents. If the moon
happened to pass between the sun and
the earth the dim eclipse
With fear of change perplexes monarchs.
If the winds blow it is because tEoIus
releases them from the cave ; if the rains
fall it is because Jupiter opens the win
dows of heaven, or Indra causes the
cloud-cows to drop their milk on the
parched earth. Perhaps no better proof
can be afforded of the universal belief
that miracles were considered matters of
every-day occurrence than is given by
the passage in St. Paul’s Epistle to the
Corinthians, in which he enumerates the
principal Christian gifts, and assigns, as
it were, their comparative order and the
number of marks that should be given
to each in a competitive examination.
The power of “ working miracles ”
comes low in the list. “.First apostles,
secondarily prophets, thirdly teachers,
after that miracles, then gifts of healings,
helps,
governments, ' diversities of
tongues.” And he goes on to say, in
words that come home to every heart in
all centuries, that all those things are
worthless as compared with that true
Christian charity which “suffereth long,
and is kind ; envieth not; vaunteth not
itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave
itself unseemly, seeketh not her own,, is
not easily provoked, thinketh.no evil;
rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in
the truth ; beareth all things, believeth
all things, hopeth all things, endureth all
things.”
This is in the true spirit of modern
thought, which, when the externals of
religion fail, strives to look below them
at its essence, and to retain wha,t is
eternally true and beautiful as the ideal
of a spiritual and the guide of a practi
cal life, while rejecting all the outward
apparatus of metaphysical creeds and
93
incredible miracles, which had only a
temporary value, and can no longer be
believed without shutting one’s eyes to
facts and becoming guilty of conscious
or unconscious insincerity.
But to return to miracles. Almost the
entire world of the supernatural fades
away of itself with an extension of our
knowledge of the laws of Nature, as surely
as the mists melt from the valley before the
rays of the morning sun. We have seen
how, throughout the wide domains of space,
time, and matter, law, uniform, universal,
and inexorable, reigns supreme; and there
is absolutely, no room for the interference
of any outside personal agency to sus
pend its operations. The last remnant
of supernaturalism, therefore, apart from
the Christian miracles which we shall
presently consider, has shrunk into that
doubtful and shady border-land of ghosts,
spiritualism and mesmerism, where vision
and fact, and partly real, partly imagin
ary, effects of abnormal nervous condi
tions, are mixed up in a nebulous haze
with a large dose of imposture and
credulity.
Even this region is being contracted
every day by every fresh revelation in a
police-court; in every fresh discovery, of
the laws which regulate the transmission
of nervous energy to and from the brain ;
and in the abnormal state which con
stitutes epilepsy and somnambulism, and
which enables an excited imagination to
produce physical effects, such as those
of drastic drugs on a patient who has
actually taken nothing but pills of harm
less paste.
.
.
The question of Christian miracles,
however, rests on a different and more
serious ground. They have been accepted
for ages as the foundation and proof of
a religion which has been for. nineteen
centuries that of the highest civilisation
and purest morality, and for this reason
alone they deserve the most reverent
treatment and the most careful con
sideration.
Of a large class of these miracles it
may be said that there is no reason to
doubt them, but none to consider them as
violations of law, or anything but . the
expression, in the language of the time,
qf natural effects and natural causes.
When a large class of maladies were
universally attributed to the agency of
evil spirits which had taken possession of
the patient’s body, it was inevitable that
�04
Modern science and modern thought
many cures would be effected, and that
these cures would be set down as the
casting-out of devils. In many cases also
a strong impulse communicated to the
brain may send a current along a nerve
which may temporarily, or even per
manently, restore motion to a paralysed
limb, or give fresh vitality to a paralysed
nerve. Thus, the lame may walk, the
dumb speak, and the blind see, with no
more occasion to invoke supernatural
agency than if the same effects had been
produced by a current of electricity from
a voltaic battery. There is no reason to
doubt that miracles of this sort have been
frequentlj wrought by saints and relics,
and that even at the present day they
may possibly be wrought at Lourdes and
other shrines of Catholic faith. Only at
the present day we scrutinise the evi
dence and count the failures, and admit
nothing to be supernatural which can be
explained as within a fair average result
of exceptional cases under the operation
of natural laws. In like manner we set
down all visions or apparitions as having
. no objective reality if they can be ex
plained by the known laws of dreams or
other vivid revivals of impressions, on the
brain of the person who perceives them.
There remains the class of really super
natural miracles, or miracles which could
by no possibility have occurred as they
are described, unless some outward agency
had suspended or reversed the laws of
Nature. As regards such miracles, a
knowledge of these laws enormously in
creases the difficulty in believing in them
as actual facts. Take for instance the
conversion of water into wine. When
nothing was known of the constitution
of water or of wine, except that they
were both fluids, it was comparatively
easy to accept the statement that such a
conversion really took place. But now
we know that water consists of oxygen
and hydrogen combined in a certain
simple proportion, and of these and
nothing else; while wine contains in
addition nitrogen, carbon, and other ele
ments combined in very complicated
proportions. If the water was not really
changed into wine, but only seemed to
be so, it was a mere juggling trick, such
as the Wizard of the North can show us
any day for a shilling. But if it was
really changed, something must have
been created out of nothing to supply
the elements which were not in the
original water and were not put into it
from without.
Again, those who have followed the
question of spontaneous generation, and
witnessed the failure of the ablest
chemists to produce the lowest forms of
protoplasmic life from inorganic ele
ments, will hardly believe that such a
highly organised form of life as a serpeilt
could have been really produced from a
wooden rod. And this, be it observed,
not only by Moses the prophet of God,
but by the jugglers who amused the
court of Pharaoh by their conjuring
tricks ; and for an object of no greater
moment than to persuade a king to allow
some of his subjects to emigrate, which
object, moreover, notwithstanding the
miracle, entirely failed, as the king
simply “hardened his heart” and per
sisted in his refusal.
But passing from this class of grotesque
and incredible miracles, let us examine
those which may be called worthy
miracles; that is, miracles disfigured by
no absurd details, and wrought for ob
jects of sufficient importance to justify
supernatural interference, if ever such
interference were to take place. At the
head of such miracles must undoubtedly
be placed those of the Kesurrection of
Jesus. The appearances to the Apostles,
and above all the bodily Ascension to
heaven in the presence of more than 500
witnesses, were a fitting termination to
the drama of his life and sufferings, and
afforded a conclusive test of the fact
which was the foundation-stone of the
new religion.
“If Christ be not risen, then is our
preaching vain,” says St. Paul; and he
proceeds to argue that the whole ques
tion of the reality of a future life hinges
on the fact that Christ really rose from
the dead. His theory is that death came
into the world by the sin of the first
man, Adam, and has been destroyed and
swallowed up in immortality by the
victory of the second man, Christ. This
theory has, from that day to this, been
the key-stone of Christian theology.
There can be no doubt, therefore, that
if any miracle is true this must be the
one, and, on the other hand, if this
miracle cannot be established by suffi
cient proof, it is idle to discuss the evi
dence for other miracles. In order to go
to the root of the matter therefore, it
is necessary to consider, in a calm and
�MIRACLES
judicial spirit, the evidence upon which
this-miracle of the Resurrection really
In the first place we must consider
what sort of evidence is required to prove
a miracle. Clearly it must be evidence
of the most cogent and unimpeachable
character, far more conclusive than would
be sufficient to establish, an ordinary
occurrence. The discoveries of modern
science have shown beyond the possi
bility of doubt that the miracles which
former ages fancied they saw around
them every day had no real existence,
and that, except possibly in the solitary
instance of the Christian miracles, there
has been no supernatural interference
with the laws of Nature throughout the
enormous ranges of space, time, and
matter. It may be going too far to say
with Hume that no amount of evidence
can prove a miracle, since it must always
remain more probable that human testi
mony should be false than that the laws
of Nature should have been violated.
But it is not going too far to say that
the evidence to establish such a viola
tion must be altogether overwhelming
and open to no other possible construc
tion.
Consider, now, the significance of the
statement that a dead man rose in the
body from the grave, ate, drank, and
held intercourse with . living persons.
There are some 1,500 millions of human
beings living in the world, and somewhat
more than three generations in each
century, that is, there are some 3,600
millions of deaths per century, and this
has been going on for some forty or fifty
centuries, or longer. It is certain, there
fore, that at least 150,000 millions of
deaths must have taken place, and a
large proportion of these under circum
stances involving the most heart-rending
separations, and the most intense longing
on the part of the dying to give, and of the
living to receive, some token of affection
from beyond the grave. And yet no such
. token has ever been given, and the veil
which separates the dead from the.living
has never been lifted, except possibly in
one case out of this 150,000,000,000. Surely
it must require very different evidence
to establish the reality of such an excep
tion, from that which would be sufficient
to prove the signature to a will or the
date of a battle.
But just when the new views opened
95
up by modem science made it more diffi
cult "to believe in miracles, and more
exacting in the demand for stronger evi
dence to support them, the old evidence
became greatly weakened. The main evi
dence which satisfied our forefathers was
that the Bible was inspired, and that it
asserted the reality of the miracles. This,
when critically examined, was really no
evidence at all, for how did we know that
the Bible was inspired ? Because it was
proved to be so by miracles. The argu
ment was therefore in a circle, and re
sembled that of the Hindoo mythology,
which rested the earth on an elephant
and the elephant on a tortoise. But what
did the tortoise rest on ?
To examine the matter more closely,
what is the meaning of inspiration ? It
means that a certain book was not
written, as all other books in the world
have been written, by writers who were
fallible, and whose statements and opi
nions, however admirable in the main
and made in perfect good faith, inevit
ably reflected the views of. the age in
which they lived and contained matters
which subsequent ages found to be
obsolete or erroneous, but that this
particular book was miraculously dic
tated by an infallible God, and there
fore absolutely and for all time true.
But, as a chain cannot be stronger than
its weakest link, if any one of these
statements was proved not to be true, the
theory of inspiration failed, and human
reason was called on to decide by the
ordinary methods, whether any, and if
any, what parts of the volume were
inspired and what uninspired.
Now it is absolutely certain that
portions of the Bible, and those import
ant portions relating to the creation of
the world and of man, are not true, and
therefore not inspired. It is certain that
the sun, moon, stars, and earth, were not
created as the author of Genesis supposed
them to have been created, and that the
first man, whose Paleolithic implements
are found in caves and river gravels of
immense antiquity, was a very different
being from the Adam who was created in
God’s likeness and placed in the Garden
of Eden. It is certain that no universal
deluge ever took place since man existed,
and that the animal life existing in the
world, and shown by fossil remains to
have existed for untold ages, could by no
possibility have originated from pairs of
�96
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
animals living together for forty days in
the ark.
Another test of inspiration is afforded
by the presence of contradictions. If
one writer says that certain events
occurred in Galilee, while another says
that they took place at Jerusalem, they
cannot both be inspired. They may be
both reminiscences of real events, but
they are obviously imperfect and not in
spired reminiscences, and require to be
tested by the same process of reasoning
as we should apply in endeavouring to
unravel the truth from the confused
and contradictory evidence of conflicting
historians.
Inspiration is clearly as much a miracle
as any of the miracles which it relates,
and there is only one way conceivable by
which it could be proved, so as to afford
a solid basis for faith and give addi
tional evidence in support of the super
natural occurrences said to have taken
place ; that would be if it carried with
it internal evidence of its truth. Such
evidence might be afforded in one
way, and in one only—by prophecy. If
any volume written many centuries ago
contained a clear, definite, and distinct
prophecy of future events, which the
writer could by no possibility have known
or conjectured, such a prophecy must
have been dictated, by some agency
different from anything known in the
ordinary course of nature; and future
ages, seeing the fulfilment of the pro
phecy, could scarcely doubt that the
volume which contained it was inspired.
But such a prophecy must be quite de
finite, so that there could be no doubt as
to whether it had been fulfilled or not,
and must not consist of vague and mystic
utterances, in which future believers
might find meanings, probably never
thought of by the /prophets themselves,
confirming the faith which, from other
considerations, they thought it a sin to
disbelieve. Nor must it consist of pas
sionate aspirations for deliverance, and
predictions of the downfall of cruel con
querors, wrung from the hearts of an
oppressed people in times of imminent
danger and crushing despair; because
such predictions have been partly veri
fied and partly transformed in future
ages, so as to receive a new and spiritual
significance.
There is one prophecy which affords a
test by which to judge of the value of all
others as a proof of inspiration, for it is
perfectly distinct and definite, and comes
from the highest authority—that of the
approaching end of the world contained
in the New Testament.
St. Matthew reports Jesus to have said :
“ For the Son of man shall come in the
glory of his Father with his angels ; and
then he shall reward every man according
to his works.
“Verily I say unto you, There be some
standing here, which shall not taste of
death, till they seethe Son of man coming
in his kingdom.”
It is certain that all standing there did
taste death without seeing the Son of
Man coming with his angels. The con
clusion is irresistible, that either Jesus
was mistaken in speaking these words,
or else Matthew was mistaken in sup
posing that he spoke them.
St. Paul predicts the same event in
still more definite terms. He says :
“For this we say unto you by the
word of the Lord, that we which are
alive and remain unto the coming of the
Lord shall not prevent them which are
asleep.
“For the Lord himself shall descend
from heaven with a shout, with the voice
of the archangel, and with the trump of
God : and the dead in Christ shall rise
first:
“Then we which are alive and remain
shall be caught up together with them
in the clouds, to meet the Lord in the
air.”
Here is the most distinct prediction
possible, both of the event which was to
happen, and of the limit of time within
which it. was to take place; and, to give
it additional force, it is specially de
clared to be an inspired prophecy uttered
as “ the word of God.”
The time is distinctly stated to be in
the lifetime, of some of the existing
generation, including Paul himself, who
is to be one of the “ we which are alive,”
who are not to “ prevent,” or gain any
precedence over, those who have “ fallen
asleep,” or died, in the interval before
Christ’s coming. By no possibility can
this be construed to mean a coming at
some indefinite future time, long after all
those had died who were to remain and
be caught up alive into the clouds. St.
Paul doubtless meant what he said, and
firmly believed that he was uttering an
inspired prophecy which would certainly
�MIRACLES
be fulfilled. But it is certain that it was
not fulfilled. Paul and all Paul’s con
temporaries have been dead. for 1,800
years, and the shout, the voice of the
archangel, and the trump .of God, have
never been heard. What is this but an
absolutely irresistible demonstration that
prophecy not only fails to prove inspira
tion, but, on the contrary, by its failure
disproves it, and shows that St. Matthew
and St. Paul were as liable to make mis
takes as any of the hundreds of religious
writers who, in later times, have prophe
sied the approaching end of the world or
advent of the millennium.
Turning to the evidence for miracles,
this must be taken on its own merits,
without aid from any preconceived theory
that it is sinful to scrutinise it because
the books in which it is contained are
inspired. Applying to it impartially the
ordinary rules of evidence, let us see
what it amounts to for that which is
really the test case of all other miracles,
that of the Resurrection.
The witnesses are St. Paul and the
authors of the four Gospels according to
St. Matthew, St. Mark, St. Luke, and St.
John. Of these, St. Paul is in some
respects the best. When a witness is
called into court to give evidence, the
first question asked is, “Who are you?
Give your name and description.’' St.
Paul alone gives a clear answer to this
question. There is no doubt that he was
an historical personage, who lived at
the time and in the manner described in
the Acts of the Apostles, and that the
Epistle to the Corinthians is a genuine
letter written by him. In this Epistle
he says :
“For I delivered unto you first of all
that which I also received, how that
Christ died for our sins according to the
scriptures ;
“ And that he was buried, and that he
rose again the third day according to the
scriptures :
“ And that he was seen of Cephas, then
of the twelve :
“ After that, he was seen of above five
hundred brethren at once ; of whom the
greater part remain unto this present, but
some are fallen asleep.
“After that, he was seen of James ;
then of all the apostles.
“ And last of all he was seen of me also,
as of one born out of due time.”
This is undoubtedly very distinct
97
evidence that the appearances described
by St. Paul were currently believed in
the circle of early Christians at Jerusalem
within twenty years of their alleged
occurrence.
This is strong testimony, but it is
weakened by several considerations. In
the first place, we know that Paul’s
frame of mind in regard to miracles was
such as to make it certain that he would
take them for granted, and not attempt
to examine critically the evidence on
which they were founded, and this was
doubtless the frame of mind of those
from whom he received the accounts.
Again, he places all the appearances on
the same footing as that to himself,
which was clearly of the nature of a
vision, or strong internal impression,
rather than of an objective reality.
Upon this vital point, whether the
appearances which led to the belief in
Christ’s resurrection were subjective or
objective—-that is, were visions or phy
sical realities—Paul’s testimony therefore
favours the former view, which is quite
consistent with the laws of Nature and
with experience in other cases.
And finally, St. Paul’s account of the
appearances is altogether different from
those of the other witnesses, viz., the four
Evangelists.
When we come to consider the testi
mony of the four Gospels we are con
fronted by a first difficulty : Who and
what are the witnesses ? What is really
known of them is this : Until the middle
of the second century they are never
quoted, and were apparently unknown.
Somewhere about 150 A.D., for the exact
date is hotly disputed, we find the first
quotations from them, and from that
time forwards the quotations become
more frequent and their authority in*
creases, until finally they superseded all
the other narratives current in the early
Church, such as the “Gospel of the
Hebrews,” and the “ Pastor ” of Hermas,
and are embodied in the New Testament
canon. From the earliest time where
there is any distinct recognition of them,
they appear to have been attributed to
the Evangelists whose names they bear,
viz., Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.
When we look to internal evidence to
give us some further clue as to their
authorshipand date, we at oncemeet with
a great difficulty. The three Gospels of
SS. Matthew, Mark, and Luke, are called
H
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MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN INOUGHT
“Synoptic,” because they give what is
substantially the same narrative of the
same facts arranged in the same order,
and the same sayings and parables giving
the same view of the character and teach
ing of Jesus. In whole passages this
resemblance is not merely substantial
but literal, so that w’e cannot suppose it
to arise merely from following the same
oral tradition, and cannot doubt that the
authors must have copied verbatim either
from one another or from some common
manuscript. But then comes-in this per
plexing circumstance.. After passages
of almost literal identity we have state
ments which are inconsistent with those
of the other Gospels, and narratives
of important events which are either
altogether wanting or quite differently
described in them.
Thus, in the vital matter of the Resur
rection, Matthew says that the disciples
were especially commanded to “ go into
Galilee ; there shall you see him,” and
that they did go accordingly, and there
saw Jesus on a mountain where he had
appointed them to meet him ; while Luke
distinctly says that “he commanded
them that they should not depart from
Jerusalem,” and describes them as remain
ing there and witnessing a number of
appearances, including the crowning
miracle of the Ascension (the same,
doubtless, as that which St. Paul describes
as having taken place in the presence of
more than 500 witnesses), of which Mat
thew, Mark, and John apparently know
nothing. And yet the final injunction
of Jesus to preach the gospel in his name
to all nations is given in almost the same
words in Matthew, Mark, and Luke,
showing that they must have had before
them some common tradition describing
the course of events after the Crucifixion.
So in minor matters, Mark mentions
the cure of one blind man, Bartimseus,
who sat by the roadside begging; in
Matthew there are two blind men, and
yet the dialogue that passed—“ What will
ye that I shall do unto you?” “Lord,
that our eyes may be opened ”—is almost
word for word the same. It would seem
that if they did copy from an original
manuscript, they felt themselves free to
take any liberties with it they liked, in
the way of omission and alteration.
The only light thrown on this per
plexing question of the origin of the
Gospels Is that afforded by the celebrated
passage from Papias quoted by Eusebius.
Papias was Bishop of Hieropolis, in Asia
Minor, and suffered martyrdom, when an
aged man, about the year 164. He was
therefore brought-up in personal con
tact, not with the Apostles themselves,
but with those who, like Polycarp and
others, had been their immediate dis
ciples, and had known and conversed
with them. In the passage quoted he
states his preference for oral tradition
over written documents, and his reasons
for it. He says : “ If I found some one
who had followed the first presbyters, I
asked him what he had heard from them :
what said Andrew or Peter, or Philip,
Thomas, James, John, or Matthew ; and
what said Andrew and John the Presbyter,
who were also disciples of the Lord; for
I thought I could not derive as much
advantage from books as from the living
and abiding oral tradition.” And he goes
on to give his reasons for not attaching
more weight to the two written sources
of information which were evidently best
known and looked upon as of most
authority in his time, viz., the Gospels
according to St. Matthew and St, Mark.
He says that Matthew wrote down in
Hebrew the Logia, or principal sayings
and discourses of the Lord, “ which every
one translated as he best could,” evidently
implying that these numerous trans
lations were, in his opinion, loose, in
accurate, and unreliable. As regards
Mark, he says that “ Mark, who had not
known the Lord personally, and had
never heard Him, followed Peter later as
his interpreter ; and when Peter, in the
course of his teaching, mentioned any of
the doings or sayings of Christ, took care
to note them down exactly, but without
any order, and without making a con
tinuous narrative of the discourses of the
Lord, which did not enter into the inten
tion of the Apostle. Thus Mark let
nothing pass, jotting down a certain
number of facts as Peter mentioned them,
but having no other care than to omit
nothing of what he heard, and to change
nothing in it.”
This testimony of Papias is very valu
able and very instructive. In the first
place, it seems conclusive that the Gospel
of St. John was not known to him, and
not received in the early Christian
Churches of Asia Minor as a work of
authority. Had it been so received,
Papias must have known of it, brought
�MIRACLES
up as he was at the feet of men who had
been John’s disciples, and bishop of a
Church closely connected with those of
which, if there is any faith in tradition,
John had been the patriarch and principal
founder. And if he had known of such
a written Gospel as that of St. John, and
believed it to have been really written
by the “ beloved disciple ; ” the Apostle
second only, if second, to St. Peter; it is
inconceivable that he should nave ex
pressed such an unqualified preference
for oral tradition, and made such an
almost contemptuous reference to written
documents. He must have said: “lor,
with the exception of the Gospel of the
blessed John, I found that little was to be
got from books?'
It seems clear, therefore, that although
the Gospel of St. John may contain
genuine reminiscences of an early date,
and possibly some which really came
from the Apostle himself, the work in its
present form could not have been written
by him, and must have been compiled at
such a late date as to have been unknown
in the Christian Churches of the East in
the time of Papias.
The same remark applies to the
Gospel of St. Luke, of which Papias has
equally no knowledge, and which, from
internal evidence, appears to be a later
edition of the two earlier Gospels, or of
the original manuscripts from which they
were taken, altered in places to meet
objections of a later date, as where the
injunction to “go into Galilee; there
shall ye see him,” is changed into “as he
spake unto you when he was yet in
Galilee,” obviously to reconcile the state
ment with the subsequent belief that the
Ascension took place at Jerusalem.
There remain the two original Gospels
according to St. Matthew and St. Mark.
Volumes of erudition have been written
to try and reconcile them with one
another, and with the other two Gospels,
and to explain the extraordinary resem
blances and no less extraordinary differ
ences. Translations have been heaped on
translations, and successive editions and
revisions piled on one another until the
edifice toppled over by its own weight, but
after all, we have nothing better to rely on
than the statement of Papias, which there
is no reason to mistrust. The basis of the
three Synoptic Gospels was probably a
collection of facts and anecdotes written
down in Greek by Mark, and of discourses
99
wi-itten in Hebrew by Matthew. These
have been worked up subsequently, at
unknown dates, and by unknown authors,
aided possibly by oral traditions, into
connected narratives or biographies of
the life and teachings of the Founder of
the religion.
Possibly, though by no means certainly,
we have in the present Gospel according
to St. Matthew the nearest approach to
the original Logia or doctrinal discourses,
and in the present Mark the nearest
approach to the original notes recorded
by Mark from the dictation of St. Peter.
As regards the Gospel according to St.
John, it appears perfectly clear, both
from the silence of Papias, the absence
of any reference to it by other early
Christian Fathers until the end of the
second century, and still more from
internal evidence, that it could not
possibly have been, written by the
Apostle whose name it bears. John, as
we know from St. Paul’s Epistles, was
one of the pillars of the Christian Church
of Jerusalem, whose doctrine was in all
respects Hebraic, and who opposed the
larger idea that a man could be a
Christian without first becoming a Jew.
The writer of the Gospel is not only
ignorant of matters which must have
been well known to every Jew, but he is
positively prejudiced against Judaism,
and represents it in an unfavourable
light. His narrative of the events of the
life of Jesus, including the miracles, is
totally different from that of the Synop
tics, and his view of his character and
report of his speeches wide as the poles
asunder. To the Synoptics Jesus is the
man-Messiah foretold by the prophets ; to
the author of John he is the “Logos,”
the incarnation of a metaphysical attri
bute of the Deity.
The terse and simple clearness of his
sayings recorded by the first, is exchanged
in the latter for an involved and cumbrous
phraseology reminding one of a Papal
Encyclical. The amiablity and “sweet
reasonableness” of the Jesus of the
Synoptics, have become acrimonious un
reasonableness and egotistical self-glori
fication in many of the long harangues
which are introduced on the most
unlikely occasions in the fourth Gospel.
It is evident, therefore, that this
Gospel can afford no aid towards a
critical examination of contemporary
I evidence, and that for this we must look
1
H 2
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MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
almost entirely to such remains of early
records as are preserved in the Gospels of
St. Matthew, St. Mark, and St. Luke.
With these data, how does the evidence
stand as regards the miracle of the
Resurrection which is the test case of all
alleged miracles ?
It is important to observe that the
oldest manuscripts of the Gospel of St.
Mark stop at the Sth verse of the last
chapter, and that the subsequent verses,
9—20, have every appearance of being
a later addition made to reconcile this
Gospel better with the prevailing belief
and with the other Gospels. Comment
ators discover a difference in the style
and language, and the appearances of
Jesus after his resurrection are described
in vague and general language, very
different from the distinct details given
of them in the other Gospels, and in
consistent with the formal statement
twice repeated in the genuine Mark
that they were to take place in Galilee.
Moreover, if these verses were really in
the original Gospel, it is inconceivable
how they should have dropped-out in
the oldest manuscripts, while it is per
fectly conceivable how they should have
been added at a later period, when the
Fathers of the Church began to occupy
themselves with the task of harmonising
the different Gospels.
But if the genuine Mark really termin
ated with the Sth verse, not only is there
no confirmation of the four miraculous
appearances, including the Ascension,
recorded by St. Paul as being currently
believed by the early Christians within
twenty years, of their occurrence, but
there is positively no mention of any ap
pearance at all. A young man, clothed
in white, tells three women who went
to the tomb that Jesus is risen, and that
they were to tell his disciples and Peter
that they would see him in Galilee; an
injunction which was not carried out, for
the women “were afraid, neither said they
anything to any man.”
in St. Matthew the young man has be
come an angel, and as the women return
from the tomb Jesus met them and said,
“All hail,” repeating the injunction to
tell the disciples to go into Galilee, where
the eleven accordingly went into a moun
tain where Jesus had appointed them,
and “when they saw him they worshipped
him : but some doubted.” This is the
whole of Matthew's testimony.
St. Luke, again, in his Gospel and Acts,
amplifies the miraculous appearances
almost up to the extent described by
St. Paul, though with considerable dif
ferences both of addition and omission.
The three women become a number of
women ; the one angel or young man
in shining clothes, two; the appearance
to the women disappears; Peter is
mentioned as running to the sepulchre
but departing without seeing anything
special except that the body had been
removed; the first appearance recorded
is that to the two disciples walking
from Emmaus, who knew him not until
their eyes were opened by the breaking
of bread, when he vanished; the next
appearance is to the eleven sitting at
meat with closed doors; and finally
there is the crowning miracle of the
Ascension, stated somewhat vaguely in
the Gospel, but with more detail in the
Acts, describing how he was taken up
to heaven and received in a cloud, in
the sight of numerous witnesses. This
is probably the same miracle as that
mentioned by St. Paul as having occurred
in the presence of “ more than five hun
dred brethren at once, of whom the
greater part remain alive unto this
present; ” though he mentions two sub
sequent appearances—one to James and
a second to all the Apostles—of which
no trace is found in any other canonical
narative. . It is to be noted that all St.
Luke’s miracles are expressly stated to
have occurred at Jerusalem, where Jesus
had commanded his disciples to remain,
and are, therefore, in direct contradic
tion with the statements of Matthew
and Mark, that whatever occurred was
in Galilee, where the disciples were ex
pressly enjoined to go.
When we come to St. John, we find
the first part of the narrative of the
other . Gospels repeated with several
variations and a great many additional
details. Mary Magdalene is alone, and
finds the stone removed from the sepul
chre. She tells Peter and John, who
run together to the tomb • John outruns
Peter, but Peter first enters and sees the
napkin and linen grave-clothes, but
nothing miraculous, and they return to
their homes. Mary remains weeping and
sees, first two angels, and then Jesus him
self, whom she at first does not recognise,
and mistakes for the gardener. The walk
to Emmaus is not mentioned, and the
�MIRACLES
next appearance is to the disciples sitting
with closed doors. Another takes place
after eight days, for the purpose of con
vincing Thomas of the reality of the
resurrection in the actual body, and here
apparently the narrative closes with the
appropriate ending, “That these things
are written that ye may believe that
Jesus is the Christ, the Son of. God ; and
that believing ye might have life through
his name.” But a supplementary chapter
is added, describing a miraculous draught
of fishes and appearance to Peter, John,
and five other disciples at the Sea of
Tiberias in Galilee, in which the com
mand is given to Peter to “Feed my
sheep,” and an explanation is introduced
of what was doubtless a sore perplexity
to the early Christian world, the death
of St. John before the coming of the
Messiah.
These are the depositions of the five
witnesses, Matthew, Mark, Luke, John,
and Paul, in which the verdict “ proven”
or “ not proven ” must rest in regard to
the issue “miracle” or “no miracle.”
The mere statement of them is enough
to show how insufficient they are . to
establish any ordinary fact, to say nothing
of a fact so entirely opposed to all ex
perience as the return to life of one who
had really died. Suppose it were a
question of proving the signature of a
will, what chance would a plaintiff have
of obtaining a verdict who produced
five witnesses, four of whom could give
no certain account of themselves, while
the fifth spoke only from hearsay, and
the details to which they deposed were
hopelessly inconsistent with one another
as regards time, place, and other par
ticulars ? The account of the Ascension
brings this contradiction into the most
glaring light. According to St. Luke and
St. Paul this miracle took place at Jeru
salem, in the presence of a large number,
St. Paul says over 500 persons, before
whose eyes Jesus was lifted-up in the
body into the clouds, and more than half,
or over 250 of these witnesses, remained
alive for at least twenty years afterwards
to testify to the fact. Consider what this
implies. Such an event occurring
publicly in the presence of 500 wit
nesses is not like an appearance to a
few chosen disciples in a room with
closed doors : m
have been the talk
of all Jerusalem.
The prophet who had shortly before
101
entered the city in triumphal procession
amidst the acclamations of the multi
tude, and who, a few days afterwards,
by some sudden revolution of popular
feeling, had become the object of mob
hatred ; who had been solemnly tried,
condemned, and executed; that this
prophet had been restored to life and
visibly translated in the body to
heaven in the presence of more than 500
witnesses, must inevitably have caused
an immense sensation. However prone
the age might be to believe in miracles,
such a miracle as this must have startled
every one. The most incredulous must
have been converted ; the High Priest
and Pharisees must, in self-defence, have
instituted a rigid inquiry ; the Proconsul
must have reported to Rome ; Josephus,
who, not many years afterwards, wrote
the annals of the Jews during this
period with considerable detail, must
have known of the occurrence and men
tioned it.
And above all, Matthew, Mark, and
John must have been aware of the oc
currence ; and in all probability, Mat
thew, John, and Peter, from whom Mark
derived his information, must have been
among the 500 eye-witnesses. How then
is it possible that, if the event really
occurred, they not only should not have'
mentioned it, but partly by their silence,
and partly by their statement that they
went into Galilee, have virtually contra
dicted it. The Ascension, if true, was a
capital fact, not only crowning and com
pleting the drama of Christ’s life which
they were narrating with its most tri
umphant and appropriate ending, but
confirming, in the strongest possible
manner, the doctrine for which they were
contending, that he was not an ordin
ary man or ordinary prophet, but th®
Messiah, the Son of God, who. had
redeemed the world from its original
curse and conquered sin and death,
One might as well suppose that any
one writing the life of Wellington
would omit the Battle of Waterloo as
that any one writing the life of Christ
would knowingly and wilfully omit all
mention of the Ascension. It must be
evident that whoever wrote the original
manuscripts from which the Gospels of
Matthew, Mark, and John were compiled,
must either never have heard of the
Ascension, or having heard of it did not
believe it to be true. This must algo
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MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
apply to the other miraculous appear
ances said to have occurred at Jerusalem.
How was it possible for writers who knew
of them to make no mention of them,
and virtually contradict them by assert
ing that they did not remain at Jeru
salem, but went to Galilee in obedience
to a command to that effect, and that
the final parting of Jesus from his dis
ciples took place there ?
The. most unaccountable fact is the
total silence of Mark, who was nearest
the fountain-head if he derived his infor
mation from St. Peter, as to these mira
culous appearances. If his Gospel ended
with verse 8 of chapter, xvi., as the oldest
manuscripts and the internal evidence
of the postscripts afterwards added
appear to prove, there is absolutely no
statement of a,ny such appearance at all.
Nothing is said but that three women
found the tomb empty and saw a young
man clothed in white, who told them
that Jesus had risen and gone into
Galilee. Now, if there is one fact more
certain than another about miraculous
legends, it is that as long as they have
any vitality at all, they increase and
multiply and do not dwindle and dimi
nish.. We have an excellent example of
this in the way in which a whole cycle of
miracles grew up in a short time about
the central fact of the martyrdom of St.
Thomas a Becket.
If, therefore, Matthew and Mark knew
nothing of the series of miracles, which
from St. Paul’s statement we must assume
to have been currently believed by the
early Christians twenty years after the
death of Christ, the only possible ex
planation is that their Gospels were com
piled from narratives which had been
written at a still earlier date, before these
miracles had been heard of.
We must suppose that Mark really
wrote down what he heard from Peter,
and that Peter, being a truthful man,
though he probably had a sincere general
belief that Christ had risen, declined to
state facts which he knew had never
occurred. This is in entire accordance
with what we find in the whole history
of ecclesiastical miracles, from those
recorded in Scripture down to those
of St. Francis of Assisi in the thirteenth
century, and of St. Francis Xavier in the
sixteenth. Innumerable as are the ac
counts of miracles said to have been
wrought by relics or by other holy per
sons, there is no instance of any state
ment by any credible person that he
had himself worked a real miracle. St.
Augustine describes in detail many won
derful miracles, including resurrections
from the dead, which he said had been
wrought to his own knowledge, within
his own diocese of Hippo, by the relics
of the martyr Stephen. In fact, he says
that the number of miracles thus wrought
within the last two years since these
relics had been at Hippo, was at least
seventy. This testimony is far more
precise than any for the Gospel miracles,
for it comes from a well-known man of
high , character, who was on the spot at
the time,, and speaks of these and many
other miracles having occurred to his
own knowledge. But he never asserts that
he himself had ever wrought a miracle.
In like manner Paulinus relates many
miracles of his master, St. Ambrose, in
cluding one of raising the dead ; but
Ambrose himself never asserts that he
performed a miracle. Neither does St.
Francis of Assisi, or any of the 25,000
saints of the Roman calendar to whom
miracles are attributed.
Even Jesus himself seems, on several
occasions, to have disclaimed the power
of working miracles, as when he refused
to comply with the perfectly reasonable
request of the Jews to attest his Messiahship by a sign, if he wished them to
believe in it.
There is every reason, therefore, to
believe that when we find narratives
making no mention of important miracles
which were afterwards commonly re
ceived, they must be taken from records
of an earlier date, and proceeding directly
from those who, if the miracles were true,
would have been the principal eye-wit
nesses to vouch for them. But, if this be
so, how near to the fountain head do
these narratives carry us 1 We lose the
miracles, but in compensation we get
what may be considered fresh and lively
narratives of the life and conversation
of . Jesus, and confirmation both of his
being an historical personage, and of the
many anecdotes and sayings which de
pict his character, and bring him before
us as he really lived, the mythical
theory cannot stand which found in every
saying and action an ex post facto attempt
to show that. he. fulfilled prophecies and
realised Messianic expectations. We can
see him walking through the fields on a
�MIRACLES
Sabbath afternoon with his disciples,
plucking ears of corn, and rebuking the
Pharisees for their puritanical adherence
to the letter of the observance of that
day : we can see him taking little
children in his arms, and talking fami
liarly at the well with the woman of
Samaria ; we can hear him preaching the
Sermon on the Mount, and dropping
parables from his mouth, like precious
pearls of instruction in love, charity, and
all Christian virtues. We can sympathise
with the agony in the garden as with a
real scene, and hear the despairing cry,
My God, my God, why hast thou for
saken me?”
...
...
It seems to me that faith m the reality
of scenes like these is worth a good deal
of faith in the metaphysical conundrums
of the Athanasian Creed, or in the actual
occurrence of incredible miracles.
Another argument in favour of the
early date and genuine character of the
primitive records which have been worked
up in the Synoptic Gospels, is afforded by
the sayings attributed to Jesus. It is
impossible to imagine that these could be
the invention of a later age, when theo
logical questions of faith and doctrine
had absorbed almost the entire attention
of the Christian world. We have already
seen how wide is the difference, both as
regards style and phase of thought, be
tween the discourses reported in the
fourth Gospel and those of the Synoptics.
No one writing in the second or towards
the end of the. first century, or even
earlier in the religious atmosphere of St.
Paul’s Epistles, could have composed the
Sermon on the Mount or the Lord s
Prayer. The parables and maxims, in
stead of teaching nothing but a pure and
sublime morality in simple language,
must have contained references to the
doctrine of the Logos, and the disputes
between the Jewish and the Gentile
Christians. Even if these discourses had
passed long through the fluctuating
medium of oral tradition, they must,
when finally reduced to writing, have
shown many traces of the theological
questions which agitated the Christian
world. The only explanation is that
Apostles like St. Matthew, and St. Peter
through Mark, really recorded these say
ings in writing while they were fresh in
memory, and that their authority secured
them from adulteration.
At the same time it must be borne m
103
mind that while portions of the original
narrative appear to carry us back very
near to the fountain-head, a large part
of the Gospels in their present form is
evidently of much later date and of un
certain origin. It is clear that Papias,
writing about the year 150, knew nothing
of the Gospels of Luke and John^ and
nothing of those of Matthew and Mark
in their present form. The discourses of
Matthew and the disconnected notes, of
Mark, to which he refers, were something
very different from the complete histories
of the life and teaching of Jesus con
tained in the present Gospels. It is
equally clear that Justin Martyr , and
Hegesippus, who wrote about the middle
of tiie second century, and made frequent
quotations of the sayings and doings of
the Lord, made them, not from the pre
sent canonical Gospels, but from. other
sources relating the same thing’s in dif
ferent order and different language. ‘ A
Gospel according to the Hebrews ” and
“ Memoirs of the Apostles ” seem to have
been the principal sources from which
they quoted.
.
It is evident however, that during the
first two centuries there were a great
number of so-called Gospels and Apos
tolic writings floating about in the
Christian world along with oral tradi
tions. The author of Luke tells us this
expressly, and later writers refer to a
number of works now unknown or classed
as apocrypha], and complain of forged
Gospels circulated by heretics. None of
these writings, however, seem to have
had any peculiar authority or been con
sidered as inspired Scripture, winch term
is exclusively confined to the Old Testa
ment, until the middle of the second
century.
At length, by a sort of law of the
survival of the fittest, the present.Gospels
acquired an increasing authority and
superseded the other works which had
competed, with them; but the selection
was determined to a great extent, not by
those principles of criticism which would
now be applied to historical records, but
by doctrinal considerations of the sup
port they gave to prevalent opinions. In
other words, orthodoxy and not authen
ticity was the test applied, and it is pro
bable that no Christian Father of the
second or third century would have hesi
tated to reject an early manuscript trace
able very clearly to an Apostle, in favour
�104
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
of a later compilation of doubtful origin,
if the former contained passages which
seemed to favour heretical views, while the
latter omitted those passages, or altered
them in a sense favourable to orthodoxy.
To sum up the matter, it appears that
apart from the fact that the antecedent
improbability of miracles has been enor
mously increased by the constant and
concurrent proofs of the permanence of
the laws of Nature, the evidence for
tnose recorded in the New Testament,
with which alone we are concerned is
rendered null and void by the discordant
reports of hearsay witnesses.
CHAPTER IX.
CHRISTIANITY WITHOUT MIRACLES
Practical and Theoretical Christianity—Ex
ample and Teaching of Christ—Christian
.
Moral Objections — Inconsistent
with Tacts—Must be accepted as Parables
- t ail and Redemption—Old Creeds must
be Transformed or Die—Mahometanism—
Decay of Faith—Balance of Advantages—
Religious Wars and Persecutions—Intoler
ance—Sacrifice—Prayer—Absence of Theo
logy hi Synoptic Gospels—Opposite Pole to
Christianity—Courage and Self-relianceBelief in God and a Future Life—Based
mainly on Christianity—Science gives no
Answer—Nor Metaphysics—So-called In
tuitions—Development of Idea of GodBest Proof afforded by Christianity—Evo
lution is Transforming it—Reconciliation
of Religion and Science.
their own proof with them, and such
parables as that of the Good Samaritan
require no support, either from historical
evidence or from supernatural signs to
come home to every heart whether in the
hrst or m the nineteenth century. The
tact that the son of a Jewish mechanic
Loin in a small town of an obscure pro
vince, without any special aid from posi
tion, education, or other outward circum
stance, succeeded, by the sheer force of
the purity and loveliness of his life and
teaching, m captivating all hearts and
founding a religion which for nineteen
centuries has been the main civilising
influence of the world and the faith of
its noblest men and noblest races : this
tact I say, is of itself so admirable and
wonderful as not to require the aid of
vulgar miracles and metaphysical puzzles
in order to be recognised as worthy of
the highest reverence. And when such a
lite was crowned by a death which re
mains the highest type of what is noblest
m man, self-sacrifice in the cause of truth
and for the good of others, we may well
call it divine, and not quarrel with any
language or any forms of worship which
tend to keep it in view and hold it up to
life W°rld aS an inducement to a higher
Miracles are not only unnecessary for
a faith of this description, but are a
positive hindrance to it. To put it at
the lowest, miracles, in an age which has
learned the laws of Nature, must always
be open to grave doubts, and thus throw
doubt on the reliability of the narratives
which are supposed to depend on them.
Can Christianity continue to exist with Moreover, the touching beauty and force
of example of the life of Jesus are almost
out miracles ?
. Io answer this question we must dis lost it he is evaporated into a sort of
supernatural being, totally unlike any
tinguish between practical and theoreti conceivable member of the human family
cal Christianity. The essence of practical
W e may strive to model our conduct at
Christianity consists in such a genuine
a humble distance on that of the man
acceptance of its moral teaching, and
love and reverence for the life and char Jesus, the carpenter’s son, whose father
and mother, brothers and
acter of its Founder, as may influence familiar figures in the streetssisters, were
of Nazareth
conduct, and be a guide and support
put hardly on that of a “Logos,” the
m life. Theoretical Christianity is that
metaphysical conception
which professes to teach a complete incarnation of aof the Deity, who existed
o. an attribute
theory of the creation of the world and
before all worlds and by whom all things
P.an’ °* khe relations between man and
were made.
his Creator, and of his position and
But, on the other hand, miracles are in
^e^-ny.la a future state of existence.
dispensable for the dogma, or theoretical
The former needs no miracles. The
side of Christian theology. Let us con
bermon on the Mount, and St. Paul’s
sider frankly what this dogma is, and
description of Christian charity? parry
now tar it is trite—that is, consistent or
�CHRISTIANITY WITHOUT MIRACLES
inconsistent with known and indisput
able facts.
The Christian dogma cannot be better
stated than in the words of St. Paul, who
was its first inventor, or, at any rate, the
first by whom it was elaborated into a
complete theory.
“For as in Adam all die, even so in
Christ shall all be made alive.”
This may be expanded into the follow
ing propositions :
1. That the Old Testament is miracu
lously inspired, and contains a literally
true account of the creation of the world
and of man.
2. That, in accordance with this ac
count, the material universe, earth, sun,
moon, and stars, and all living things on
the earth and in the seas, were created in
six days, after which God rested on the
seventh day.
3. That the first man, Adam, was
created in the image of God and after
His own likeness, and placed, with the
first woman, Eve, in the Garden of Eden,
where they lived for a time in a state of
innocence, and holding familiar converse
with God.
4. That by an act of disobedience they
fell from this high state, were banished
from the Garden, and sin and death were
inflicted as a penalty on them and their
descendants.
5. That after long ages, during which
mankind remained under this curse, God
sent His Son, who assumed human form,
and by His sacrifice on the cross appeased
God’s anger, removed the curse, and de
stroyed the last enemy, death, giving a
glorious resurrection and immortal life
to those who believed on Him.
This theory is a complete one, which
hangs together in all its parts, and of
which no link can be displaced without
affecting the others. It is the theory
which has been accepted by the Christian
world since its first promulgation ; and,
although expounded with metaphysical
refinements in the Athanasian Creed,
and set forth with all the gorgeous sur
roundings of poetical imagination in
Milton’s “ Paradise Lost,” it remains in
substance St. Paul’s theory, that “as in
Adam all die, even so in Christ shall all
be made alive.’’
It is obvious that this theory is open to
grave objections on moral grounds. It
is more in the character of a jealous
Oriental despot than of a loving and
105
merciful Father, to inflict such a punish
ment on hundreds of millions of un
offending creatures for an act of dis
obedience on the part of a remote
ancestor. And it is still more incon
sistent with our modern ideas of justice
and humanity to require the vicarious
sacrifice of an only Son as the condition
of forgiving the offence and removing the
curse.
Nevertheless it must be admitted that,
notwithstanding these objections, and
harsh as the theory is, it has had a
wonderful attraction for many of the
highest intellects and noblest nations.
It was the creed of Luther, Cromwell,
and Milton; and the inspiring spirit, of
Scotch Presbyterianism and English
Puritanism. It has inspired great men
and great deeds, and although responsible
for a good deal of persecution and
fanaticism, it must always be spoken
of with respect, as a creed which has had
a powerful effect in raising men’s minds
from lower to higher things, and has on
the whole done good work in its time.
But the question of its continuance as
a creed which it is possible for sincere
men to believe, as literally and his
torically true, depends not on wishes and
feelings, nor on reverence for the past,
but on hard facts. Is it or is it not con
sistent with what are now known to be
the real truths respecting the constitu
tion of the universe and the origin of
life and of man ?
To state this question is to answer it.
There is hardly one of the facts shown in
the preceding chapters to be the un
doubted results of modern science which
does not shatter to pieces the whole
fabric. It is as certain as that two and
two make four that the world was not
created in the manner described in
Genesis ; that the sun, moon, and stars
are not lights placed in the firmament
or solid crystal vault of heaven to give
light upon the earth ; that animals were
not all created in one or two days, and
spread over the earth from a. common
centre in Armenia, after having been
shut up in pairs for forty days in an ark,
during a universal deluge. And finally,
that man is not descended from an. Adam
created quite recently in God’s image,
and who fell from a high state by an act
of disobedience, but from a long series of
Palaeolithic ancestors, extending back
certainly into the Glacial and probably
�106
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
into the Tertiary period, who have not
fallen but progressed, and by a slow and
painful process of evolution have gradu
ally developed intelligence, language,
arts, and civilisation, from the very
rudest and most animal-like beginnings.
Belief in inspiration, the very key
stone of the system, becomes impossible
when it is shown that the accounts given
of such important matters in the writings
professing to be inspired are manifestly
untrue ; and when the ordinary rules of
criticism are brought to bear upon these
writings it is at once seen that they
are compilations of different ages from
various and uncertain sources.
The improbability of miracles is enor
mously increased by the proof of
the uniform operation of natural law
throughout the vast domains of space,
time, matter, and life; and where the
supernatural was formerly considered to
be a matter of every-day occurrence, it
has vanished step by step, until only the
last vestige of it is left in a possible
belief in some of the more important
and impressive miracles of the Christian
dispensation. Even this faint belief is
manifestly founded more on reverence
for^ tradition, and love of the religion
which the miracles are supposed to sup
port, than on any dispassionate view of
the evidence on which they rest. Tried
by the ordinary rules of evidence, it is
apparent that it is contradictory and
uncertain, and not such as would be
sufficient to establish in a court of law
any ordinary fact, such as the execution
of a deed. It is apparent also that the
evidence for the most crucial and import
ant of all miracles, that of the Ascension,
is not nearly so precise and cogent as
that for. a number of early Christian
and mediaeval miracles which we reject
without hesitation.
What follows? Must we reject these
venerable traditions as old wives’ fables ?
I answer, No; but we can accept them
as parables.
A great deal of the best teaching of the
New Testament is conveyed in the form
of parables. Take for instance that of
Lazarus and Dives. No one supposes
that this.is an historical narrative ; that
this particular Jew, out of the millions
poor and good Jews who have lived
and died, was actually taken up into
Abraham’s bosom j and that the remark
able dialogue across the gulf is a literal
transcript of an actual conversation.
But the moral is taught for all time,
that it is bad for the rich to indulge in
selfish luxury and take no thought of the
mass of poverty and misery weltering
around them ; and that the condition of
the poorest of the poor, borne with piety
and resignation, may really be better
and higher than that of the selfish rich.
Apply the same principle to the dogma of
the.fall and redemption, and we may see
in it a parable of the highest meaning.
Every one of us must be conscious of
having fallen by yielding to temptation
and giving way to animal passions. We
may have fallen so low that without
some redemption, or friendly influence
from without, we cannot raise ourselves
from the lower level and regain our lost
place. We can see that there are thous
ands round us, who, from poverty or
other adverse circumstances, have got
immersed in evil conditions from which
it is hopeless to extricate themselves
without friendly aid. We can see also
that there is nothing more noble and
divine than to make sacrifices in order to
be the redeemer who saves as many souls
as. possible from this entanglement of
pvil, and gives them a chance of rising
into a happier and better life. We may
feel this, and use as an incentive to
attempt some- humble imitation of it,
the parable which presents it to us in its
highest aspect, and has been the efficient
means of stimulating so many good men
to do good works. This is surely better
than paltering with. the truth, and
enervating our conscience and intel
ligence by professing to believe in the
literal historical accuracy of things which
Note.—Since writing this chapter, I have
seen with much pleasure an article entitled
“ Christmas,” by Matthew Arnold, in a recent
number of the Contemporary Review, which
takes exactly the same view of the allegorical
or parabolic sense of miraculous narratives.
He takes the instance of the Immaculate
Conception and Birth of Jesus, and shows
that it was a myth which grew up, almost
inevitably, from the strong impression made
on the minds of early Christians by the idea
of purity set forth by the life and teaching of
Jesus, which stood in such striking contrast
with the corruption of the heathen world.
The same idea led to ,a similar myth in the
case of Gautama, the pure and self-sacrificing
founder of the Buddhist religion, and it
teaches an eternal truth to all who can look
below the letter to the spirit of the parable,
�CHRISTIANITY WITHOUT MIRACLES
have become incredible to all thinking
and educated minds. Of course, I do not
mean that these dogmas and miraculous
narratives were intended by the original
writers to be parables, but only that they
have become so to us .; and the alternative lies between rejecting them altogether or accepting them as having an
allegorical meaning or latent truth, or,
it may be added, as recording the state
of intelligence and knowledge of the age
which produced the stories.
.
At any rate, whether we like it or not,
this is what we shall have to do, for the
conclusions of science are irresistible,
and old forms of faith, however venerable
and however endeared by a thousand
associations, have no more chance m
a collision with science than George
Stephenson’s cow had if it stood on the
rails and tried to stop the progress of a
locomotive. It is not enough to say that
a thing is lovely and amiable, and that
its loss will leave a blank, to ensure its
continuance. The law of Nature is progress and not happiness. Stars, suns,
planets, human individuals, and human
races have their periods of youth,
maturity, and decay, and are continually
being transformed into new phases.
The old order changes, giving place to new,
And God fulfils Himself in many ways.
Childhood, with its innocence and
engaging ways, passes into the sterner
and more prosaic attributes of the grown
up man ; fancy decays as reason ripens ;
simple faith is replaced by larger know
ledge ; and the smooth brow of infancy
becomes often marred by wrinkles of
strife and suffering, impressed during the
more or less successful struggle in the
battle of life ; and yet we could not if we
would, and would not if we could, arrest
the progress of Nature, and say that the
child shall never grow into a man.
Such also is the fate of creeds. They
must be transformed or die ; and the
best test of the vitality and intrinsic
truth of a religion is just that capacity
for transformation against which theo
logians exclaim as sacrilege. In this
respect Christianity has a great ad
vantage over other religions. The pious
souls who are shocked at any denial of
the inspiration of Scripture may console
themselves by considering what has been
the fate of other religions which have been
107
imprisoned too closely within the limits
iof a sacred book. Mahometanism, the
<religion of one God and a succession of
iprophets or great men who have taught
]
his doctrines, is not in theory . incon
Jsistent with progress and civilisation.
►But Mahomet unfortunately, wrote a
book, the Koran, which, while, it con
I
tained much that to the Arab mind was
sublime and beautiful, was of necessity
f
}impregnated with the ideas of the age
he
of much
1in which and lived; an age imperfect
ignorance
superstition, of
isocial arrangements, and of barbarous
s
and ferocious manners. This book came
<
to be accepted as the inspired word of
1Allah, which it was impious to question,
to which nothing could be added, and
•from which nothing could be taken
away. Hence Mahometanism has be
come what we see it—a narrow and
1
fanatical creed, incompatible with pro
:gress and free thought, and stereotyping
•
institutions, such as polygamy and
slavery, which are fatal to any advance
>
towards a higher civilisation. From this
fate Christianity has been saved by the
fortunate circumstance that its. sacred
books are collections of a variety of
writings of different authors and dif
ferent ages, reflecting such various and
often conflicting phases of thought and
belief that of necessity their interpreta
tion was very elastic, and lent itself
readily to the changes required by the
spirit of successive periods and of dif
ferent nationalities. Wherever for a
time a system of infallibility was en
forced, as in Spain by the Inquisition,
Christianity became cruel, barbarous,
unprogressive, and really very little
better than the religion of Islam, to
which it closely approximated. Decay
of faith, therefore, in dogmatic Christi
anity is, like other great revolutions of
thought, a question, not of absolute gain
nor absolute loss, but of a balance between
conflicting advantagesand disadvantages.
The loss is evident enough, and is set
forth with much eloquence and force by
the few remaining champions, of ortho
doxy. The simple, undoubting faith,
which has been for ages the support and
consolation of a large portion ot mankind,
especially of the wTeak, the humble, and
the unlearned, who form an immense
majority, cannot disappear without a
painful wrench, and leaving, for a time,
a great blank behind. But, on the other
�108
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
hand, there are a great many real and
important advantages which have to be
set on the credit side of the account.
Intolerance is the shadow which dogs
the footsteps of faith, and in many cases
more than obscures its benefits. When
we. consider the mass of human misery
which has been occasioned by religious
wars and persecutions ; as in the ruth
less extirpation of the Albigenses ; the
slaughter of the saints
whose bones
Lie scattered on the Alpine mountains cold ;
the Thirty Years’ War, which desolated
Germany and threw civilisation back for
a century ; the civil wars of France ; the
Spanish Inquisition; and a thousand
other instances of the baleful effects of
religious hatreds, we can almost sympa
thise with those who pronounce religion
an invention of priests for the promotion
of evil, and exclaim with the Roman
poet:
Religio tantum potuit suadere malorum.
Athanasian Creed less, but we practise
Christian charity more, in the present
than in any former age.
Another great advantage is that as
freer thought has been brought to bear on
the mysteries of religion, we have purged
off the grosser ideas, and arrived at much
more enlarged and spiritual conceptions,
lake, for instance, prayer and sacrifice.
In its crude form, sacrifice was a sort of
bargain struck with an unseen Power, by
which we noped to obtain some favour
which we greatly desired, in exchange
for giving up something which we
greatly valued. ■ This is the form in
which sacrifice appears in the Old
Testament, in Abraham’s offer to kill
his son Isaac, and in the record of the
Moabitish stone, how the king, when
besieged in his capital, sacrificed his son,
and by so doing obtained the favour of his
God and defeated his enemies. In an
other form, sacrifice was considered as a
propitiation to appease the anger of an
offended Deity, pictured as a sort of
Oriental despot, who must have some
one for a victim, and was not particular
who. it might be; and even in the
Christian dogma the merit of the sacrifice
is very closely analogous to that of the
Mayor of Calais who went out to King
Edward with a halter round his neck,
ready to be hanged, so that he might save
the lives of his fellow-citizens.
Nowadays, 'no one thinks of sacrifice
as anything but the sacrifice of lower
instincts, and passing temptations to a
higher ideal, and the voluntary re
nunciation of selfish ease and pleasure
for the good of others.
In like manner, the original idea of
! prayer was that, of obtaining a request
by flattery or importunity, just as a
courtier might do at the court of some
earthly king of kings or sultan. It is
now spiritualised into the conception
that its effect is entirely subjective ; that
it never really obtains any reversal of the
laws of Nature, but that it often exalts the
mind to a frame in which things otherwise
impossible become possible. A German
regiment marches to battle singing
Luther’s grand old hymn—
To this must be added the misery
caused by the belief in demonology and
witchcraft, and the tortures inflicted on
innumerable innocent victims by pre
judices inspired by a literal construction
of passages of the Old Testament. Nor
is it a small matter to have escaped from
the nightmare dreams which must have
oppressed so many minds, especially of
the young and imaginative, in an age
when such a book as Dante’s “Inferno”
could be written, and accepted as a gleam
of prophetic insight into the horrors of
the invisible world.
. Even in more recent and humane
times, intolerance remained as a general
mode of thought, inspiring hatred of
those whose form of belief differed from
that which was generally adopted. It is
only within the present generation that
true tolerance has come to be established
as the law of modern thought, and that
men have learned to live together and
love one another, without reference to
intellectual differences of creed and doc
trine. Surely this is a great advantage,
and.we are nearer to the true spirit of
Christianity than in the days when a
Em feste Burg ist unser Gott.
Birmingham mob sacked Priestley’s house
because he professed his belief in the Half the regiment may be freethinkers,
saying of Jesus, that “my Father is but it is nevertheless true that they are
greater than I.” We may read the more likely to stand firm and win the
�CHRISTIANITY WITHOUT MIRACLES
victory if they chant the hymn, than if
they march in silence.
taking all these things into account,
there is no reason to despair because the
irresistible progress of science has made us
Falter where we firmly trod,
and changed a great deal of what was
once fixed and certain faith into vague
aspirations and less definite, though
larger and more spiritual, conceptions.
There is next to no theology in the
Christianity of the Synoptic Gospels,
which give us by far the nearest and
most authentic record of what its
founder actually taught; and it may be
that in sloughing-off the mythical legends
®nd metaphysical dogmas which have
grown up around it, we shall be, . in
reality, not banishing the Christian
religion from the world, but making it
revert to its more simple and spiritual
ancestral type, in which form all that is
really valuable in its pure and elevated
morality may be incorporated more
readily with practical life, and assimi
lated without difficulty with the pro
gressive evolution of modern thought
and science.
At the same time we must bear in
mind that even Christianity in its purest
form does not escape from the universal
law of polarity, and presents, not the
whole truth, but only one very important
side of truth. It is the religion of love,
purity, gentleness, and charity ; im
portant virtues, but not all that con
stitute the perfection of men or nations.
In fact, if carried to the “falsehood of
Extremes,” its very virtues become vices.
It would not work in practice, if smitten
on one cheek to turn the other ; and any
one who attempted to follow literally the
precept of “taking no thought for the
morrow,” and trusting to be fed like the
sparrows, would, in modern society, come
dangerously near being what we call in
Scotland a “ne’er-do-weel,” that is to
say, a soft, molluscous sort of creature,
who is a burden on his friends, and ends
his days as a pensioner on charity or a
writer of begging letters. The foremost
men and foremost races of modern society
are precisely those who act on the opposite
principle, and do look ahead and steer
wisely and boldly amidst dangers and
difficulties for distant and definite ends.
In one of the old Norse sagas there is a
109
saying which has always impressed me
greatly. An aged warrior, when asked
what he thought of the new religion,
replied: “ I have heard a great deal of talk
of the old Odin and of the new Christ,
but whenever things have come to a real
pinch, I have always found that my
surest trust was in my own right arm
and good sword.”
This strong self-reliance and hardy
courage to do or to endure is, beyond all
doubt, the solid rock foundation upon
which the manly character of individuals
and of nations must be built up. The
softer virtues and graces which are to
refine and adorn, and convert the man
into the gentle man, or one of Nature’s
true gentlemen, come afterwards. But
without the harder gifts of courage and
self-help, a man is not a man, and the
raw material is not there out of which to
fashion a Gordon or Christian hero.
This may be called the Norse pole
as contrasted with the pole of Chris
tianity, and the perfect man is he who
can stand firmly between the two oppo
sites, controlling both while controlled
by neither.
While I have thought it right, however,
to call attention to this counter-pole to
Christianity, I should add that with the
strong, practical Teutonic races there is
not much danger of erring on the side of
too much weakness, humility, or asceti
cism, and therefore the influence of the
Christian religion makes mainly for good.
Modern civilisation has been formed, to
a great extent, by grafting the gentler
virtues of the Gospel on the robust
primitive stock of the barbarians who
overthrew Rome. It is the example and
teaching of Jesus, the son of the car
penter of Nazareth, which have been
mainly instrumental in diffusing ideas of
divine love, charity, and purity through
out the world, and humanising the iron
clad and iron-souled warriors, whose
trust was in their stout hearts and strong
right arms, and who knew no law but
The simple plan,
That he should take who has the power,
And he should keep who can.
In another respect it is most important
that the world should, as far and as long
as possible, hold on to Christianity and
struggle to save its essential spirit from
the shipwreck of its theology, and from
�110
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
the sheer impossibility of believing in been dissolved by death and no longer
the literal and historical truth of many exist. We know as little in the way of
of its dogmas.
accurate and demonstrable knowledge of
The highest and most consoling beliefs our condition after death as we do of our
of the human mind are to a great extent existence—if we had an existence—before
bound up with the Christian religion. birth.
If we ask ourselves frankly how much,
If we turn for an answer to these
apart from this religion, would remain of questions from science to metaphysics,
faith in a God and in a future state of we find ourselves in cloud-land. Mists
existence, the answer must be, very of fine phrases and plausible conjectures
little. Science traces everything back condense into philosophies, and dissolve?
to primeval atoms and germs, and there away again without leaving a vestige
it leaves us. How came these atoms and of positive knowledge. Take Descartes’
energies there, from which this wonderful famous fundamental axiom, “ Cogito,
universe of worlds has been evolved by ergo sum,”—I think, therefore I am. Is
inevitable laws ? What are they in their it really an axiom 1 Does it take us any
essence, and what do they mean ? The nearer to what thought really is, and
only answer is, it is unknowable. It is what is the true meaning of existence ?
“ behind the veil,” and may be anything. If the fact that I am conscious of think
Spirit may be matter, matter may be ing proves the fact that I exist, is the
spirit. We have no faculties by which converse true, that whatever does not
we can even form a conception, from any think does not exist ? Am I existent
discoveries of the telescope or microscope, or non-existent during the seven or
from any experiments in the laboratory, eight hours of dreamless sleep out of
or from any facts susceptible of real every twenty-four, when to a certainty
human knowledge, of what may be the I am not thinking? Does a child only
first cause underlying all these phe begin to exist when it begins to think ?
nomena.
If “Cogito, ergo sum,” is an intuition
In like manner we can already to a to which we can trust, why is not
great extent, and probably in a short “ Non cogito, ergo non sum,” an equally
time shall be able to the fullest extent, good foundation on which to build a
to trace the whole development of life system of philosophy, and spin out of
from the lowest to the highest; from the brain an ideal system of God, man,
protoplasm, through monera, infusoria, and the universe 1
mollusca, fish, reptile, and mammal, up i The so-called intuitions of metaphysics
to man—and the individual man from I seem really to amount to little more than
the microscopic egg, through the various translations into philosophical language
stages of its evolution up to birth, of our own earnest wishes and aspirachildhood, maturity, decline, and death. I tions. We shudder at the notion of anWe can trace also the development of the ! nihilation ; we revolt at the idea that all
human race through enormous periods of the high faculties of the mature and cultime, from the rudest beginnings up to tivated mind are to be extinguished by
its present level of civilisation, and show death ; we long for a future life, in. which
how arts, languages, morals, and religions we may again see beloved faces, and,
have been evolved gradually by natural pondering on these things, we have a
laws from primitive elements, many of strong impression that it must not and
which are common in their ultimate form cannot be, which presently takes the
to man and the animal creation.
form, in some minds of a philosophical
But here also science stops. Science turn, of what is called an intuition, on
can give no account of how these germs which they proceed to build up a demon
and nucleated cells, endowed with these stration of God and immortality.
marvellous capacities for evolution, came
But, again, what do they really know
into existence or got their intrinsic more than science has already told us?
powers. Nor can science enable us to The essence of all spiritual existence, as
form the remotest conception of what far as we know anything of it, is per
will become of life, consciousness, and sonal consciousness. This clearly depends
conscience, when the material conditions on, or is indissolubly associated with, a
with which they are always associated certain condition of a material organ—
while within human experience, have i the brain. With a less active condition
�CHRISTIANITY WITHOUT MIRACLES
of this organ, as in sleep, personal con
sciousness is suspended. In. the case of
a man recovered from drowning by arti
ficial means, it is gone, and the man is to
all intents and purposes dead for per
haps a quarter of an hour, and would
remain dead if warm blankets and arti
ficial respiration did not recall him. to
life. Where and what was he. during
this interval ? and, if his personal identity
and conscious existence were gone for
that quarter of an hour, why and when
did they return ? and, if the Humane
Society’s men had been less prompt,
would they ever have returned 1
These are questions to which no meta
physical system that I have ever seen
can return the semblance of an answer.
Again, how is it possible for philosophy
to lay down as an axiom that man has
an intuitive perception of a Deity, in the
face of the fact that whole races of savage
men have no such perception, and have
not got beyond rude fetichism and a vague
superstitious fear of ghosts and evil
spirits, while others, further advanced,
have made their own anthropomorphic
gods, obviously from reflections of their
own faculties and passions on the distant
mists of the unknown, like the spectres
of the Brocken ? We can trace the idea
of Deity, step by step, from early attempts
to explain phenomena of nature, astro
nomical, legendary, and linguistic myths,
and reverence for departed ancestors ana
heroes, up to the philosophical concep
tions of a Plato or a Marcus Aurelius.
In the same way we can trace, step by
step, the transformation of the tribal
God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, into
the national God of Israel, who was
at first only better and stronger than the
gods of the surrounding nations, but
finally became the sole God of the uni
verse, degrading the other gods to the
category of dumb idols. So, also, we can
see the first crude anthropomorphic con
ceptions of this Deity gradually giving
way to purer and nobler ideas. The God
who required rest on the seventh day
becomes the Almighty one at whose word
all things were created. The jealous and
cruel God who withdrew His favour from
the chivalrous Saul, because he would
not hew his captives in pieces before the
Lord, is transformed into the God who
“loves mercy and not sacrifice.” The
God who found after His own heart the
man whose depraved mind could con
111
ceive such an act of foul villainy as David
practised towards Uriah, and who not
only condoned the crime, but rewarded
it by giving the succession to the son of
the adulterous intercourse with Bath
sheba, has become the God of holy love
and purity of the New Testament. At
which of these stages entered that, philo
sophical intuition of God which is said
to be an innate faculty of the human
mind, and the surest base of all our know
ledge of the universe? Where is the
inevitable intuitive perception of a per
sonal Deity in the minds of some of the
deepest thinkers and purest livers of the
present day, who, like Herbert Spencer,
can discern nothing behind the veil but
a great unspeakable and unknowable ?
After all, we must fall back on Chris
tianity for any grounds upon which to
trust, more or less faintly, in the “ larger
hope.” The Christian religion, apart from
auy question of miracles, is an existing
fact. It is a fact which for nineteen cen
turies has proved, on the whole, in accord
ance with other facts and with the deepest
feelings and highest aspirations of the
noblest men and women of the foremost
races in the progressive march of civili
sation. Why do we say that its moral
teachings, such as we find in the Sermon
on the Mount, and in St. Paul’s definition
of Christian charity, carry conviction
with them and prove themselves ? Be
cause they accord with, and. give the
best expression to, feelings which, in the
course of evolution of the human mind
from barbarism to civilisation, have be
come instinctive. We may be able to
trace their origin and development, we
may be able to see that they are not
primary instincts, implanted, at birth,
like those of the lower animals, but
secondary instincts, formed by the action
of a civilised environment on hereditary
aptitudes. Still, there they are, and being
what they are, and living in the age and
society in which we actually live, they
are inevitable and necessary instincts,
and it requires no train of reasoning or
laboured reflection to make us feel that
“ right is right,” and that it is better for
ourselves and others to act on such pre
cepts as those of “ loving our neighbours
as ourselves,” and “doing as we would
be done by,” rathei’ than to reverse these
rules and obey the selfish promptings of
animal nature Of the same order, though
less clear and cogent, are the teachings of
�112
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
the Gospel respecting God and immorta
lity. They are less clear and less cogent,
because the only evidence by which they
could be demonstrated from without, that
of miracles, has broken down and failed
us; and because we cannot verify them
experimentally by an appeal to facts, as
we can in regard to the working of moral
laws and precepts. But it still remains
that they are ideas which have arisen
inevitably in the course of the evolution
of the human mind ; and that they fit in
with and satisfy, in a way which no other
ideas can do, many of the best and deepest
feelings which have equally been deve
loped in that mind, in the course of its
progressive ascent from lower to higher
things.. It remains also true that science,
while it can add nothing to this proof,
takes nothing from it, and that while
it excludes miracles and supernatural
interference after the order of the uni
verse has been once established, it leads
us back step by step to a great Unknown,
in which, from the very fact that it is
unknown, everything is possible.
Further than this it is not possible to
carry the proof. If we are to believe at
all in a God, we must be content to believe
that He knows better than we do what
is right and consistent with the conditions
of our own existence and that of the
universe ; and that part of the scheme is
that at a certain stage of the develop
ment of our race we should have to
exchange the certainty , of simple and
limited faith for the fainter trust in a
larger hope. We may, perhaps, dimly
discern something analogous in the
progress of each individual from child
hood to manhood. He has to part with
many a «simple belief and unhesitating
trust, and climb the hill of life staggering
under many a burden of doubt and
difficulty; and yet it is better for him
to “set a stiff heart to a steep brae,”
and struggle upwards while life is in him
rather than to remain an innocent child
playing at its foot.
Anyhow, whether we like it or not, this
is. the fact we have to accept; but the
hill is steep, the burden heavy, and we
may well be grateful to anything which,
however vaguely, helps and cheers us
on the way. From this point of view,
the ideas of God and of a future life
taught by the Christian religion, ac
cepted by so many good men, and
hallowed by so many venerable traditions
and. sacred associations, should be
cherished, as far as it is possible to do
so without shutting our eyes to facts
and indulging in conscious insincerity.
For the same reason we shall do well
to be tender with the forms and creeds
2* religion, even when they appear
to be getting obsolete, and their strict
and literal interpretation becomes no
longer consistent with known truths.
It is far better, that the transformation
requisite to bring them into accordance
with the evolution of modern thought
caused by the discoveries of science,
should take place gradually and spon
taneously from within, ratherthanforcibly
and abruptly from without. Evolutionists
specially ought to trust to the healing
influences of time, and the inevitable
though gradual survival of that which
is. most in harmony with its existing en
vironment.
Already a great deal has been quietly
done in this direction. Intolerance and
fanaticism have almost disappeared from
cultured minds. Even in the ranks
of the. clergy themselves, many, in all
denominations, are devoting themselves
more and more to good works, and less
to theological disputes and sectarian
wranglings.
The metaphysical side of Christian
dogma is fast receding into the far
distance. The Athanasian Creed, which
once convulsed, empires and occupied a
foremost place in the thought of the age,
has become a mere form, read once or
twice a year by lukewarm preachers to
indifferent or scandalised audiences, who
would be only too glad to have a decent
excuse for dropping it out of sight alto
gether. Let any sincere Christian put to
himself candidly the question what part
the “Holy Ghost,” or the definition of
the. Logos,”really has in the living faith
which guides his actions, and he will be
astonished to find into what infinitesimal
proportions these once vital dogmas
have actually faded. It will be the same
with all dogmas which, in their literal
and historical interpretation, contradict
established facts. They will be either
forgotten, or, if they contain a kernel of
spiritual meaning, will be transformed
into truths taught by parables.
In the meantime, it behoves those who
see more clearly than others the absolute
certainty of the conclusions of science,
and the inevitably fatal results to
�PRACTICAL LIFE
Wigion of staking its existence on literal
interpretations which have become flatly
incredible, to do their best to assist the
■ransformation of the old dogmatic theo
logy into a new “ Christianity without
jtoiracles,” which shall retain the essential
spirit, the pure morality, the consoling
beliefs, and, as far as possible, the vener
able forms and sacred associations of the
old faith, while placing them in thorough
accordance with freedom of thought, and
with the whole body of other truths,
d&covered and to be discovered, respect
ing the universe and man.
CHAPTER X
PRACTICAL LIFE
Conscience—Right is Right—Self-reverence
—Courage—Respectability—Influence of
Press—Respect for Women—Self-respect of
Nations—Democracy and Imperialism—Self - knowledge—Conceit— Luck— Specula
tion—Money-making—Practical Aims of
Life—Self-control—Conflict of Reason and
Instinct—Temper—Manners—Good Habits
in Youth—Success in Practical Life—Edu
cation—Stoicism—Conclusion.
Self-reverence, self-knowledge, self-control,
These three alone lead life to sovereign power.
Yet not for power (power of herself
Would come uncalled for) but to live by law,
Acting the law we live by without fear ;
And, because right is right, to follow right
Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.
Tennyson, (Enone.
In these lines, which he puts into the
mouth of the goddess of wisdom, Tenny
son, the.same poet who has already con
densed the essence of modern thought
in the lines already quoted from “In
Memoriam,” gives us what may be well
palled “ the Gospel of practical life.” It is
clearly our highest wisdom to follow right,
Hot from selfish calculation or hope of
reward, but because “ right is right ” ; in
other words, because we have a standard
pvithin us which tells us, in an unmis
takable voice, what to do and what to
refrain from doing. For practical pur
poses, it is comparatively unimportant
how this standard got there ; whether,
Recording to old creeds, by direct inspira
113
tion or, as modern science tells us, by
the slow evolution of primitive faculties,
and the accumulation through countless
generations of hereditary influences
tending towards the survival of the
fittest, both of individuals and of
societies, in the struggle for life. In either
case the standard is there, not as a vague
and theoretical, but as an absolute and
imperative, rule, and the difficulty is not
to discern it, but to act up to it.
It may be that it is to a great extent
the product of education, and depends on
the environment in which we are brought
up. It is pretty certain that if I had bees
kidnapped when a child by Comanche
Indians, I should have grown up with a
very different moral standard touching
the taking of scalps and the practice of
treacherous murder. But I have not
been so kidnapped, and having been
born and brought up in a civilised country
of the nineteenth century, it is inevitable
that outward influences combined with
inward capacities should give me a con
science, which tells me in clear enough
accents whether I am doing right or
wrong. And it is equally certain that by
acting in accordance with this conscience^
I shall, on the whole, be doing better for
myself and better for others than by
disregarding it. It is none too easy to
make our life even a tolerable approxi
mation towards doing right for the sake
of right, and it would be folly to
allow any theoretical considerations as
to the origin of the idea of right to be an
excuse for relaxing any of the constant
and strenuous effort which is requisite to
keep our feet from straying from the
straight path. It is much wiser to cast
around us for influences and inducements
to strengthen the inward law, and to en*
deavour by clear insight to .bring reason
to the aid of faith, and enable us to see
intelligently the main causes both of our
weakness and of our strength.
This is what the poet does for us in the
lines above quoted. Rightly considered,
“self-reverence, self-knowledge, and self
control ” are the three pillars which sup
port the edifice of a wise and well-ordered
practical life.
Self-reverence, in its widest meaning,
includes the faculty of forming some
ideal standard superior to the lower
nature of animal man, and recognising
in ourselves some power of approximat
ing to it. The higher the standard the
I
�114
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
nobler will be the man who cherishes it
and tries to attain to it, but it is by no
means a rare gift confined to a few select
natures. On the contrary, it is the com
monest and most universal incentive to
good conduct. Even in the rudest and
simplest form of admiration for physical
courage, it makes heroes of many a
common soldier and sailor. If poor
Tommy Atkins, fresh from the plough
tail, stands firm in the shattered squares
of Waterloo, or on the bloody ridge of
Inkermann, it is because he has been
brought up in the fixed idea that a Briton
must not run away from a Frenchman or
a Russian.
In civil life the idea of respectability,
though not a very elevated one and apt
to degenerate into narrowness, and that
which Carlyle and Arnold sneer at as
“ Gigmanity ” and “ Philistinism,” is yet
one of universal and, on the whole, bene
ficial influence. A large majority of the
middle and upper working classes lead
decorous lives very much because they
feel it incumbent on them to be “re
spectable ” in their own eyes and those
of their neighbours. In the case of one
half of the human race, the female half,
the feeling of self-respect and the desire
to be what is called respectable afford the
strongest and most constantly present
securities both for good morals and good
manners. The immense majority of
British women are modest maidens and
faithful wives, not so much from any
cold calculation of the balance of ad
vantages, or from fear of consequences,
as from an instinctive feeling that they
cannot be otherwise without losing caste
and forfeiting their own self-respect and
that of their neighbours.
From these common and universal
forms of “ self-reverence ” we rise, step
by step, to the higher ideals, which, in
every rank and every condition of life,
give us among gifted natures what may
De called the “salt of the earth,” and the
shining examples which guide the world
to higher things—noble men and noble
women. A Sidney, dying on the field of
Zutphen, hands over the cup of water
to a wounded soldier because his soul,
nourished on noble thoughts, and his
fancy, fed by the old ballads which, like
that of “ Chevy Chase,” stirred him like
a trumpet-blast, had led him to conceive
an ideal of a perfect knight which would
have been tarnished by any shade of a
selfish action. Gordon sacrifices his life
at Khartoum, not only cheerfully but
almost instinctively, because the sugges
tion that he might save himself by
abandoning those who had trusted in
him seems an absolute impossibility.
It is a great advantage of the present
day that education and the press bring
such instances of devoted heroism vividly
before millions who would never other
wise have heard of them. The influence
of the press, both in the way of books
and newspapers, is happily in this country
almost entirely one which makes for
good. There is not a noble act done
throughout the world, by high or low, by
private or officer, by soldier or civilian,
which is not held up for praise and
admiration ; while any signal instance of
cowardice or selfishness is held up to
contempt. Newspaper correspondence
and leading articles have, to a great ex
tent, superseded sermons, and do the prac
tical moral work of the world in asserting
the right and rebuking wickedness in
high places. In like manner all the
higher works of poetry, fiction, and
biography, have a good tendency, and are
read by an ever-increasing number of
readers. Enid and Elaine, Jeanie Deans,
Laura Pendennis, Lucy Roberts, are the
sort of models set before girls ; while
boys who have any heroic fibre in their
nature are fed with such lives as those
of Lawrence and Gordon. For all, but
especially for the young, there is no help
to self-improvement so great as to read
good, books in a generous spirit; and
nothing which dwarfs the mind so much
as to debauch it by frivolous reading, and
by the moral dram-drinking of sensational
rubbish, until it loses all natural and
healthy appetite for the pure and ele
vated. An affectation of narrow know
ingness is also a very fatal tendency in
the youthful mind. A man from whose
mouth such words as “rot’’and “hum
bug” are constantly heard is, in nine
cases out of ten, a very poor, rotten
creature himself.
Among the many advantages of selfrespect, not the least important is that it
teaches respect for others. The petty
jealousies and suspicions, the senseless
quarrels, theslanderings and backbitings,
which so often turn sour the wine of life,
disappear of themselves when a proper
standard of self-respect has been firmly
established, and a high ideal of human
�PRACTICAL LIFE
life has become part of our nature. As
Tennyson says:
Like simple noble natures credulous
Of what they wish for, good in friend or
foe;
while on the other hand • '
The long-necked geese of the world
Are always hissing dispraise, because their
natures are little.
There are some who delight in running
down everything and everybody, and
whose appetite for scandal is so great
that they are positively unable to re
frain from believing and spreading an
ill-natured tale, if it affects some emi
nent man, and still more if it affects
a well-known woman. Such are as
suredly not the sort of persons whom we
should like to resemble ourselves, or to
see our sons and daughters resemble. I
have always found through life, a safe
rule to go by was, if you hear an illnatured story of a man, discount ninetenths of it as a lie, and if of a woman,
don’t believe a word of it.
Perhaps the best test of the amount of
real “self-reverence” in an individual or
a nation, is to be found in the tone and
manner in which women are treated. A
low toneinvariablybespeaks a low nature,
and testifies to innate coarseness and
snobbishness, however high may be the
rank and polished the outward varnish
of the person who indulges in it. On the
other hand the roughest miner or back
woodsman is already more than half a
gentleman, if his attitude towards women
is one of chivalrous courtesy. Nothing
looks more hopeful for the future of the
human race than to see that the female
half of it are constant gainers by the
progress of freedom and education. It
goes a long way to reconcile one to the
dangers of democracy, to find that in the
newest and most democratic countries of
the world, such as the United States and
British colonies, women can travel alone
without fear of insult, and have far more
innocent liberty and freedom of thought
and action than they have in older
societies. Whatever may be the case as
regards men, for women there can be no
doubt that there is a progressive scale
upwards from East to West, from despot
ism to freedom, from Turkey to America.
What has been said of individuals is
115
even more true of nations. Self-respect
is the very essence of national life. A great
nation may suffer great disasters, and
survive them, if the spirit of its people
remains intact. England survived the
war of American independence, and
Prussia recovered from the defeat of Jena.
But if a nation loses its vigour and selfrespect, if it begins to groan under the
burdens of extended empire, and to pre
fer comfort to honour, ignoble ease to
noble effort, the hour of its decline has
sounded. Imperial Rome did not long
survive when she began to contract her
frontiers and buy off barbarians. The
most fatal thing any Government can do
for a country is to destroy its sense of
self-respect and teach it to acquiesce in
what is felt to be dishonourable.
Looking forward to the future of the
great British Empire, this is evidently a
turning-point of its destinies. The tri
umph of democracy is an inevitable fact;
for knowledge is power, and whether
for good or evil, the masses have either
acquired, or are fast acquiring know
ledge, and with equal political rights
numbers will tell. How will this demo
cracy of the future affect Imperial
interests, and what will be its attitude
in regal’d to foreign and colonial policy ?
On the one hand it may be hoped
that by making our institutions more
popular, and going down to the heart of
the masses, our policy will acquire fresh
energy and our public men fresh vigour.
The working classes are very patriotic,
and, on the whole, more open to the in
fluence of generous ideas than the class
immediately above them. In the recent
instance of the great civil war in the
United States, we have seen a democracy
making greater sacrifices of men and
moneyfor theideaof maintaining national
greatness, than was probably ever volun
tarily made by any monarchical or aristo
cratic country. The Copper-heads, who
preached peace where there was no
peace, and advised letting the erring
sisters go their way rather than spend
lives and money in the attempt to coerce
them, found no response from a nation
who felt that the union was their union,
and its greatness the separate personal
possession of each individual citizen.
But, on the other hand, demagogues
will never be wanting to flatter the
people, and angle for power by appeal
ing to their lower instincts and advoi 2
�116
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
eating measures of present ease and
popularity. If a necessity arises for
maintaining by the sword an empire
which has been won by the sword, the
army of parochial politicians who gauge
everything by the standard of pounds,
shillings, and pence, will be reinforced
by the far more respectable body of
sentimentalists and humanitarians, who
shrink from the shedding of blood in
wars the abstract justice of which is not
absolutely demonstrated. A large num
ber, perhaps a majority, of platform
orators will therefore be found now, as
it was in the days of Demosthenes, to de
nounce armaments, ridicule precautions,
minimise responsibilities, and look upon
India, the Colonies, and extended empire
generally, as troublesome encumbrances
rather than as glorious possessions. The
t wo conflicting ideals constantly set be
fore our future political rulers, the four
millions whose votes decide the fate of
policies and of ministries, will be, on the
one hand, that our first duty is to hand
down the British Empire to our sons no
less great and glorious than we received
it from pur fathers ; on the other, that
it is better to stay at home, mind our
own affairs, avoid entanglements, con
tract responsibilities, pass reform bills,
and reduce taxes, trusting to the “silver
streak ” and the chapter of accidents to
protect us from invasion. It is the old
story of the fable of Hercules, which pre
sents itself constantly to each individual
and to every nation. Shall we follow the
strait and narrow path which leads up
wards, or the broad and easy one which
leads, with a pleasant slope, to a lower
level 1 Would it have been better for'
Paris to give the golden apple to Minerva,
counselling “ self-reverence, self-know
ledge, self-control,” or to Venus, promising
pleasure ?
SELF-KNOWLEDGE
Oh wad some Power the giftie gie us
To see oursels as ithers see us !
Burns.
A gift -which is unfortunately as rare
as it is necessary. Without self-know
ledge to see our faults how shall we
correct them ? How shall we become
wise if insensible to our follies ? How shall
we achieve success if we learn no lessons
from cur failures ? There are some men
so blinded by vanity that they go through
life committing ungentlemanly actions
while fancying themselves perfect gentle
men ; who are convinced that all men
admire them and all women are in love
with them, while in reality every one
sees through them and laughs at them.
A thoroughly impervious vanity is like
a waterproof, which throws off the
wholesome rain on the outside, while on
the inside it is soaked with unhealthy
exhalations.
Fortunately this type of vanity is not
a common one with our English race,
who are too proud and self-reliant to feel
the petty anxiety of the really vain man
to be always shining in the eyes of others.
With us it takes more the form of priding
ourselves on artificial distinctions, and
attaching an exaggerated importance to
matters of trivial importance. Your
commonplace English swell, for instance,
is apt to class all mankind under two
categories—those who associate with lords
and wear clothes of a fashionable cut,
and those who do not, and to set down all
the former as the “ right sort,” and all
the latter as “ brutes.”
It is a sign of narrowness to make a
fetich of these or any other arbitrary
distinctions between an upper ten and the
rest of mankind, and self-knowledge is
never more required than to show the
hollowness of adventitious advantages
which are not supported by intrinsic
merit. A true gentleman feels
The rank is but the guinea stamp,
The man’s the gowd for a’ that,
and feeling this, he holds out the hand of
hearty human sympathy to peasant as
well as to peer. If born to rank and
riches, self-knowledge tells him that he
is simply placed on a pedestal, where,
if he fails to act on the maxim that
“ noblesse oblige,” the failure will be the
more conspicuous. No man who really
knows himself can ever be conceited, for
he must be aware how far he has fallen
short in practice ofhisown idealstandard,
and how constantly “ he has done things
he ought not to have done, and left un
done things he ought to have done ”
On the other hand, there is an opposite
extreme from which self-knowledge will
save a man : that.of undue despondency
and want of proper confidence and selfreliance, There are men who fail ip
�PRACTICAL LIFE
everything they undertake because they
have not the heart to undertake it
resolutely, and who at last sink down into
the hopeless condition of querulous men
tal invalids, who cherish their ailments
rather than combat them, and are rather
proud than otherwise to be considered as
interesting victims of untoward circum
stances.
For all the relations of practical life the
one essential requisite of success is to see
things as they really are, and not as we
wish them to be ; and for this purpose
self-knowledge is the foundation of clear
insight. If the focus of the glass is
wrongly adjusted it will show only dis
torted images, but if a clear eye looks
through a properly focussed glass, out
ward objects will be truly represented.
Perhaps the commonest of all delusions
is that of being born under a lucky star.
A man gambles, bets, or speculates be
cause he thinks he is lucky and sure to
win. Now, there is in reality no such
thing as luck, it is all a question of
averages. The only approach to what
may be called luck is, that a fool will
probably have more of it than a wise
man, for as the fool foresees nothing,
whenever fortune’s die turns up in his
favour he sets it down to luck, while the
wise man, who has schemed and worked
for the event, calls it foresight. But the
actual average of events, which depend
entirely on chance, will be the same.
If a man plays at rouge et noir with
one chance in a hundred in favour of the
bank, it is certain that if he plays often
enough, he will lose his capital once at
least for every hundred times he plays.
Or, if he speculates on the Stock
Exchange, the turn of the market and
broker’s commission will, in the long run,
certainly swallow up his original capital.
And yet men will gamble and speculate,
because they cannot resist the pleasing
illusion that they are lucky, and that it
would be very nice to win a large stake
without having had to work for it.
There is nothing for which self-know
ledge is more indispensable in practical
life than to enable a man to steer a
straight course between opposite ex
tremes, and to discern clearly the boun
dary line between right and wrong. The
law of polarity, by which things good in
themselves if pushed to extremes become
bad, and every truth develops a corre
II?
sponding error, is of daily and universal
application in practical affairs.
Take, for instance, the much-debated
question of the pursuit of money. Poets
and novelists are never tired of denounc
ing the “ Auri sacra fames,” and there is
no doubt that, when carried to excess, it
is the fertile source of crime ; and even
in a less degree, it leads to meanness and
dishonesty, and has a degrading influence
on the individual or the nation who give
themselves up too exclusively to the
worship of the “almighty dollar.” But,
on the other hand, the desire, or rather
the necessity under the conditions of
civilised society, of making money, is by
far the most powerful and all-pervading
influence of practical life. And, within
due bounds and under proper conditions,
it is a healthy and beneficial influence.
At the lowest stage it obliges men to
work instead of being idle, and this is
an immense advantage both to the com
munity and to the individual. An idle
man, in every grade of society, is
generally a worthless and often a bad
man; while an honest working man,
whether the work be of the head or
hand, is far more likely to be happy
and respectable.
Again, the necessity of earning money
is a wonderful test of the real value of
a man in the world’s market. We should
be all very apt to become pretentious
wind-bags of conceit, if we were not
brought to our senses by the wholesome
douche of having to work for a livelihood.
Many a man who fancies himself intended
for a poet or politician, and some who by
accident of birth or fortune are pitchforked into prominent positions, would
find it difficult to point out any occupa
tion in which they are honestly worth a
couple of hundred a year.
Even in the higher departments of art
and literature, it may be questioned
whether the healthy, natural desire to
turn an honest penny has not inspired
greater works than a morbid appetite
for fame. Shakespeare’s ambition was
to retire to his native town with a
moderate competency ; Walter Scott’s to
become a laird, with a family estate, in
the border-land of the chief of his clan
—“the bold Buccleuch.” And, in the
present day, literature is becoming more
and more an honourable profession,
which men take to, as they do to law
�118
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
or medicine, as a means of earning a
livelihood.
It must always be borne in mind that
under the practical conditions of modern
civilisation, money means not only the
possibility of bare existence, but nearly
all that makes existence tolerablehealth, recreation, culture, and independ
ence. The number and locality of the
rooms a man lives in, the number of cubic
feet, and purity of the air he and his
family breathe, are questions of rent ;
the food they eat, the clothes they wear,
the books they read, the holidays they
enjoy, are all questions of money. And
above all, without money there is no in
dependence. An absolutely penniless
man has to fall back on crime or the
workhouse; a poor man is at the mercy
of a thousand accidents ; sickness, fluc
tuations of trade, caprice of employers,
pressure of creditors, may at any mo
ment reduce him and those who depend
on him to want. It admits of no ques
tion, that the first duty of every one is
to endeavour to raise himself above this
level of ignoble daily cares, and plant
himself in a position where he can face
the present and look forward to the
future with tolerable equanimity. As
we rise in the scale of society the
problem becomes more difficult. Money
making is very apt to be pushed to
excess and lead to gambling and dis
honesty ; while the worship of wealth,
which is perhaps the besetting sin of the
age, is distinctly the cause of much lax
morality and snobbish vulgarity. But
on the other hand, money is power, and
a large fortune honestly acquired and
well spent, gives its possessor unrivalled
opportunities for doing good. He can
assist charities, patronise art, and if
gifted with force of character and fair
abilities may become a legislator and
statesman, and enrol his name in the
annals of his country. It is hard to say
that if a man has an opportunity of
making a large fortune honestly, and
feels that he has it in him to use it nobly,
he should refrain from doing so because
moralists cry “Sour grapes,” and tell
him that riches are deceitful.
But for nothing is “self-knowledge”
more requisite than to enable a man to
see clearly how high he can safely aim,
and what sort of stake he can prudently
play for. The immense majority of man
kind have neither the opportunities nor
the faculties for playing for very high
stakes, and must be contented with the
safe game for moderate and attainable
ends. One such end is within the reach
of almost every one :
To make a happy household clime
For weans and wife,
Is the true pathos and sublime
Of human life.
So says Burns, who has a rare faculty
of hitting the right nail on the head ;
and the ideal he sets before us in these
simple lines is at once the truest and the
most universal. The man who fails in
this is himself a failure; while the man
who by his industry and energy supports
a family in comfort and respectability
according to their station, and who, at
the same time, by control of temper,
kindness, unselfishness, and sweet
reasonableness makes his household a
happy one, may feel, even though fortune
may not have placed him in a position
of higher responsibilities, that he has
not lived in vain, that he has performed
the first duties and tasted the truest
pleasures of mortal existence, and that,
whatever there may be behind the im
penetrable veil, he can face it with head
erect, as one of “Nature’s gentlemen.”
SELF-CONTROL
This is, after all, the vitally import
ant element of a happy and successful
life. The compass may point truly to
the pole, the chart may show the right
channel amidst shoals and rocks, but the
ship will hardly arrive safely in port
Unless the helmsman stands at his post
in all weathers, ready to meet any sheer
of the bow by a timely turn to starboard
or to port. So self-reverence and selfknowledge may point out ever so clearly
the path of duty, unless self-control is
constantly present we shall surely stray
from it. . At every moment of our lives
natural instinct tells us to do one thing,
while reason and conscience tell us to do
another. It is by an effort that we get
up in the morning and go about our
daily work. It is by an effort that we
refrain from indulgences and forego
pleasures, control our passions, restrain
our tempers. The uncultured man is
�PRACTICAL LIFE
violent, selfish, childish ; it is only by the
inherited or acquired practice of self
control that he is transformed into the
civilised man—courteous, considerate,
sensible, and reliable.
The necessity of self-control in all the
more important relations of moral and
practical life is so obvious that it would
be only repeating commonplaces to
enlarge on it. But there is often danger
of its being overlooked, in those minor
morals of conduct which make up the
greater part of life, and determine the
happiness or misery of oneself and
others.
For instance, control over the temper.
A man never shows his cousinship to the
ape so much as when he is in a passion.
The manifestations are so exactly similar
—irrational violence, nervous agitation,
total loss of head, and abdication of all
presence of mind and reasoning power.
To see a grown-up man reduced to the
level of a spoiled child, or of a monkey
who has been disappointed of a nut, is a
spectacle of which it is hard to. say
whether it is more ridiculous or painful.
Even worse than occasional violence is
the habitual ill-temper which makes
life miserable to those who are obliged
to put up with it. We call a man who
strikes a woman or child with his fist a
brute ; what is he if he strikes them
daily and hourly, ten times more cruelly,
with his tongue 1 A ten times greaterbrute. And yet there are men., calling
themselves gentlemen, who do this, either
from sheer brutality of nature, or oftener
from inconsiderateness, coarseness of
fibre, and inability to exercise self
control in minor matters.
There is one very common mistake
made, that of considering relationship
an excuse for rudeness. The members of
a family may relax something of the
stiffness of company manners among
themselves, but they should never forget
that it is just as much ill-breeding to say
a rude thing to a wife, a sister, or a
brother, as it would be to say it to any
other lady or gentleman. In fact, it is
worse, for the other lady can treat you
with contempt and keep out of your way,
while the poor woman who is tied to you
feels it keenly, and has no means of
escape from it. Good manners are, in
practical life, a great part of good
morals ; and there is something to be
119
said for religions which, like the Chinese,
lay down rules of politeness, and make
salvation depend very much on. the ob
servance of rites and ceremonies intended
to ensure courtesy and decorum in the
intercourse of all classes of the com
munity in daily life.
Although not so bad as the indulgence
of a violent or morose temper, a great
deal of unhappiness is caused by a fussy
and fidgety disposition, which makes
mountains out of molehills, and keeps
every one in hot water about trifles. This
is one of the common faults of idleness,
as genuine work both strengthens the
fibre to resist and leaves no time to brood
over petty troubles.
The excuse one commonly hears from
those who give way to these petty
infirmities is, “that they cannot help
it, they are born with thin skins and
excitable tempers.” This is the excuse
of sloth and weakness. If, as the poet
says,
Man is man, and master of his fate,
what sort of an unmanly creature must
he be who cannot master even the
slightest impulse or resist the slightest
temptation, and allows himself to. be
ruffled into a storm by every passing
breath, like a shallow roadside puddle?
If he will not try he certainly will not
learn; but if he will honestly try to
correct faults, he will find it easier
every time, until the fancied impos
sibilities fade away and are forgotten.
A man who is so much afraid of
tumbling off that he will never mount
a horse, may fancy that Nature has dis
qualified him for riding; but for all
that, nine men out of ten, if obliged to
try—say as recruits in a cavalry regi
ment—though they may not all turn out
accomplished horsemen, will all learn to
ride well enough for practical purposes.
It is peculiarly important for the young
to set resolutely about correcting bad
habits and forming good ones, while the
faculties are fresh and the brain supple ;
for, in obedience to the law by which
molecular motions travel by preference
along beaten paths, every year cuts
deeper the channels of thought and
feeling, whether for good or evil. A brain
trained to respond to calls of duty soon
does so with ease and elasticity, just as
�120
MODERN SCIENCE AND MODERN THOUGHT
the muscles of the blacksmith’s arm or of
the ballet-dancer’s leg acquire strength
and vigour by exercise; while, on the
other hand, motion is a pain and selfcontrol an effort to the soft and flabby
limb or brain which has been weakened
by self-indulgence.
It is scarcely necessary to say-that for
success in practical life, self-control is
the one thing most needful. To take
the simplest case, that of a young
working man beginning life with health,
knowledge of a trade, or even without it
with good, thews and sinews, he is the most
free and independent of mortals, on one
condition—that he has saved £10. With
this, he is a free agent in disposing of his
labour, he can make his contract with an
employer on equal terms, he can carry
his goods to the best market, and is
practically a citizen of the world, ready
to start for San Francisco or Melbourne
if . he thinks he can better himself.
Without it, he is a serf tied to the soil,
he cannot move from place to place, he
must take whatever wages are offered
him or starve.
But how to save the £10? That is a
question of daily and weekly recurrence ;
whether to spend an extra shilling in the
pleasant way of going to a public-house
and sitting with a pipe and a jug of ale
by the fireside among jolly companions,
or. to forego the pleasure and save the
shilling. A shilling a week saved will,
in four years, give him the £10, and go a
good way to establish habits which, if he
is enterprising and goes to a colony, or
is clever and has any luck at home, may
readily make the ten a hundred, or even
a thousand pounds. So in every class of
life, the man who gets on is the man who
has schooled himself never to ask whether
a thing is pleasant, but whether it is
right and reasonable ; who always keeps
a bright look-out ahead, and who does
his best at the task, whatever it may be,
that is set before him.
Education really resolves itself very
much into teaching the young to acquire
this indispensable faculty of self-control.
The amount of positive knowledge, useful
in after life, acquired at our English
public schools, is really very little beyond
the three B’s. A boy who could teach
himself French or German irrfive months
spends five years over Latin and Greek,
and in nine cases out of ten forgets them
as soon as he leaves school or college.
Almost everything we know that is worth
knowing we teach ourselves in after life.
But the discipline of school is invaluable
in teaching the lesson of self-control.
Almost every hour of the day a boy at
school has to do things that are dis
agreeable and abstain from doing things
that nature prompts, under pain of
getting a caning from the master or a
thrashing from other boys. The memory
also is exercised, and the faculty of
fixing the mind on work is developed, by
useless almost as well as by useful studies.
In this point of view even that ne plus
ultra of technical pedantry, the Latin,
grammar, with its “Propria quse maribus’’ and “As in presenti,” may have its
use in teaching a boy that no matter how
absurd or repulsive a task maybe, he has
got to tackle to it or worse will befall
him.
But it is in a moral sense that the
influence of a good school is most valu
able. The average boy learns that he
must not tell lies, he must not be a sneak
or a coward, he must take punishment
bravely, and conform to the school
master’s standard of discipline and the
school-boy’s standard of honour. In this
way the first lesson of life, stoicism,
becomes with most English lads a sort of
instinct or second nature.
For stoicism, after all, is the foundation
and primary element of all useful and
honourable life. Whether as Carlyle’s
“Everlasting No,” or as George Eliot’s
advice, to take the pains and mishaps of
life without resorting to moral opium,
the conclusion of all the greatest minds
is that a man must have something of
the Red Indian in him and be able to
suffer, silently, and burn his own smoke,
if he is to be worth anything. And still
more a woman, who has to bear with and
make the best of a thousand petty an
noyances without complaint. Men can
bear on great occasions, but in the
innumerable petty trials of life women
as a rule show more self-control and
moral fortitude. What would the life of
a woman be who could not stand being
bored with a smiling face, put up with
the worries of children and servants with
cheerful fortitude, and turn away an
angry word by a soft answer ?
There is much more that might be
said, but my object is not to preach or
�PRACTICAL LIFE
moralise, but simply to record a few. of
the practical rules and reflections which
have impressed themselves on me in the
course of a long and busy life. I do so
in the hope that perchance they may
awaken useful thoughts in some, es
pecially of the younger readers, who may
happen to glance over these pages. This
much I may say for them, I have tried
them and found them work well. I have
lived for more than the Scriptural span
of threescore and ten years, a life of
varied fortunes and many experiences. . I
may say, in the words which my favourite
poet, Tennyson, puts into the mouth of
Ulysses:
For ever roaming with a hungry heart,
Much have I seen and known, cities of men,
And councils, climates, governments.
121
And the conclusion I come to is, not that
of the Preacher, “ Vanity of vanities, all
is vanity,” but rather that life, with all
its drawbacks, is worth living ; and that
to have been born in a civilised country
in the nineteenth century is a boon for
which a man can never be sufficiently
thankful. Some may find it otherwise
from no fault of their own; more by
their own fault; but the majority of
men and women may lead useful,
honourable, and on the whole fairly
happy lives, if they will act on the
maxim which I have always en
deavoured, however imperfectly, to
follow—Frar NOTHING ; MAKE THE BEST OE
EVERYTHING.
�THE
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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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Modern science and modern thought: with a biographical note on the author by Edward Clodd
Creator
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Laing, Samuel [1812-1897]
Clodd, Edward [1840-1930]
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Place of publication: London
Collation: xii, 121 p. : ill. ; 21 cm.
Notes: Date of publication from introductory note. First published, London: Chapman and Hall, 1885. Issued for the Rationalist Press Association, Ltd. Printed in double columns. Publisher's advertisements on back cover. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection.
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Watts and Co.
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[1902]
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N430
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Religion
Science
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Science