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diff --git a/6138-h/6138-h.htm b/6138-h/6138-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..a19c99d --- /dev/null +++ b/6138-h/6138-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9238 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Life and Habit, by Samuel Butler</title> + <style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + P.gutsumm { margin-left: 5%;} + P.poetry {margin-left: 3%; } + .GutSmall { font-size: 0.7em; } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4, H5 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + table { border-collapse: collapse; } +table {margin-left:auto; margin-right:auto;} + td { vertical-align: top; border: 1px solid black;} + td p { margin: 0.2em; } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + + .smcap {font-variant: small-caps;} + + .pagenum {position: absolute; + left: 92%; + font-size: small; + text-align: right; + font-weight: normal; + color: gray; + } + img { border: none; } + img.dc { float: left; width: 50px; height: 50px; } + p.gutindent { margin-left: 2em; } + div.gapspace { height: 0.8em; } + div.gapline { height: 0.8em; width: 100%; border-top: 1px solid;} + div.gapmediumline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + div.gapmediumdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 40%; margin-left:30%; + border-top: 1px solid; border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; + margin-left: 40%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid; } + div.gapdoubleline { height: 0.3em; width: 50%; + margin-left: 25%; border-top: 1px solid; + border-bottom: 1px solid;} + div.gapshortline { height: 0.3em; width: 20%; margin-left:40%; + border-top: 1px solid; } + .citation {vertical-align: super; + font-size: .8em; + text-decoration: none;} + img.floatleft { float: left; + margin-right: 1em; + margin-top: 0.5em; margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.floatright { float: right; + margin-left: 1em; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em; } + img.clearcenter {display: block; + margin-left: auto; + margin-right: auto; margin-top: 0.5em; + margin-bottom: 0.5em} + --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Life and Habit, by Samuel Butler, Edited by +R. A. Streatfeild + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Life and Habit + + +Author: Samuel Butler + +Editor: R. A. Streatfeild + +Release Date: August 2, 2014 [eBook #6138] +[This file was first posted on November 18, 2002] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND HABIT*** +</pre> +<p>Transcribed from the 1910 Jonathan Cape edition by David +Price, email ccx074@pglaf.lorg</p> +<h1>Life and Habit</h1> +<p style="text-align: center"><i>By</i><br /> +Samuel Butler</p> +<p style="text-align: center"> +<a href="images/tpb.jpg"> +<img alt= +"Decorative graphic" +title= +"Decorative graphic" +src="images/tps.jpg" /> +</a></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center">Jonathan Cape<br /> +Eleven Gower Street, London</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pageiv"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. iv</span><span class="GutSmall">FIRST +PUBLISHED</span> 1878</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">SECOND +EDITION</span> 1878</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">NEW EDITION +WITH ADDENDA AND</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PREFACE BY R. A. STREATFEILD</span> +1910</p> +<p style="text-align: center"><span +class="GutSmall">REPRINTED</span> 1924</p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><span class="GutSmall">PRINTED IN +GREAT BRITAIN BY BUTLER AND TANNER LTD., FROME AND +LONDON</span></p> + +<div class="gapspace"> </div> +<p style="text-align: center"><a name="pagev"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. v</span><span class="GutSmall">THIS BOOK IS +INSCRIBED</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">TO</span><br /> +CHARLES PAINE PAULI, Esq.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">BARRISTER-AT-LAW</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF HIS +INVALUABLE</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CRITICISM OF THE PROOF-SHEETS OF THIS +AND</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OF MY PREVIOUS BOOKS</span><br /> +<span class="GutSmall">AND IN RECOGNITION OF AN OLD AND</span><br +/> +<span class="GutSmall">WELL-TRIED-FRIENDSHIP</span></p> +<h2><a name="pagevii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +vii</span>PREFACE.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Since</span> Samuel Butler published +“Life and Habit” thirty-three <a +name="citationvii"></a><a href="#footnotevii" +class="citation">[vii]</a> years have elapsed—years +fruitful in change and discovery, during which many of the mighty +have been put down from their seat and many of the humble have +been exalted. I do not know that Butler can truthfully be +called humble, indeed, I think he had very few misgivings as to +his ultimate triumph, but he has certainly been exalted with a +rapidity that he himself can scarcely have foreseen. During +his lifetime he was a literary pariah, the victim of an organized +conspiracy of silence. He is now, I think it may be said +without exaggeration, universally accepted as one of the most +remarkable English writers of the latter part of the nineteenth +century. I will not weary my readers by quoting the +numerous tributes paid by distinguished contemporary writers to +Butler’s originality and force of mind, but I cannot +refrain from illustrating the changed attitude of the scientific +world to Butler and his theories by a reference to “Darwin +and Modern Science,” the collection of essays published in +1909 by the University of Cambridge, in commemoration of the +Darwin centenary. In that work Professor Bateson, while +referring repeatedly to Butler’s biological works, speaks +of him as “the most brilliant and by far the most +interesting of Darwin’s opponents, whose works are at +length emerging from oblivion.” <a +name="pageviii"></a><span class="pagenum">p. viii</span>With the +growth of Butler’s reputation “Life and Habit” +has had much to do. It was the first and is undoubtedly the +most important of his writings on evolution. From its +loins, as it were, sprang his three later books, “Evolution +Old and New,” “Unconscious Memory,” and +“Luck or Cunning”, which carried its arguments +further afield. It will perhaps interest Butler’s +readers if I here quote a passage from his note-books, lately +published in the “New Quarterly Review” (Vol. III. +No. 9), in which he summarizes his work in biology:</p> +<p>“To me it seems that my contributions to the theory of +evolution have been mainly these:</p> +<p>“1. The identification of heredity and memory, and +the corollaries relating to sports, the reversion to remote +ancestors, the phenomena of old age, the causes of the sterility +of hybrids, and the principles underlying longevity—all of +which follow as a matter of course. This was ‘Life +and Habit’ [1877].</p> +<p>“2. The re-introduction of teleology into organic +life, which to me seems hardly, if at all, less important than +the ‘Life and Habit’ theory. This was +‘Evolution Old and New’ [1879].</p> +<p>“3. An attempt to suggest an explanation of the +physics of memory. This was Unconscious Memory’ +[1880]. I was alarmed by the suggestion and fathered it +upon Professor Hering, who never, that I can see, meant to say +anything of the kind, but I forced my view upon him, as it were, +by taking hold of a sentence or two in his lecture, ‘On +Memory as a Universal Function of Organised Matter,’ and +thus connected memory with vibrations.</p> +<p>“What I want to do now (1885) is to connect vibrations +not only with memory but with the physical constitution of that +body in which the memory resides, <a name="pageix"></a><span +class="pagenum">p. ix</span>thus adopting Newland’s law +(sometimes called Mendelejeff’s law) that there is only one +substance, and that the characteristics of the vibrations going +on within it at any given time will determine whether it will +appear to us as, we will say, hydrogen, or sodium, or chicken +doing this, or chicken doing the other.” [This is +touched upon in the concluding chapter of “Luck or +Cunning?” 1887].</p> +<p>The present edition of “Life and Habit” is +practically a re-issue of that of 1878. I find that about +the year 1890, although the original edition was far from being +exhausted, Butler began to make corrections of the text of +“Life and Habit,” presumably with the intention of +publishing a revised edition. The copy of the book so +corrected is now in my possession. In the first five +chapters there are numerous emendations, very few of which, +however, affect the meaning to any appreciable extent, being +mainly concerned with the excision of redundancies and the +simplification of style. I imagine that by the time he had +reached the end of the fifth chapter Butler realised that the +corrections he had made were not of sufficient importance to +warrant a new edition, and determined to let the book stand as it +was. I believe, therefore, that I am carrying out his +wishes in reprinting the present edition from the original +plates. I have found, however, among his papers three +entirely new passages, which he probably wrote during the period +of correction and no doubt intended to incorporate into the +revised edition. Mr. Henry Festing Jones has also given me +a copy of a passage which Butler wrote and gummed into Mr. +Jones’s copy of “Life and Habit.” These +four passages I have printed as an appendix at the end of the +present volume.</p> +<p><a name="pagex"></a><span class="pagenum">p. x</span>One more +point deserves notice. Butler often refers in “Life +and Habit” to Darwin’s “Variations of Animals +and Plants under Domestication.” When he does so it +is always under the name “Plants and Animals.” +More often still he refers to Darwin’s “Origin of +Species by means Natural Selection,” terming it at one time +“Origin of Species” and at another “Natural +Selection,” sometimes, as on p. 278, using both names +within a few lines of each other. Butler was as a rule +scrupulously careful about quotations, and I can offer no +explanation of this curious confusion of titles.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">R. A. STREATFEILD.</p> +<p><i>November</i>, 1910.</p> +<h2>AUTHOR’S PREFACE.</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">The</span> Italics in the passages quoted +in this book are generally mine, but I found it almost impossible +to call the reader’s attention to this upon every +occasion. I have done so once or twice, as thinking it +necessary in these cases that there should be no mistake; on the +whole, however, I thought it better to content myself with +calling attention in a preface to the fact that the author quoted +is not, as a general rule, responsible for the Italics.</p> +<p style="text-align: right">S. BUTLER.</p> +<p><i>November</i> 13, 1877.</p> +<h2>CONTENTS.</h2> +<table> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">PAGE</span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">PREFACE BY R. A. +STREATFEILD</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pagevii">vii</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">AUTHOR’S ORIGINAL +PREFACE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#pagex">x</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">CHAPTER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p> </p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">I.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED +HABITS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page1">1</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">II.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS +KNOWERS—THE LAW AND GRACE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page20">20</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">III.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS +TO CERTAIN HABITS ACQUIRED AFTER BIRTH WHICH ARE COMMONLY +CONSIDERED INSTINCTIVE</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page43">43</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING +PRINCIPLES TO ACTIONS AND HABITS ACQUIRED BEFORE BIRTH</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page59">59</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">V.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">PERSONAL IDENTITY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page78">78</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">PERSONAL +IDENTITY—(</span><span +class="GutSmall"><i>continued</i></span><span +class="GutSmall">)</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page91">91</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">OUR SUBORDINATE +PERSONALITIES</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page104">104</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">VIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING +CHAPTERS—THE ASSIMILATION OF OUTSIDE MATTER</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page125">125</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">IX.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">ON THE ABEYANCE OF +MEMORY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page150">150</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">X.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">WHAT WE SHOULD EXPECT TO FIND IF +DIFFERENTIATIONS OF STRUCTURE AND INSTINCT ARE MAINLY DUE TO +MEMORY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page166">166</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XI.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">INSTINCT AS INHERITED +MEMORY</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page198">198</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">INSTINCTS OF NEUTER +INSECTS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page220">220</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIII.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">LAMARCK AND MR. DARWIN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page252">252</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XIV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">MR. MIVART AND MR. +DARWIN</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page273">273</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span +class="GutSmall">XV.</span></p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">CONCLUDING REMARKS</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page294">294</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td><p style="text-align: right"> </p> +</td> +<td><p><span class="GutSmall">APPENDIX AUTHOR’S +ADDENDA</span></p> +</td> +<td><p style="text-align: right"><span class="indexpageno"><a +href="#page308">308</a></span></p> +</td> +</tr> +</table> +<h2><a name="page1"></a><span class="pagenum">p. 1</span>CHAPTER +I.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED HABITS.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> will be our business in the +following chapters to consider whether the unconsciousness, or +quasi-unconsciousness, with which we perform certain acquired +actions, would seem to throw any light upon Embryology and +inherited instincts, and otherwise to follow the train of thought +which the class of actions above-mentioned would suggest; more +especially in so far as they appear to bear upon the origin of +species and the continuation of life by successive generations, +whether in the animal or vegetable kingdoms.</p> +<p>In the outset, however, I would wish most distinctly to +disclaim for these pages the smallest pretension to scientific +value, originality, or even to accuracy of more than a very rough +and ready kind—for unless a matter be true enough to stand +a good deal of misrepresentation, its truth is not of a very +robust order, and the blame will rather lie with its own delicacy +if it be crushed, than with the carelessness of the +crusher. I have no wish to instruct, and not much to be +instructed; my aim is simply to entertain and interest the +numerous class of people who, like myself, know nothing of +science, but who enjoy speculating and reflecting (not too +deeply) upon the phenomena around them. I have therefore +allowed myself a loose rein, to run on with whatever came +uppermost, without regard to whether it was new or old; feeling +sure that if true, it must be very old or it never could have +occurred to one so little versed in science as myself; and +knowing that it is sometimes pleasanter to meet the old under +slightly changed conditions, than to go through the formalities +and uncertainties of making new acquaintance. At the same +time, I should say that whatever I have knowingly taken from any +one else, I have always acknowledged.</p> +<p>It is plain, therefore, that my book cannot be intended for +the perusal of scientific people; it is intended for the general +public only, with whom I believe myself to be in harmony, as +knowing neither much more nor much less than they do.</p> +<p>Taking then, the art of playing the piano as an example of the +kind of action we are in search of, we observe that a practised +player will perform very difficult pieces apparently without +effort, often, indeed, while thinking and talking of something +quite other than his music; yet he will play accurately and, +possibly, with much expression. If he has been playing a +fugue, say in four parts, he will have kept each part well +distinct, in such a manner as to prove that his mind was not +prevented, by its other occupations, from consciously or +unconsciously following four distinct trains of musical thought +at the same time, nor from making his fingers act in exactly the +required manner as regards each note of each part.</p> +<p>It commonly happens that in the course of four or five minutes +a player may have struck four or five thousand notes. If we +take into consideration the rests, dotted notes, accidentals, +variations of time, &c., we shall find his attention must +have been exercised on many more occasions than when he was +actually striking notes: so that it may not be too much to say +that the attention of a first-rate player may have been +exercised—to an infinitesimally small extent—but +still truly exercised—on as many as ten thousand occasions +within the space of five minutes, for no note can be struck nor +point attended to without a certain amount of attention, no +matter how rapidly or unconsciously given.</p> +<p>Moreover, each act of attention has been followed by an act of +volition, and each act of volition by a muscular action, which is +composed of many minor actions; some so small that we can no more +follow them than the player himself can perceive them; +nevertheless, it may have been perfectly plain that the player +was not attending to what he was doing, but was listening to +conversation on some other subject, not to say joining in it +himself. If he has been playing the violin, he may have +done all the above, and may also have been walking about. +Herr Joachim would unquestionably be able to do all that has here +been described.</p> +<p>So complete would the player’s unconsciousness of the +attention he is giving, and the brain power he is exerting appear +to be, that we shall find it difficult to awaken his attention to +any particular part of his performance without putting him +out. Indeed we cannot do so. We shall observe that he +finds it hardly less difficult to compass a voluntary +consciousness of what he has once learnt so thoroughly that it +has passed, so to speak, into the domain of unconsciousness, than +he found it to learn the note or passage in the first +instance. The effort after a second consciousness of detail +baffles him—compels him to turn to his music or play +slowly. In fact it seems as though he knew the piece too +well to be able to know that he knows it, and is only conscious +of knowing those passages which he does not know so +thoroughly.</p> +<p>At the end of his performance, his memory would appear to be +no less annihilated than was his consciousness of attention and +volition. For of the thousands of acts requiring the +exercise of both the one and the other, which he has done during +the five minutes, we will say, of his performance, he will +remember hardly one when it is over. If he calls to mind +anything beyond the main fact that he has played such and such a +piece, it will probably be some passage which he has found more +difficult than the others, and with the like of which he has not +been so long familiar. All the rest he will forget as +completely as the breath which he has drawn while playing.</p> +<p>He finds it difficult to remember even the difficulties he +experienced in learning to play. A few may have so +impressed him that they remain with him, but the greater part +will have escaped him as completely as the remembrance of what he +ate, or how he put on his clothes, this day ten years ago; +nevertheless, it is plain he remembers more than he remembers +remembering, for he avoids mistakes which he made at one time, +and his performance proves that all the notes are in his memory, +though if called upon to play such and such a bar at random from +the middle of the piece, and neither more nor less, he will +probably say that he cannot remember it unless he begins from the +beginning of the phrase which leads to it. Very commonly he +will be obliged to begin from the beginning of the movement +itself, and be unable to start at any other point unless he have +the music before him; and if disturbed, as we have seen above, he +will have to start <i>de novo</i> from an accustomed +starting-point.</p> +<p>Yet nothing can be more obvious than that there must have been +a time when what is now so easy as to be done without conscious +effort of the brain was only done by means of brain work which +was very keenly perceived, even to fatigue and positive +distress. Even now, if the player is playing something the +like of which he has not met before, we observe he pauses and +becomes immediately conscious of attention.</p> +<p>We draw the inference, therefore, as regards pianoforte or +violin playing, that the more the familiarity or knowledge of the +art, the less is there consciousness of such knowledge; even so +far as that there should seem to be almost as much difficulty in +awakening consciousness which has become, so to speak, +latent,—a consciousness of that which is known too well to +admit of recognised self-analysis while the knowledge is being +exercised—as in creating a consciousness of that which is +not yet well enough known to be properly designated as known at +all. On the other hand, we observe that the less the +familiarly or knowledge, the greater the consciousness of +whatever knowledge there is.</p> +<p>Considering other like instances of the habitual exercise of +intelligence and volition, which, from long familiarity with the +method of procedure, escape the notice of the person exercising +them, we naturally think of writing. The formation of each +letter requires attention and volition, yet in a few minutes a +practised writer will form several hundred letters, and be able +to think and talk of something else all the time he is doing +so. It will not probably remember the formation of a single +character in any page that he has written; nor will he be able to +give more than the substance of his writing if asked to do +so. He knows how to form each letter so well, and he knows +so well each word that he is about to write, that he has ceased +to be conscious of his knowledge or to notice his acts of +volition, each one of which is, nevertheless, followed by a +corresponding muscular action. Yet the uniformity of our +handwriting, and the manner in which we almost invariably adhere +to one method of forming the same character, would seem to +suggest that during the momentary formation of each letter our +memories must revert (with an intensity too rapid for our +perception) to many if not to all the occasions on which we have +ever written the same letter previously—the memory of these +occasions dwelling in our minds as what has been called a +residuum—an unconsciously struck balance or average of them +all—a fused mass of individual reminiscences of which no +trace can be found in our consciousness, and of which the only +effect would seem to lie in the gradual changes of handwriting +which are perceptible in most people till they have reached +middle-age, and sometimes even later. So far are we from +consciously remembering any one of the occasions on which we have +written such and such a letter, that we are not even conscious of +exercising our memory at all, any more than we are in health +conscious of the action of our heart. But, if we are +writing in some unfamiliar way, as when printing our letters +instead of writing them in our usual running hand, our memory is +so far awakened that we become conscious of every character we +form; sometimes it is even perceptible as memory to ourselves, as +when we try to remember how to print some letter, for example a +g, and cannot call to mind on which side of the upper half of the +letter we ought to put the link which connects it with the lower, +and are successful in remembering; but if we become very +conscious of remembering, it shows that we are on the brink of +only trying to remember,—that is to say, of not remembering +at all.</p> +<p>As a general rule, we remember for a time the substance of +what we have written, for the subject is generally new to us; but +if we are writing what we have often written before, we lose +consciousness of this too, as fully as we do of the characters +necessary to convey the substance to another person, and we shall +find ourselves writing on as it were mechanically while thinking +and talking of something else. So a paid copyist, to whom +the subject of what he is writing is of no importance, does not +even notice it. He deals only with familiar words and +familiar characters without caring to go behind them, and +thereupon writes on in a quasi-unconscious manner; but if he +comes to a word or to characters with which he is but little +acquainted, he becomes immediately awakened to the consciousness +of either remembering or trying to remember. His +consciousness of his own knowledge or memory would seem to belong +to a period, so to speak, of twilight between the thick darkness +of ignorance and the brilliancy of perfect knowledge; as colour +which vanishes with extremes of light or of shade. Perfect +ignorance and perfect knowledge are alike unselfconscious.</p> +<p>The above holds good even more noticeably in respect of +reading. How many thousands of individual letters do our +eyes run over every morning in the “Times” newspaper, +how few of them do we notice, or remember having noticed? +Yet there was a time when we had such difficulty in reading even +the simplest words, that we had to take great pains to impress +them upon our memory so as to know them when we came to then +again. Now, not even a single word of all we have seen will +remain with us, unless it is a new one, or an old one used in an +unfamiliar sense, in which case we notice, and may very likely +remember it. Our memory retains the substance only, the +substance only being unfamiliar. Nevertheless, although we +do not perceive more than the general result of our perception, +there can be no doubt of our having perceived every letter in +every word that we have read at all, for if we come upon a word +misspelt our attention is at once aroused; unless, indeed, we +have actually corrected the misspelling, as well as noticed it, +unconsciously, through exceeding familiarity with the way in +which it ought to be spelt. Not only do we perceive the +letters we have seen without noticing that we have perceived +them, but we find it almost impossible to notice that we notice +them when we have once learnt to read fluently. To try to +do so puts us out, and prevents our being able to read. We +may even go so far as to say that if a man can attend to the +individual characters, it is a sign that he cannot yet read +fluently. If we know how to read well, we are as +unconscious of the means and processes whereby we attain the +desired result as we are about the growth of our hair or the +circulation of our blood. So that here again it would seem +that we only know what we know still to some extent imperfectly, +and that what we know thoroughly escapes our conscious perception +though none the less actually perceived. Our perception in +fact passes into a latent stage, as also our memory and +volition.</p> +<p>Walking is another example of the rapid exercise of volition +with but little perception of each individual act of +exercise. We notice any obstacle in our path, but it is +plain we do not notice that we perceive much that we have +nevertheless been perceiving; for if a man goes down a lane by +night he will stumble over many things which he would have +avoided by day, although he would not have noticed them. +Yet time was when walking was to each one of us a new and arduous +task—as arduous as we should now find it to wheel a +wheelbarrow on a tight-rope; whereas, at present, though we can +think of our steps to a certain extent without checking our power +to walk, we certainly cannot consider our muscular action in +detail without having to come to a dead stop.</p> +<p>Talking—especially in one’s mother +tongue—may serve as a last example. We find it +impossible to follow the muscular action of the mouth and tongue +in framing every letter or syllable we utter. We have +probably spoken for years and years before we became aware that +the letter h is a labial sound, and until we have to utter a word +which is difficult from its unfamiliarity we speak +“trippingly on the tongue” with no attention except +to the substance of what we wish to say. Yet talking was +not always the easy matter to us which it is at present—as +we perceive more readily when we are learning a new language +which it may take us months to master. Nevertheless, when +we have once mastered it we speak it without further +consciousness of knowledge or memory, as regards the more common +words, and without even noticing our consciousness. Here, +as in the other instances already given, as long as we did not +know perfectly, we were conscious of our acts of perception, +volition, and reflection, but when our knowledge has become +perfect we no longer notice our consciousness, nor our volition; +nor can we awaken a second artificial consciousness without some +effort, and disturbance of the process of which we are +endeavouring to become conscious. We are no longer, so to +speak, under the law, but under grace.</p> +<p>An ascending scale may be perceived in the above +instances.</p> +<p>In playing, we have an action acquired long after birth, +difficult of acquisition, and never thoroughly familiarised to +the power of absolutely unconscious performance, except in the +case of those who have either an exceptional genius for music, or +who have devoted the greater part of their time to +practising. Except in the case of these persons it is +generally found easy to become more or less conscious of any +passage without disturbing the performance, and our action +remains so completely within our control that we can stop playing +at any moment we please.</p> +<p>In writing, we have an action generally acquired earlier, done +for the most part with great unconsciousness of detail, fairly +well within our control to stop at any moment; though not so +completely as would be imagined by those who have not made the +experiment of trying to stop in the middle of a given character +when writing at fit speed. Also, we can notice our +formation of any individual character without our writing being +materially hindered.</p> +<p>Reading is usually acquired earlier still. We read with +more unconsciousness of attention than we write. We find it +more difficult to become conscious of any character without +discomfiture, and we cannot arrest ourselves in the middle of a +word, for example, and hardly before the end of a sentence; +nevertheless it is on the whole well within our control.</p> +<p>Walking is so early an acquisition that we cannot remember +having acquired it. In running fast over average ground we +find it very difficult to become conscious of each individual +step, and should possibly find it more difficult still, if the +inequalities and roughness of uncultured land had not perhaps +caused the development of a power to create a second +consciousness of our steps without hindrance to our running or +walking. Pursuit and flight, whether in the chase or in +war, must for many generations have played a much more prominent +part in the lives of our ancestors than they do in our own. +If the ground over which they had to travel had been generally as +free from obstruction as our modern cultivated lands, it is +possible that we might not find it as easy to notice our several +steps as we do at present. Even as it is, if while we are +running we would consider the action of our muscles, we come to a +dead stop, and should probably fall if we tried to observe too +suddenly; for we must stop to do this, and running, when we have +once committed ourselves to it beyond a certain point, is not +controllable to a step or two without loss of equilibrium.</p> +<p>We learn to talk, much about the same time that we learn to +walk, but talking requires less muscular effort than walking, and +makes generally less demand upon our powers. A man may talk +a long while before he has done the equivalent of a five-mile +walk; it is natural, therefore, that we should have had more +practice in talking than in walking, and hence that we should +find it harder to pay attention to our words than to our +steps. Certainly it is very hard to become conscious of +every syllable or indeed of every word we say; the attempt to do +so will often bring us to a check at once; nevertheless we can +generally stop talking if we wish to do so, unless the crying of +infants be considered as a kind of <i>quasi</i>-speech: this +comes earlier, and is often quite uncontrollable, or more truly +perhaps is done with such complete control over the muscles by +the will, and with such absolute certainty of his own purpose on +the part of the wilier, that there is no longer any more doubt, +uncertainty, or suspense, and hence no power of perceiving any of +the processes whereby the result is attained—as a wheel +which may look fast fixed because it is so fast revolving. <a +name="citation13"></a><a href="#footnote13" +class="citation">[13]</a></p> +<p>We may observe therefore in this ascending scale, imperfect as +it is, that the older the habit the longer the practice, the +longer the practice, the more knowledge—or, the less +uncertainty; the less uncertainty the less power of conscious +self-analysis and control.</p> +<p>It will occur to the reader that in all the instances given +above, different individuals attain the unconscious stage of +perfect knowledge with very different degrees of facility. +Some have to attain it with a great sum; others are free +born. Some learn to play, to read, write, and talk, with +hardly an effort—some show such an instinctive aptitude for +arithmetic that, like Zerah Colburn, at eight years old, they +achieve results without instruction, which in the case of most +people would require a long education. The account of Zerah +Colburn, as quoted from Mr. Baily in Dr. Carpenter’s +“Mental Physiology,” may perhaps be given here.</p> +<p>“He raised any number consisting of <i>one</i> figure +progressively to the tenth power, giving the results (by actual +multiplication and not by memory) <i>faster than they could be +set down in figures</i> by the person appointed to record +them. He raised the number 8 progressively to the +<i>sixteenth</i> power, and in naming the last result, which +consisted of 15 figures, he was right in every one. Some +numbers consisting of <i>two</i> figures he raised as high as the +eighth power, though he found a difficulty in proceeding when the +products became very large.</p> +<p>“On being asked the <i>square root</i> of 106,929, he +answered 327 before the original number could be written +down. He was then required to find the cube root of +268,336,125, and with equal facility and promptness he replied +645.</p> +<p>“He was asked how many minutes there are in 48 years, +and before the question could be taken down he replied +25,228,800, and immediately afterwards he gave the correct number +of seconds.</p> +<p>“On being requested to give the factors which would +produce the number 247,483, he immediately named 941 and 263, +which are the only two numbers from the multiplication of which +it would result. On 171,395 being proposed, he named 5 +× 34,279, 7 × 24,485, 59 × 2905, 83 × +2065, 35 × 4897, 295 × 581, and 413 × 415.</p> +<p>“He was then asked to give the factors of 36,083, but he +immediately replied that it had none, which was really the case, +this being a prime number. Other numbers being proposed to +him indiscriminately, he always succeeded in giving the correct +factors except in the case of prime numbers, which he generally +discovered almost as soon as they were proposed to him. The +number 4,294,967,297, which is 2<sup>32</sup> + 1, having been +given him, he discovered, as Euler had previously done, that it +was not the prime number which Fermat had supposed it to be, but +that it is the product of the factors 6,700,417 × +641. The solution of this problem was only given after the +lapse of some weeks, but the method he took to obtain it clearly +showed that he had not derived his information from any +extraneous source.</p> +<p>“When he was asked to multiply together numbers both +consisting of more than these figures, he seemed to decompose one +or both of them into its factors, and to work with them +separately. Thus, on being asked to give the square of +4395, he multiplied 293 by itself, and then twice multiplied the +product by 15. And on being asked to tell the square of +999,999 he obtained the correct result, 999,998,000,001, by twice +multiplying the square of 37,037 by 27. He then of his own +accord multiplied that product by 49, and said that the result +(viz., 48,999,902,000,049) was equal to the square of +6,999,993. He afterwards multiplied this product by 49, and +observed that the result (viz., 2,400,995,198,002,401) was equal +to the square of 48,999,951. He was again asked to multiply +the product by 25, and in naming the result (viz., +60,024,879,950,060,025) he said it was equal to the square of +244,999,755.</p> +<p>“On being interrogated as to the manner in which he +obtained these results, the boy constantly said he did not know +<i>how</i> the answers came into his mind. In the act of +multiplying two numbers together, and in the raising of powers, +it was evident (alike from the facts just stated and from the +motion of his lips) that <i>some</i> operation was going forward +in his mind; yet that operation could not (from the readiness +with which his answers were furnished) have been at all allied to +the usual modes of procedure, of which, indeed, he was entirely +ignorant, not being able to perform on paper a simple sum in +multiplication or division. But in the extraction of roots, +and in the discovery of the factors of large numbers, it did not +appear that any operation <i>could</i> take place, since he gave +answers <i>immediately</i>, or in a very few seconds, which, +according to the ordinary methods, would have required very +difficult and laborious calculations, and prime numbers cannot be +recognised as such by any known rule.”</p> +<p>I should hope that many of the above figures are wrong. +I have verified them carefully with Dr. Carpenter’s +quotation, but further than this I cannot and will not go. +Also I am happy to find that in the end the boy overcame the +mathematics, and turned out a useful but by no means particularly +calculating member of society.</p> +<p>The case, however, is typical of others in which persons have +been found able to do without apparent effort what in the great +majority of cases requires a long apprenticeship. It is +needless to multiply instances; the point that concerns us is, +that knowledge under such circumstances being very intense, and +the ease with which the result is produced extreme, it eludes the +conscious apprehension of the performer himself, who only becomes +conscious when a difficulty arises which taxes even his abnormal +power. Such a case, therefore, confirms rather than +militates against our opinion that consciousness of knowledge +vanishes on the knowledge becoming perfect—the only +difference between those possessed of any such remarkable special +power and the general run of people being, that the first are +born with such an unusual aptitude for their particular specialty +that they are able to dispense with all or nearly all the +preliminary exercise of their faculty, while the latter must +exercise it for a considerable time before they can get it to +work smoothly and easily; but in either case when once the +knowledge is intense it is unconscious.</p> +<p>Nor again would such an instance as that of Zerah Colburn +warrant us in believing that this white heat, as it were, of +unconscious knowledge can be attained by any one without his ever +having been originally cold. Young Colburn, for example, +could not extract roots when he was an embryo of three +weeks’ standing. It is true we can seldom follow the +process, but we know there must have been a time in every case +when even the desire for information or action had not been +kindled; the forgetfulness of effort on the part of those with +exceptional genius for a special subject is due to the smallness +of the effort necessary, so that it makes no impression upon the +individual himself, rather than to the absence of any effort at +all. <a name="citation18"></a><a href="#footnote18" +class="citation">[18]</a></p> +<p>It would, therefore, appear as though perfect knowledge and +perfect ignorance were extremes which meet and become +indistinguishable from one another; so also perfect volition and +perfect absence of volition, perfect memory and utter +forgetfulness; for we are unconscious of knowing, willing, or +remembering, either from not yet having known or willed, or from +knowing and willing so well and so intensely as to be no longer +conscious of either. Conscious knowledge and volition are +of attention; attention is of suspense; suspense is of doubt; +doubt is of uncertainty; uncertainty is of ignorance; so that the +mere fact of conscious knowing or willing implies the presence of +more or less novelty and doubt.</p> +<p>It would also appear as a general principle on a superficial +view of the foregoing instances (and the reader may readily +supply himself with others which are perhaps more to the +purpose), that unconscious knowledge and unconscious volition are +never acquired otherwise than as the result of experience, +familiarity, or habit; so that whenever we observe a person able +to do any complicated action unconsciously, we may assume both +that he must have done it very often before he could acquire so +great proficiency, and also that there must have been a time when +he did not know how to do it at all.</p> +<p>We may assume that there was a time when he was yet so nearly +on the point of neither knowing nor willing perfectly, that he +was quite alive to whatever knowledge or volition he could exert; +going further back, we shall find him still more keenly alive to +a less perfect knowledge; earlier still, we find him well aware +that he does not know nor will correctly, but trying hard to do +both the one and the other; and so on, back and back, till both +difficulty and consciousness become little more than a sound of +going in the brain, a flitting to and fro of something barely +recognisable as the desire to will or know at all—much less +as the desire to know or will definitely this or that. +Finally, they retreat beyond our ken into the repose—the +inorganic kingdom—of as yet unawakened interest.</p> +<p>In either case,—the repose of perfect ignorance or of +perfect knowledge—disturbance is troublesome. When +first starting on an Atlantic steamer, our rest is hindered by +the screw; after a short time, it is hindered if the screw +stops. A uniform impression is practically no +impression. One cannot either learn or unlearn without +pains or pain.</p> +<h2><a name="page20"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +20</span>CHAPTER II.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS +KNOWERS—THE LAW AND GRACE.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> this chapter we shall show that +the law, which we have observed to hold as to the vanishing +tendency of knowledge upon becoming perfect, holds good not only +concerning acquired actions or habits of body, but concerning +opinions, modes of thought, and mental habits generally, which +are no more recognised as soon as firmly fixed, than are the +steps with which we go about our daily avocations. I am +aware that I may appear in the latter part of the chapter to have +wandered somewhat beyond the limits of my subject, but, on the +whole, decide upon leaving what I have written, inasmuch as it +serves to show how far-reaching is the principle on which I am +insisting. Having said so much, I shall during the +remainder of the book keep more closely to the point.</p> +<p>Certain it is that we know best what we are least conscious of +knowing, or at any rate least able to prove, as, for example, our +own existence, or that there is a country England. If any +one asks us for proof on matters of this sort, we have none +ready, and are justly annoyed at being called to consider what we +regard as settled questions. Again, there is hardly +anything which so much affects our actions as the centre of the +earth (unless, perhaps, it be that still hotter and more +unprofitable spot the centre of the universe), for we are +incessantly trying to get as near it as circumstances will allow, +or to avoid getting nearer than is for the time being +convenient. Walking, running, standing, sitting, lying, +waking, or sleeping, from birth till death it is a paramount +object with us; even after death—if it be not fanciful to +say so—it is one of the few things of which what is left of +us can still feel the influence; yet what can engross less of our +attention than this dark and distant spot so many thousands of +miles away?</p> +<p>The air we breathe, so long as it is neither too hot nor cold, +nor rough, nor full of smoke—that is to say, so long as it +is in that state within which we are best acquainted—seldom +enters into our thoughts; yet there is hardly anything with which +we are more incessantly occupied night and day.</p> +<p>Indeed, it is not too much to say that we have no really +profound knowledge upon any subject—no knowledge on the +strength of which we are ready to act at all moments +unhesitatingly without either preparation or +after-thought—till we have left off feeling conscious of +the possession of such knowledge, and of the grounds on which it +rests. A lesson thoroughly learned must be like the air +which feels so light, though pressing so heavily against us, +because every pore of our skin is saturated, so to speak, with it +on all sides equally. This perfection of knowledge +sometimes extends to positive disbelief in the thing known, so +that the most thorough knower shall believe himself altogether +ignorant. No thief, for example, is such an utter +thief—so <i>good</i> a thief—as the +kleptomaniac. Until he has become a kleptomaniac, and can +steal a horse as it were by a reflex action, he is still but half +a thief, with many unthievish notions still clinging to +him. Yet the kleptomaniac is probably unaware that he can +steal at all, much less that he can steal so well. He would +be shocked if he were to know the truth. So again, no man +is a great hypocrite until he has left off knowing that he is a +hypocrite. The great hypocrites of the world are almost +invariably under the impression that they are among the very few +really honest people to be found and, as we must all have +observed, it is rare to find any one strongly under this +impression without ourselves having good reason to differ from +him.</p> +<p>Our own existence is another case in point. When we have +once become articulately conscious of existing, it is an easy +matter to begin doubting whether we exist at all. As long +as man was too unreflecting a creature to articulate in words his +consciousness of his own existence, he knew very well that he +existed, but he did not know that he knew it. With +introspection, and the perception recognised, for better or +worse, that he was a fact, came also the perception that he had +no solid ground for believing that he was a fact at all. +That nice, sensible, unintrospective people who were too busy +trying to exist pleasantly to trouble their heads as to whether +they existed or no—that this best part of mankind should +have gratefully caught at such a straw as “<i>cogito ergo +sum</i>,” is intelligible enough. They felt the +futility of the whole question, and were thankful to one who +seemed to clench the matter with a cant catchword, especially +with a catchword in a foreign language; but how one, who was so +far gone as to recognise that he could not prove his own +existence, should be able to comfort himself with such a begging +of the question, would seem unintelligible except upon the ground +of sheer exhaustion.</p> +<p>At the risk of appearing to wander too far from the matter in +hand, a few further examples may perhaps be given of that irony +of nature, by which it comes about that we so often most know and +are, what we least think ourselves to know and be—and on +the other hand hold most strongly what we are least capable of +demonstrating.</p> +<p>Take the existence of a Personal God,—one of the most +profoundly-received and widely-spread ideas that have ever +prevailed among mankind. Has there ever been a +<i>demonstration</i> of the existence of such a God as has +satisfied any considerable section of thinkers for long +together? Hardly has what has been conceived to be a +demonstration made its appearance and received a certain +acceptance as though it were actual proof, when it has been +impugned with sufficient success to show that, however true the +fact itself, the demonstration is naught. I do not say that +this is an argument against the personality of God; the drift, +indeed, of the present reasoning would be towards an opposite +conclusion, inasmuch as it insists upon the fact that what is +most true and best known is often least susceptible of +demonstration owing to the very perfectness with which it is +known; nevertheless, the fact remains that many men in many ages +and countries—the subtlest thinkers over the whole world +for some fifteen hundred years—have hunted for a +demonstration of God’s personal existence; yet though so +many have sought,—so many, and so able, and for so long a +time—none have found. There is no demonstration which +can be pointed to with any unanimity as settling the matter +beyond power of reasonable cavil. On the contrary, it may +be observed that from the attempt to prove the existence of a +personal God to the denial of that existence altogether, the path +is easy. As in the case of our own existence, it will be +found that they alone are perfect believers in a personal Deity +and in the Christian religion who have not yet begun to feel that +either stands in need of demonstration. We observe that +most people, whether Christians, or Jews, or Mohammedans, are +unable to give their reasons for the faith that is in them with +any readiness or completeness; and this is sure proof that they +really hold it so utterly as to have no further sense that it +either can be demonstrated or ought to be so, but feel towards it +as towards the air which they breathe but do not notice. On +the other hand, a living prelate was reported in the +“Times” to have said in one of his latest charges: +“My belief is that a widely extended good practice must be +founded upon Christian doctrine.” The fact of the +Archbishop’s recognising this as among the number of his +beliefs is conclusive evidence with those who have devoted +attention to the laws of thought, that his mind is not yet clear +as to whether or no there is any connection at all between +Christian doctrine and widely extended good practice. <a +name="citation25"></a><a href="#footnote25" +class="citation">[25]</a></p> +<p>Again, it has been often and very truly said that it is not +the conscious and self-styled sceptic, as Shelley for example, +who is the true unbeliever. Such a man as Shelley will, as +indeed his life abundantly proves, have more in common than not +with the true unselfconscious believer. Gallio again, whose +indifference to religious animosities has won him the cheapest +immortality which, so far as I can remember, was ever yet won, +was probably if the truth were known, a person of the sincerest +piety. It is the unconscious unbeliever who is the true +infidel, however greatly he would be surprised to know the +truth. Mr. Spurgeon was reported as having recently asked +the Almighty to “change our rulers <i>as soon as +possible</i>.” There lurks a more profound distrust +of God’s power in these words than in almost any open +denial of His existence.</p> +<p>So it rather shocks us to find Mr. Darwin writing +(“Plants and Animals under Domestication,” vol. ii., +p. 275): “No doubt, in every case there must have been some +exciting cause.” And again, six or seven pages later: +“No doubt, each slight variation must have its efficient +cause.” The repetition within so short a space of +this expression of confidence in the impossibility of causeless +effects would suggest that Mr. Darwin’s mind at the time of +writing was, unconsciously to himself, in a state of more or less +uneasiness as to whether effects could not occasionally come +about of themselves, and without cause of any sort,—that he +may have been standing, in fact, for a short time upon the brink +of a denial of the indestructibility of force and matter.</p> +<p>In like manner, the most perfect humour and irony is generally +quite unconscious. Examples of both are frequently given by +men whom the world considers as deficient in humour; it is more +probably true that these persons are unconscious of their own +delightful power through the very mastery and perfection with +which they hold it. There is a play, for instance, of +genuine fun in some of the more serious scientific and +theological journals which for some time past we have looked for +in vain in “—.”</p> +<p>The following extract, from a journal which I will not +advertise, may serve as an example:</p> +<p>“Lycurgus, when they had abandoned to his revenge him +who had put out his eyes, took him home, and the punishment he +inflicted upon him was sedulous instructions to +virtue.” Yet this truly comic paper does not probably +know that it is comic, any more than the kleptomaniac knows that +he steals, or than John Milton knew he was a humorist when he +wrote a hymn upon the circumcision, and spent his honeymoon in +composing a treatise on divorce. No more again did Goethe +know how exquisitely humorous he was when he wrote, in his +Wilhelm Meister, that a beautiful tear glistened in +Theresa’s right eye, and then went on to explain that it +glistened in her right eye and not in her left, because she had +had a wart on her left which had been removed—and +successfully. Goethe probably wrote this without a chuckle; +he believed what a good many people who have never read Wilhelm +Meister believe still, namely, that it was a work full of pathos, +of fine and tender feeling; yet a less consummate humorist must +have felt that there was scarcely a paragraph in it from first to +last the chief merit of which did not lie in its absurdity.</p> +<p>Another example may be taken from Bacon of the manner in which +sayings which drop from men unconsciously, give the key of their +inner thoughts to another person, though they themselves know not +that they have such thoughts at all; much less that these +thoughts are their only true convictions. In his Essay on +Friendship the great philosopher writes: “Reading good +books on morality is a little flat and dead.” +Innocent, not to say pathetic, as this passage may sound it is +pregnant with painful inferences concerning Bacon’s moral +character. For if he knew that he found reading good books +of morality a little flat and dead, it follows he must have tried +to read them; nor is he saved by the fact that he found them a +little flat and dead; for though this does indeed show that he +had begun to be so familiar with a few first principles as to +find it more or less exhausting to have his attention directed to +them further—yet his words prove that they were not so +incorporate with him that he should feel the loathing for further +discourse upon the matter which honest people commonly feel +now. It will be remembered that he took bribes when he came +to be Lord Chancellor.</p> +<p>It is on the same principle that we find it so distasteful to +hear one praise another for earnestness. For such praise +raises a suspicion in our minds (<i>pace</i> the late Dr. Arnold +and his following) that the praiser’s attention must have +been arrested by sincerity, as by something more or less +unfamiliar to himself. So universally is this recognised +that the world has for some time been discarded entirely by all +reputable people. Truly, if there is one who cannot find +himself in the same room with the life and letters of an earnest +person without being made instantly unwell, the same is a just +man and perfect in all his ways.</p> +<p>But enough has perhaps been said. As the fish in the +sea, or the bird in the air, so unreasoningly and inarticulately +safe must a man feel before he can be said to know. It is +only those who are ignorant and uncultivated who can know +anything at all in a proper sense of the words. Cultivation +will breed in any man a certainty of the uncertainty even of his +most assured convictions. It is perhaps fortunate for our +comfort that we can none of us be cultivated upon very many +subjects, so that considerable scope for assurance will still +remain to us; but however this may be, we certainly observe it as +a fact that the greatest men are they who are most uncertain in +spite of certainty, and at the same time most certain in spite of +uncertainty, and who are thus best able to feel that there is +nothing in such complete harmony with itself as a flat +contradiction in terms. For nature hates that any principle +should breed, so to speak, hermaphroditically, but will give to +each an help meet for it which shall cross it and be the undoing +of it; as in the case of descent with modification, of which the +essence would appear to be that every offspring should resemble +its parents, and yet, at the same time, that no offspring should +resemble its parents. But for the slightly irritating +stimulant of this perpetual crossing, we should pass our lives +unconsciously as though in slumber.</p> +<p>Until we have got to understand that though black is not +white, yet it may be whiter than white itself (and any painter +will readily paint that which shall show obviously as black, yet +it shall be whiter than that which shall show no less obviously +as white), we may be good logicians, but we are still poor +reasoners. Knowledge is in an inchoate state as long as it +is capable of logical treatment; it must be transmuted into that +sense or instinct which rises altogether above the sphere in +which words can have being at all, otherwise it is not yet +vital. For sense is to knowledge what conscience is to +reasoning about right and wrong; the reasoning must be so rapid +as to defy conscious reference to first principles, and even at +times to be apparently subversive of them altogether, or the +action will halt. It must, in fact, become automatic before +we are safe with it. While we are fumbling for the grounds +of our conviction, our conviction is prone to fall, as Peter for +lack of faith sinking into the waves of Galilee; so that the very +power to prove at all is an <i>à priori</i> argument +against the truth—or at any rate the practical importance +to the vast majority of mankind—of all that is supported by +demonstration. For the power to prove implies a sense of +the need of proof, and things which the majority of mankind find +practically important are in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred +above proof. The need of proof becomes as obsolete in the +case of assumed knowledge, as the practice of fortifying towns in +the middle of an old and long settled country. Who builds +defences for that which is impregnable or little likely to be +assailed? The answer is ready, that unless the defences had +been built in former times it would be impossible to do without +them now; but this does not touch the argument, which is not that +demonstration is unwise, but that as long as a demonstration is +still felt necessary, and therefore kept ready to hand, the +subject of such demonstration is not yet securely known. +<i>Qui s’excuse</i>, <i>s’accuse</i>; and unless a +matter can hold its own without the brag and self-assertion of +continual demonstration, it is still more or less of a parvenu, +which we shall not lose much by neglecting till it has less +occasion to blow its own trumpet. The only alternative is +that it is an error in process of detection, for if evidence +concerning any opinion has long been denied superfluous, and ever +after this comes to be again felt necessary, we know that the +opinion is doomed.</p> +<p>If there is any truth in the above, it should follow that our +conception of the words “science” and +“scientific” should undergo some modification. +Not that we should speak slightingly of science, but that we +should recognise more than we do, that there are two distinct +classes of scientific people corresponding not inaptly with the +two main parties unto which the political world is divided. +The one class is deeply versed in those sciences which have +already become the common property of mankind; enjoying, +enforcing, perpetuating, and engraving still more deeply unto the +mind of man acquisitions already approved by common experience, +but somewhat careless about extension of empire, or at any rate +disinclined, for the most part, to active effort on their own +part for the sake of such extension—neither progressive, in +fact, nor aggressive—but quiet, peaceable people, who wish +to live and let live, as their fathers before them; while the +other class is chiefly intent upon pushing forward the boundaries +of science, and is comparatively indifferent to what is known +already save in so far as necessary for purposes of +extension. These last are called pioneers of science, and +to them alone is the title “scientific” commonly +accorded; but pioneers, unimportant to an army as they are, are +still not the army itself; which can get on better without the +pioneers than the pioneers without the army. Surely the +class which knows thoroughly well what it knows, and which +adjudicates upon the value of the discoveries made by the +pioneers—surely this class has as good a right or better to +be called scientific than the pioneers themselves.</p> +<p>These two classes above described blend into one another with +every shade of gradation. Some are admirably proficient in +the well-known sciences—that is to say, they have good +health, good looks, good temper, common sense, and energy, and +they hold all these good things in such perfection as to lie +altogether without introspection—to be not under the law, +but so utterly and entirely under grace that every one who sees +them likes them. But such may, and perhaps more commonly +will, have very little inclination to extend the boundaries of +human knowledge; their aim is in another direction +altogether. Of the pioneers, on the other hand, some are +agreeable people, well versed in the older sciences, though still +more eminent as pioneers, while others, whose services in this +last capacity have been of inestimable value, are noticeably +ignorant of the sciences which have already become current with +the larger part of mankind—in other words, they are ugly, +rude, and disagreeable people, very progressive, it may be, but +very aggressive to boot.</p> +<p>The main difference between these two classes lies in the fact +that the knowledge of the one, so far as it is new, is known +consciously, while that of the other is unconscious, consisting +of sense and instinct rather than of recognised knowledge. +So long as a man has these, and of the same kind as the more +powerful body of his fellow-countrymen, he is a true man of +science, though he can hardly read or write. As my great +namesake said so well, “He knows what’s what, and +that’s as high as metaphysic wit can fly.” As +usual, these true and thorough knowers do not know that they are +scientific, and can seldom give a reason for the faith that is in +them. They believe themselves to be ignorant, uncultured +men, nor can even the professors whom they sometimes outwit in +their own professorial domain perceive that they have been +outwitted by men of superior scientific attainments to their +own. The following passage from Dr. Carpenter’s +“Mesmerism, Spiritualism,” &c., may serve as an +illustration:—</p> +<p>“It is well known that persons who are conversant with +the geological structure of a district are often able to indicate +with considerable certainty in what spot and at what depth water +will be found; and men <i>of less scientific knowledge</i>, +<i>but of considerable practical experience</i>”—(so +that in Dr. Carpenter’s mind there seems to be some sort of +contrast or difference in kind between the knowledge which is +derived from observation of facts and scientific +knowledge)—“frequently arrive at a true conclusion +upon this point without being able to assign reasons for their +opinions.</p> +<p>“Exactly the same may be said in regard to the mineral +structure of a mining district; the course of a metallic vein +being often correctly indicated by the shrewd guess of an +<i>observant</i> workman, when <i>the scientific reasoning</i> of +the mining engineer altogether fails.”</p> +<p>Precisely. Here we have exactly the kind of thing we are +in search of: the man who has observed and observed till the +facts are so thoroughly in his head that through familiarity he +has lost sight both of them and of the processes whereby he +deduced his conclusions from them—is apparently not +considered scientific, though he knows how to solve the problem +before him; the mining engineer, on the other hand, who reasons +scientifically—that is to say, with a knowledge of his own +knowledge—is found not to know, and to fail in discovering +the mineral.</p> +<p>“It is an experience we are continually encountering in +other walks of life,” continues Dr. Carpenter, “that +particular persons are guided—some apparently by an +original and others by <i>an acquired intuition</i>—to +conclusions for which they can give no adequate reason, but which +subsequent events prove to have been correct.” And +this, I take it, implies what I have been above insisting on, +namely, that on becoming intense, knowledge seems also to become +unaware of the grounds on which it rests, or that it has or +requires grounds at all, or indeed even exists. The only +issue between myself and Dr. Carpenter would appear to be, that +Dr. Carpenter, himself an acknowledged leader in the scientific +world, restricts the term “scientific” to the people +who know that they know, but are beaten by those who are not so +conscious of their own knowledge; while I say that the term +“scientific” should be applied (only that they would +not like it) to the nice sensible people who know what’s +what rather than to the discovering class.</p> +<p>And this is easily understood when we remember that the +pioneer cannot hope to acquire any of the new sciences in a +single lifetime so perfectly as to become unaware of his own +knowledge. As a general rule, we observe him to be still in +a state of active consciousness concerning whatever particular +science he is extending, and as long as he is in this state he +cannot know utterly. It is, as I have already so often +insisted on, those who do not know that they know so much who +have the firmest grip of their knowledge: the best class, for +example, of our English youth, who live much in the open air, +and, as Lord Beaconsfield finely said, never read. These +are the people who know best those things which are best worth +knowing—that is to say, they are the most truly +scientific. Unfortunately, the apparatus necessary for this +kind of science is so costly as to be within the reach of few, +involving, as it does, an experience in the use of it for some +preceding generations. Even those who are born with the +means within their reach must take no less pains, and exercise no +less self-control, before they can attain the perfect unconscious +use of them, than would go to the making of a James Watt or a +Stephenson; it is vain, therefore, to hope that this best kind of +science can ever be put within the reach of the many; +nevertheless it may be safely said that all the other and more +generally recognised kinds of science are valueless except in so +far as they tend to minister to this the highest kind. They +have no <i>raison d’être</i> except so far as they +tend to do away with the necessity for work, and to diffuse good +health, and that good sense which is above +self-consciousness. They are to be encouraged because they +have rendered the most fortunate kind of modern European +possible, and because they tend to make possible a still more +fortunate kind than any now existing. But the man who +devotes himself to science cannot—with the rarest, if any, +exceptions—belong to this most fortunate class +himself. He occupies a lower place, both scientifically and +morally, for it is not possible but that his drudgery should +somewhat soil him both in mind and health of body, or, if this be +denied, surely it must let him and hinder him in running the race +for unconsciousness. We do not feel that it increases the +glory of a king or great nobleman that he should excel in what is +commonly called science. Certainly he should not go further +than Prince Rupert’s drops. Nor should he excel in +music, art, literature, or theology—all which things are +more or less parts of science. He should be above them all, +save in so far as he can without effort reap renown from the +labours of others. It is a <i>lâche</i> in him that +he should write music or books, or paint pictures at all; but if +he must do so, his work should be at best contemptible. +Much as we must condemn Marcus Aurelius, we condemn James I. ever +more severely.</p> +<p>It is a pity there should exist so general a confusion of +thought upon this subject, for it may be asserted without fear of +contradiction that there is hardly any form of immorality now +rife which produces more disastrous effects upon those who give +themselves up to it, and upon society in general, than the +so-called science of those who know that they know too well to be +able to know truly. With very clever people—the +people who know that they know—it is much as with the +members of the early Corinthian Church, to whom St. Paul wrote, +that if they looked their numbers over, they would not find many +wise, nor powerful, nor well-born people among them. +Dog-fanciers tell us that performing dogs never carry their +tails; such dogs have eaten of the tree of knowledge, and are +convinced of sin accordingly—they know that they know +things, in respect of which, therefore, they are no longer under +grace, but under the law, and they have yet so much grace left as +to be ashamed. So with the human clever dog; he may speak +with the tongues of men and angels, but so long as he knows that +he knows, his tail will droop. More especially does this +hold in the case of those who are born to wealth and of old +family. We must all feel that a rich young nobleman with a +taste for science and principles is rarely a pleasant +object. We do not even like the rich young man in the Bible +who wanted to inherit eternal life, unless, indeed, he merely +wanted to know whether there was not some way by which he could +avoid dying, and even so he is hardly worth considering. +Principles are like logic, which never yet made a good reasoner +of a bad one, but might still be occasionally useful if they did +not invariably contradict each other whenever there is any +temptation to appeal to them. They are like fire, good +servants but bad masters. As many people or more have been +wrecked on principle as from want of principle. They are, +as their name implies, of an elementary character, suitable for +beginners only, and he who has so little mastered them as to have +occasion to refer to them consciously, is out of place in the +society of well-educated people. The truly scientific +invariably hate him, and, for the most part, the more profoundly +in proportion to the unconsciousness with which they do so.</p> +<p>If the reader hesitates, let him go down into the streets and +look in the shop-windows at the photographs of eminent men, +whether literary, artistic, or scientific, and note the work +which the consciousness of knowledge has wrought on nine out of +every ten of them; then let him go to the masterpieces of Greek +and Italian art, the truest preachers of the truest gospel of +grace; let him look at the Venus of Milo, the Discobolus, the St. +George of Donatello. If it had pleased these people to wish +to study, there was no lack of brains to do it with; but imagine +“what a deal of scorn” would “look +beautiful” upon the Venus of Milo’s face if it were +suggested to her that she should learn to read. Which, +think you, knows most, the Theseus, or any modern professor taken +at random? True, the advancement of learning must have had +a great share in the advancement of beauty, inasmuch as beauty is +but knowledge perfected and incarnate—but with the pioneers +it is <i>sic vos non vobis</i>; the grace is not for them, but +for those who come after. Science is like offences. +It must needs come, but woe unto that man through whom it comes; +for there cannot be much beauty where there is consciousness of +knowledge, and while knowledge is still new it must in the nature +of things involve much consciousness.</p> +<p>It is not knowledge, then, that is incompatible with beauty; +there cannot be too much knowledge, but it must have passed +through many people who it is to be feared must be more or less +disagreeable, before beauty or grace will have anything to say to +it; it must be so incarnate in a man’s whole being that he +shall not be aware of it, or it will fit him constrainedly as one +under the law, and not as one under grace.</p> +<p>And grace is best, for where grace is, love is not +distant. Grace! the old Pagan ideal whose charm even +unlovely Paul could not understand, but, as the legend tells us, +his soul fainted within him, his heart misgave him, and, standing +alone on the seashore at dusk, he “troubled deaf heaven +with his bootless cries,” his thin voice pleading for grace +after the flesh.</p> +<p>The waves came in one after another, the sea-gulls cried +together after their kind, the wind rustled among the dried canes +upon the sandbanks, and there came a voice from heaven saying, +“Let My grace be sufficient for thee.” Whereon, +failing of the thing itself, he stole the word and strove to +crush its meaning to the measure of his own limitations. +But the true grace, with her groves and high places, and troups +of young men and maidens crowned with flowers, and singing of +love and youth and wine—the true grace he drove out into +the wilderness—high up, it may be, into Piora, and into +such-like places. Happy they who harboured her in her ill +report.</p> +<p>It is common to hear men wonder what new faith will be adopted +by mankind if disbelief in the Christian religion should become +general. They seem to expect that some new theological or +quasi-theological system will arise, which, <i>mutatis +mutandis</i>, shall be Christianity over again. It is a +frequent reproach against those who maintain that the +supernatural element of Christianity is without foundation, that +they bring forward no such system of their own. They pull +down but cannot build. We sometimes hear even those who +have come to the same conclusions as the destroyers say, that +having nothing new to set up, they will not attack the old. +But how can people set up a new superstition, knowing it to be a +superstition? Without faith in their own platform, a faith +as intense as that manifested by the early Christians, how can +they preach? A new superstition will come, but it is in the +very essence of things that its apostles should have no suspicion +of its real nature; that they should no more recognise the common +element between the new and the old than the early Christians +recognised it between their faith and Paganism. If they +did, they would be paralysed. Others say that the new +fabric may be seen rising on every side, and that the coming +religion is science. Certainly its apostles preach it +without misgiving, but it is not on that account less possible +that it may prove only to be the coming superstition—like +Christianity, true to its true votaries, and, like Christianity, +false to those who follow it introspectively.</p> +<p>It may well be we shall find we have escaped from one set of +taskmasters to fall into the hands of others far more +ruthless. The tyranny of the Church is light in comparison +with that which future generations may have to undergo at the +hands of the doctrinaires. The Church did uphold a grace of +some sort as the <i>summum bonum</i>, in comparison with which +all so-called earthly knowledge—knowledge, that is to say, +which had not passed through so many people as to have become +living and incarnate—was unimportant. Do what we may, +we are still drawn to the unspoken teaching of her less +introspective ages with a force which no falsehood could +command. Her buildings, her music, her architecture, touch +us as none other on the whole can do; when she speaks there are +many of us who think that she denies the deeper truths of her own +profounder mind, and unfortunately her tendency is now towards +more rather than less introspection. The more she gives way +to this—the more she becomes conscious of knowing—the +less she will know. But still her ideal is in grace.</p> +<p>The so-called man of science, on the other hand, seems now +generally inclined to make light of all knowledge, save of the +pioneer character. His ideal is in self-conscious +knowledge. Let us have no more Lo, here, with the +professor; he very rarely knows what he says he knows; no sooner +has he misled the world for a sufficient time with a great +flourish of trumpets than he is toppled over by one more +plausible than himself. He is but medicine-man, augur, +priest, in its latest development; useful it may be, but +requiring to be well watched by those who value freedom. +Wait till he has become more powerful, and note the vagaries +which his conceit of knowledge will indulge in. The Church +did not persecute while she was still weak. Of course every +system has had, and will have, its heroes, but, as we all very +well know, the heroism of the hero is but remotely due to system; +it is due not to arguments, nor reasoning, nor to any consciously +recognised perceptions, but to those deeper sciences which lie +far beyond the reach of self-analysis, and for the sturdy of +which there is but one schooling—to have had good +forefathers for many generations.</p> +<p>Above all things, let no unwary reader do me the injustice of +believing in <i>me</i>. In that I write at all I am among +the dammed. If he must believe in anything, let him believe +in the music of Handel, the painting of Giovanni Bellini, and in +the thirteenth chapter of St. Paul’s First Epistle to the +Corinthians.</p> +<p>But to return. Whenever we find people knowing that they +know this or that, we have the same story over and over +again. They do not yet know it perfectly.</p> +<p>We come, therefore, to the conclusion that our knowledge and +reasoning thereupon, only become perfect, assured, unhesitating, +when they have become automatic, and are thus exercised without +further conscious effort of the mind, much in the same way as we +cannot walk nor read nor write perfectly till we can do so +automatically.</p> +<h2><a name="page43"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +43</span>CHAPTER III.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS TO +CERTAIN HABITS ACQUIRED AFTER BIRTH WHICH ARE COMMONLY CONSIDERED +INSTINCTIVE.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">What</span> is true of knowing is also +true of willing. The more intensely we will, the less is +our will deliberate and capable of being recognised as will at +all. So that it is common to hear men declare under certain +circumstances that they had no will, but were forced into their +own action under stress of passion or temptation. But in +the more ordinary actions of life, we observe, as in walking or +breathing, that we do not will anything utterly and without +remnant of hesitation, till we have lost sight of the fact that +we are exercising our will.</p> +<p>The question, therefore, is forced upon us, how far this +principle extends, and whether there may not be unheeded examples +of its operation which, if we consider them, will land us in +rather unexpected conclusions. If it be granted that +consciousness of knowledge and of volition vanishes when the +knowledge and the volition have become intense and perfect, may +it not be possible that many actions which we do without knowing +how we do them, and without any conscious exercise of the +will—actions which we certainly could not do if we tried to +do them, nor refrain from doing if for any reason we wished to do +so—are done so easily and so unconsciously owing to excess +of knowledge or experience rather than deficiency, we having done +them too often, knowing how to do them too well, and having too +little hesitation as to the method of procedure, to be capable of +following our own action without the utter derangement of such +action altogether; or, in other cases, because we have so long +settled the question, that we have stowed away the whole +apparatus with which we work in corners of our system which we +cannot now conveniently reach?</p> +<p>It may be interesting to see whether we can find any class or +classes of actions which would seem to link actions which for +some time after birth we could not do at all, and in which our +proficiency has reached the stage of unconscious performance +obviously through repeated effort and failure, and through this +only, with actions which we could do as soon as we were born, and +concerning which it would at first sight appear absurd to say +that they can have been acquired by any process in the least +analogous to that which we commonly call experience, inasmuch as +the creature itself which does them has only just begun to exist, +and cannot, therefore, in the very nature of things, have had +experience.</p> +<p>Can we see that actions, for the acquisition of which +experience is such an obvious necessity, that whenever we see the +acquisition we assume the experience, gradate away imperceptibly +into actions which would seem, according to all reasonable +analogy, to presuppose experience, of which, however, the time +and place seem obscure, if not impossible?</p> +<p>Eating and drinking would appear to be such actions. The +new-born child cannot eat, and cannot drink, but he can swallow +as soon as he is born; and swallowing would appear (as we may +remark in passing) to have been an earlier faculty of animal life +than that of eating with teeth. The ease and +unconsciousness with which we eat and drink is clearly +attributable to practice; but a very little practice seems to go +a long way—a suspiciously small amount of practice—as +though somewhere or at some other time there must have been more +practice than we can account for. We can very readily stop +eating or drinking, and can follow our own action without +difficulty in either process; but, as regards swallowing, which +is the earlier habit, we have less power of self-analysis and +control: when we have once committed ourselves beyond a certain +point to swallowing, we must finish doing so,—that is to +say, our control over the operation ceases. Also, a still +smaller experience seems necessary for the acquisition of the +power to swallow than appeared necessary in the case of eating; +and if we get into a difficulty we choke, and are more at a loss +how to become introspective than we are about eating and +drinking.</p> +<p>Why should a baby be able to swallow—which one would +have said was the more complicated process of the two—with +so much less practice than it takes him to learn to eat? +How comes it that he exhibits in the case of the more difficult +operation all the phenomena which ordinarily accompany a more +complete mastery and longer practice? Analogy would +certainly seem to point in the direction of thinking that the +necessary experience cannot have been wanting, and that, too, not +in such a quibbling sort as when people talk about inherited +habit or the experience of the race, which, without explanation, +is to plain-speaking persons very much the same, in regard to the +individual, as no experience at all, but <i>bonâ fide</i> +in the child’s own person.</p> +<p>Breathing, again, is an action acquired after birth, generally +with some little hesitation and difficulty, but still acquired in +a time seldom longer, as I am informed, than ten minutes or a +quarter of an hour. For an ant which has to be acquired at +all, there would seem here, as in the case of eating, to be a +disproportion between, on the one hand, the intricacy of the +process performed, and on the other, the shortness of the time +taken to acquire the practice, and the ease and unconsciousness +with which its exercise is continued from the moment of +acquisition.</p> +<p>We observe that in later life much less difficult and +intricate operations than breathing acquire much longer practice +before they can be mastered to the extent of unconscious +performance. We observe also that the phenomena attendant +on the learning by an infant to breathe are extremely like those +attendant upon the repetition of some performance by one who has +done it very often before, but who requires just a little +prompting to set him off, on getting which, the whole familiar +routine presents itself before him, and he repeats his task by +rote. Surely then we are justified in suspecting that there +must have been more <i>bonâ fide</i> personal recollection +and experience, with more effort and failure on the part of the +infant itself than meet the eye.</p> +<p>It should be noticed, also, that our control over breathing is +very limited. We can hold our breath a little, or breathe a +little faster for a short time, but we cannot do this for long, +and after having gone without air for a certain time we must +breath.</p> +<p>Seeing and hearing require some practice before their free use +is mastered, but not very much. They are so far within our +control that we can see more by looking harder, and hear more by +listening attentively—but they are beyond our control in so +far as that we must see and hear the greater part of what +presents itself to us as near, and at the same time unfamiliar, +unless we turn away or shut our eyes, or stop our ears by a +mechanical process; and when we do this it is a sign that we have +already involuntarily seen or heard more than we wished. +The familiar, whether sight or sound, very commonly escapes +us.</p> +<p>Take again the processes of digestion, the action of the +heart, and the oxygenisation of the blood—processes of +extreme intricacy, done almost entirely unconsciously, and quite +beyond the control of our volition.</p> +<p>Is it possible that our unconsciousness concerning our own +performance of all these processes arises from +over-experience?</p> +<p>Is there anything in digestion, or the oxygenisation of the +blood, different in kind to the rapid unconscious action of a man +playing a difficult piece of music on the piano? There may +be in degree, but as a man who sits down to play what he well +knows, plays on, when once started, almost, as we say, +mechanically, so, having eaten his dinner, he digests it as a +matter of course, unless it has been in some way unfamiliar to +him, or he to it, owing to some derangement or occurrence with +which he is unfamiliar, and under which therefore he is at a loss +now to comport himself, as a player would be at a loss how to +play with gloves on, or with gout in his fingers, or if set to +play music upside down.</p> +<p>Can we show that all the acquired actions of childhood and +after-life, which we now do unconsciously, or without conscious +exercise of the will, are familiar acts—acts which we have +already done a very great number of times?</p> +<p>Can we also show that there are no acquired actions which we +can perform in this automatic manner, which were not at one time +difficult, requiring attention, and liable to repeated failure, +our volition failing to command obedience from the members which +should carry its purposes into execution?</p> +<p>If so, analogy will point in the direction of thinking that +other acts which we do even more unconsciously may only escape +our power of self-examination and control because they are even +more familiar—because we have done them oftener; and we may +imagine that if there were a microscope which could show us the +minutest atoms of consciousness and volition, we should find that +even the apparently most automatic actions were yet done in due +course, upon a balance of considerations, and under the +deliberate exercise of the will.</p> +<p>We should also incline to think that even such an action as +the oxygenisation of its blood by an infant of ten minutes’ +old, can only be done so well and so unconsciously, after +repeated failures on the part of the infant itself.</p> +<p>True, as has been already implied, we do not immediately see +when the baby could have made the necessary mistakes and acquired +that infinite practice without which it could never go through +such complex processes satisfactorily; we have therefore invented +the words “hereditary instinct,” and consider them as +accounting for the phenomenon; but a very little reflection will +show that though these words may be a very good way of stating +the difficulty, they do little or nothing towards removing +it.</p> +<p>Why should hereditary instinct enable a creature to dispense +with the experience which we see to be necessary in all other +cases before difficult operations can be performed +successfully?</p> +<p>What is this talk that is made about the experience <i>of the +race</i>, as though the experience of one man could profit +another who knows nothing about him? If a man eats his +dinner, it nourishes <i>him</i> and not his neighbour; if he +learns a different art, it is <i>he</i> that can do it and not +his neighbour. Yet, practically, we see that the vicarious +experience, which seems so contrary to our common observation, +does nevertheless appear to hold good in the case of creatures +and their descendants. Is there, then, any way of bringing +these apparently conflicting phenomena under the operation of one +law? Is there any way of showing that this experience of +the race, of which so much is said without the least attempt to +show in what way it may or does become the experience of the +individual, is in sober seriousness the experience of one single +being only, repeating in a great many different ways certain +performances with which he has become exceedingly familiar?</p> +<p>It would seem that we must either suppose the conditions of +experience to differ during the earlier stages of life from those +which we observe them to become during the heyday of any +existence—and this would appear very gratuitous, tolerable +only as a suggestion because the beginnings of life are so +obscure, that in such twilight we may do pretty much whatever we +please without danger of confutation—or that we must +suppose the continuity of life and sameness between living +beings, whether plants or animals, and their descendants, to be +far closer than we have hitherto believed; so that the experience +of one person is not enjoyed by his successor, so much as that +the successor is <i>bonâ fide</i> but a part of the life of +his progenitor, imbued with all his memories, profiting by all +his experiences—which are, in fact, his own—and only +unconscious of the extent of his own memories and experiences +owing to their vastness and already infinite repetitions.</p> +<p>Certainly it presents itself to us at once as a singular +coincidence—</p> +<p>I. That we are <i>most conscious of</i>, <i>and have +most control over</i>, such habits as speech, the upright +position, the arts and sciences, which are acquisitions peculiar +to the human race, always acquired after birth, and not common to +ourselves and any ancestor who had not become entirely human.</p> +<p>II. That we are <i>less conscious of</i>, <i>and have +less control over</i>, eating and drinking, swallowing, +breathing, seeing and hearing, which were acquisitions of our +prehuman ancestry, and for which we had provided ourselves with +all the necessary apparatus before we saw light, but which are +still, geologically speaking, recent, or comparatively +recent.</p> +<p>III. That we are <i>most unconscious of</i>, <i>and have +least control over</i>, our digestion and circulation, which +belonged even to our invertebrate ancestry, and which are habits, +geologically speaking, of extreme antiquity.</p> +<p>There is something too like method in this for it to be taken +as the result of mere chance—chance again being but another +illustration of Nature’s love of a contradiction in terms; +for everything is chance, and nothing is chance. And you +may take it that all is chance or nothing chance, according as +you please, but you must not have half chance and half not +chance.</p> +<p>Does it not seem as though the older and more confirmed the +habit, the more unquestioning the act of volition, till, in the +case of the oldest habits, the practice of succeeding existences +has so formulated the procedure, that, on being once committed to +such and such a line beyond a certain point, the subsequent +course is so clear as to be open to no further doubt, to admit of +no alternative, till the very power of questioning is gone, and +even the consciousness of volition? And this too upon +matters which, in earlier stages of a man’s existence, +admitted of passionate argument and anxious deliberation whether +to resolve them thus or thus, with heroic hazard and experiment, +which on the losing side proved to be vice, and on the winning +virtue. For there was passionate argument once what shape a +man’s teeth should be, nor can the colour of his hair be +considered as ever yet settled, or likely to be settled for a +very long time.</p> +<p>It is one against legion when a creature tries to differ from +his own past selves. He must yield or die if he wants to +differ widely, so as to lack natural instincts, such as hunger or +thirst, or not to gratify them. It is more righteous in a +man that he should “eat strange food,” and that his +cheek should “so much as lank not,” than that he +should starve if the strange food be at his command. His +past selves are living in him at this moment with the accumulated +life of centuries. “Do this, this, this, which we too +have done, and found our profit in it,” cry the souls of +his forefathers within him. Faint are the far ones, coming +and going as the sound of bells wafted on to a high mountain; +loud and clear are the near ones, urgent as an alarm of +fire. “Withhold,” cry some. “Go on +boldly,” cry others. “Me, me, me, revert +hitherward, my descendant,” shouts one as it were from some +high vantage-ground over the heads of the clamorous +multitude. “Nay, but me, me, me,” echoes +another; and our former selves fight within us and wrangle for +our possession. Have we not here what is commonly called an +<i>internal tumult</i>, when dead pleasures and pains tug within +us hither and thither? Then may the battle be decided by +what people are pleased to call our own experience. Our own +indeed! What is our own save by mere courtesy of +speech? A matter of fashion. Sanction sanctifieth and +fashion fashioneth. And so with death—the most +inexorable of all conventions.</p> +<p>However this may be, we may assume it as an axiom with regard +to actions acquired after birth, that we never do them +automatically save as the result of long practice, and after +having thus acquired perfect mastery over the action in +question.</p> +<p>But given the practice or experience, and the intricacy of the +process to be performed appears to matter very little. +There is hardly anything conceivable as being done by man, which +a certain amount of familiarity will not enable him to do, as it +were mechanically and without conscious effort. “The +most complex and difficult movements,” writes Mr Darwin, +“can in time be performed without the least effort or +consciousness.” All the main business of life is done +thus unconsciously or semi-unconsciously. For what is the +main business of life? We work that we may eat and digest, +rather than eat and digest that we may work; this, at any rate, +is the normal state of things: the more important business then +is that which is carried on unconsciously. So again the +action of the brain, which goes on prior to our realising the +idea in which it results, is not perceived by the +individual. So also all the deeper springs of action and +conviction. The residuum with which we fret and worry +ourselves is a mere matter of detail, as the higgling and +haggling of the market, which is not over the bulk of the price, +but over the last halfpenny.</p> +<p>Shall we say, then, that a baby of a day old sucks (which +involves the whole principle of the pump, and hence a profound +practical knowledge of the laws of pneumatics and hydrostatics), +digests, oxygenises its blood (millions of years before Sir +Humphry Davy discovered oxygen), sees and hears—all most +difficult and complicated operations, involving a knowledge of +the facts concerning optics and acoustics, compared with which +the discoveries of Newton sink into utter insignificance? +Shall we say that a baby can do all these things at once, doing +them so well and so regularly, without being even able to direct +its attention to them, and without mistake, and at the same time +not know how to do them, and never have done them before?</p> +<p>Such an assertion would be a contradiction to the whole +experience of mankind. Surely the <i>onus probandi</i> must +rest with him who makes it.</p> +<p>A man may make a lucky hit now and again by what is called a +fluke, but even this must be only a little in advance of his +other performances of the same kind. He may multiply seven +by eight by a fluke after a little study of the multiplication +table, but he will not be able to extract the cube root of 4913 +by a fluke, without long training in arithmetic, any more than an +agricultural labourer would be able to operate successfully for +cataract. If, then, a grown man cannot perform so simple an +operation as that we will say, for cataract, unless he have been +long trained in other similar operations, and until he has done +what comes to the same thing many times over, with what show of +reason can we maintain that one who is so far less capable than a +grown man, can perform such vastly more difficult operations, +without knowing how to do them, and without ever having done them +before? There is no sign of “fluke” about the +circulation of a baby’s blood. There may perhaps be +some little hesitation about its earliest breathing, but this, as +a general rule, soon passes over, both breathing and circulation, +within an hour after birth, being as regular and easy as at any +time during life. Is it reasonable, then, to say that the +baby does these things without knowing how to do them, and +without ever having done them before, and continues to do them by +a series of lifelong flukes?</p> +<p>It would be well if those who feel inclined to hazard such an +assertion would find some other instances of intricate processes +gone through by people who know nothing about them, and never had +any practice therein. What <i>is</i> to know how to do a +thing? Surely to do it. What is proof that we know +how to do a thing? Surely the fact that we can do it. +A man shows that he knows how to throw the boomerang by throwing +the boomerang. No amount of talking or writing can get over +this; <i>ipso facto</i>, that a baby breathes and makes its blood +circulate, it knows how to do so and the fact that it does not +know its own knowledge is only proof of the perfection of that +knowledge, and of the vast number of past occasions on which it +must have been exercised already. As we have said already, +it is less obvious when the baby could have gained its +experience, so as to be able so readily to remember exactly what +to do; but it is more easy to suppose that the necessary +occasions cannot have been wanting, than that the power which we +observe should have been obtained without practice and +memory.</p> +<p>If we saw any self-consciousness on the baby’s part +about its breathing or circulation, we might suspect that it had +had less experience, or profited less by its experience, than its +neighbours—exactly in the same manner as we suspect a +deficiency of any quality which we see a man inclined to +parade. We all become introspective when we find that we do +not know our business, and whenever we are introspective we may +generally suspect that we are on the verge of +unproficiency. Unfortunately, in the case of sickly +children, we observe that they sometimes do become conscious of +their breathing and circulation, just as in later life we become +conscious that we have a liver or a digestion. In that case +there is always something wrong. The baby that becomes +aware of its breathing does not know how to breathe, and will +suffer for his ignorance and incapacity, exactly in the same way +as he will suffer in later life for ignorance and incapacity in +any other respect in which his peers are commonly knowing and +capable. In the case of inability to breath, the punishment +is corporal, breathing being a matter of fashion, so old and long +settled that nature can admit of no departure from the +established custom, and the procedure in case of failure is as +much formulated as the fashion itself in the case of the +circulation, the whole performance has become one so utterly of +rote, that the mere discovery that we could do it at all was +considered one of the highest flights of human genius.</p> +<p>It has been said a day will come when the Polar ice shall have +accumulated, till it forms vast continents many thousands of feet +above the level of the sea, all of solid ice. The weight of +this mass will, it is believed, cause the world to topple over on +its axis, so that the earth will be upset as an ant-heap +overturned by a ploughshare. In that day time icebergs will +come crunching against our proudest cities, razing them from off +the face of the earth as though they were made of rotten +blotting-paper. There is no respect now of Handel nor of +Shakespeare; the works of Rembrandt and Bellini fossilise at the +bottom of the sea. Grace, beauty, and wit, all that is +precious in music, literature, and art—all gone. In +the morning there was Europe. In the evening there are no +more populous cities nor busy hum of men, but a sea of jagged +ice, a lurid sunset, and the doom of many ages. Then shall +a scared remnant escape in places, and settle upon the changed +continent when the waters have subsided—a simple people, +busy hunting shellfish on the drying ocean beds, and with little +time for introspection yet they can read and write and sum, for +by that time these accomplishments will have become universal, +and will be acquired as easily as we now learn to talk; but they +do so as a matter of course, and without +self-consciousness. Also they make the simpler kinds of +machinery too easily to be able to follow their own +operations—the manner of their own apprenticeship being to +them as a buried city. May we not imagine that, after the +lapse of another ten thousand years or so, some one of them may +again become cursed with lust of introspection, and a second +Harvey may astonish the world by discovering that it can read and +write, and that steam-engines do not grow, but are made? It +may be safely prophesied that he will die a martyr, and be +honoured in the fourth generation.</p> +<h2><a name="page59"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +59</span>CHAPTER IV.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES TO +ACTIONS AND HABITS ACQUIRED BEFORE BIRTH.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">But</span> if we once admit the principle +that consciousness and volition have a tendency to vanish as soon +as practice has rendered any habit exceedingly familiar, so that +the mere presence of an elaborate but unconscious performance +shall carry with it a presumption of infinite practice, we shall +find it impossible to draw the line at those actions which we see +acquired after birth, no matter at how early a period. The +whole history and development of the embryo in all its stages +forces itself on our consideration. Birth has been made too +much of. It is a salient feature in the history of the +individual, but not more salient than a hundred others, and far +less so than the commencement of his existence as a single cell +uniting in itself elements derived from both parents, or perhaps +than any point in his whole existence as an embryo. For +many years after we are born we are still very incomplete. +We cease to oxygenise our blood vicariously as soon as we are +born, but we still derive our sustenance from our mothers. +Birth is but the beginning of doubt, the first hankering after +scepticism, the dreaming of a dawn of trouble, the end of +certainty and of settled convictions. Not but what before +birth there have been unsettled convictions (more’s the +pity) with not a few, and after birth we have still so made up +our minds upon many points as to have no further need of +reflection concerning them; nevertheless, in the main, birth is +the end of that time when we really knew our business, and the +beginning of the days wherein we know not what we would do, or +do. It is therefore the beginning of consciousness, and +infancy is as the dosing of one who turns in his bed on waking, +and takes another short sleep before he rises. When we were +yet unborn, our thoughts kept the roadway decently enough; then +were we blessed; we thought as every man thinks, and held the +same opinions as our fathers and mothers had done upon nearly +every subject. Life was not an art—and a very +difficult art—much too difficult to be acquired in a +lifetime; it was a science of which we were consummate +masters.</p> +<p>In this sense, then, birth may indeed be looked upon as the +most salient feature in a man’s life; but this is not at +all the sense in which it is commonly so regarded. It is +commonly considered as the point at which we begin to live. +More truly it is the point at which we leave off knowing how to +live.</p> +<p>A chicken, for example, is never so full of consciousness, +activity, reasoning faculty, and volition, as when it is an +embryo in the eggshell, making bones, and flesh, and feathers, +and eyes, and claws, with nothing but a little warmth and white +of egg to make them from. This is indeed to make bricks +with but a small modicum of straw. There is no man in the +whole world who knows consciously and articulately as much as a +half-hatched hen’s egg knows unconsciously. Surely +the egg in its own way must know quite as much as the chicken +does. We say of the chicken that it knows how to run about +as soon as it is hatched. So it does; but had it no +knowledge before it was hatched? What made it lay the +foundations of those limbs which should enable it to run +about? What made it grow a horny tip to its bill before it +was hatched, so that it might peck all round the larger end of +the eggshell and make a hole for itself to get out at? +Having once got outside the eggshell, the chicken throws away +this horny tip; but is it reasonable to suppose that it would +have grown it at all unless it had known that it would want +something with which to break the eggshell? And again, is +it in the least agreeable to our experience that such elaborate +machinery should be made without endeavour, failure, +perseverance, intelligent contrivance, experience, and +practice?</p> +<p>In the presence of such considerations, it seems impossible to +refrain from thinking that there must be a closer continuity of +identity, life, and memory, between successive generations than +we generally imagine. To shear the thread of life, and +hence of memory, between one generation and its successor, is so +to speak, a brutal measure, an act of intellectual butchery, and +like all such strong high-handed measures, a sign of weakness in +him who is capable of it till all other remedies have been +exhausted. It is mere horse science, akin to the theories +of the convulsionists in the geological kingdom, and of the +believers in the supernatural origin of the species of plants and +animals. Yet it is to be feared that we have not a few +among us who would feel shocked rather at the attempt towards a +milder treatment of the facts before them, than at a continuance +of the present crass tyranny with which we try to crush them +inside our preconceived opinions. It is quite common to +hear men of education maintain that not even when it was on the +point of being hatched, had the chicken sense enough to know that +it wanted to get outside the eggshell. It did indeed peck +all round the end of the shell, which, if it wanted to get out, +would certainly be the easiest way of effecting its purpose; but +it did not, they say, peck because it was aware of this, but +“promiscuously.” Curious, such a uniformity of +promiscuous action among so many eggs for so many +generations. If we see a man knock a hole in a wall on +finding that he cannot get out of a place by any other means, and +if we see him knock this hole in a very workmanlike way, with an +implement with which he has been at great pains to make for a +long the past, but which he throws away as soon as he has no +longer use for it, thus showing that he had made it expressly for +the purpose of escape, do we say that this person made the +implement and broke the wall of his prison promiscuously? +No jury would acquit a burglar on these grounds. Then why, +without much more evidence to the contrary than we have, or can +hope to have, should we not suppose that with chickens, as with +men, signs of contrivance are indeed signs of contrivance, +however quick, subtle, and untraceable, the contrivance may +be? Again, I have heard people argue that though the +chicken, when nearly hatched, had such a glimmering of sense that +it pecked the shell because it wanted to get out, yet that it is +not conceivable that, so long before it was hatched, it should +have had the sense to grow the horny tip to its bill for use when +wanted. This, at any rate, they say, it must have grown, as +the persons previously referred to would maintain, +promiscuously.</p> +<p>Now no one indeed supposes that the chicken does what it does, +with the same self-consciousness with which a tailor makes a suit +of clothes. Not any one who has thought upon the subject is +likely to do it so great an injustice. The probability is +that it knows what it is about to an extent greater than any +tailor ever did or will, for, to say the least of it, many +thousands of years to come. It works with such absolute +certainty and so vast an experience, that it is utterly incapable +of following the operations of its own mind—as accountants +have been known to add up long columns of pounds, shillings, and +pence, running the three fingers of one hand, a finger for each +column, up the page, and putting the result down correctly at the +bottom, apparently without an effort. In the case of the +accountant, we say that the processes which his mind goes through +are so rapid and subtle as to elude his own power of observation +as well as ours. We do not deny that his mind goes though +processes of some kind; we very readily admit that it must do so, +and say that these processes are so rapid and subtle, owing, as a +general rule, to long experience in addition. Why then +should we find it so difficult to conceive that this principle, +which we observe to play so large a part in mental physiology, +wherever we can observe mental physiology at all, may have a +share also in the performance of intricate operations otherwise +inexplicable, though the creature performing them is not man, or +man only in embryo?</p> +<p>Again, after the chicken is hatched, it grows more feathers +and bones and blood, but we still say that it knows nothing about +all this. What then do we say it <i>does</i> know? +One is almost ashamed to confess that we only credit it with +knowing what it appears to know by processes which we find it +exceedingly easy to follow, or perhaps rather, which we find it +absolutely impossible to avoid following, as recognising too +great a family likeness between them, and those which are most +easily followed in our own minds, to be able to sit down in +comfort under a denial of the resemblance. Thus, for +example, if we see a chicken running away from a fox, we do admit +that the chicken knows the fox would kill it if it caught it.</p> +<p>On the other hand, if we allow that the half-hatched chicken +grew the horny tip to be ready for use, with an intensity of +unconscious contrivance which can be only attributed to +experience, we are driven to admit that from the first moment the +men began to sit upon it—and earlier too than +this—the egg was always full of consciousness and volition, +and that during its embryological condition the unhatched chicken +is doing exactly what it continues doing from the moment it is +hatched till it dies; that is to say, attempting to better +itself, doing (as Aristotle says all creatures do all things upon +all occasions) what it considers most for its advantage under the +existing circumstances. What it may think most advantageous +will depend, while it is in the eggshell, upon exactly the same +causes as will influence its opinions in later life—to wit, +upon its habits, its past circumstances and ways of thinking; for +there is nothing, as Shakespeare tells us, good or ill, but +thinking makes it so.</p> +<p>The egg thinks feathers much more to its advantage than hair +or fur, and much more easily made. If it could speak, it +would probably tell us that we could make them ourselves very +easily after a few lessons, if we took the trouble to try, but +that hair was another matter, which it really could not see how +any protoplasm could be got to make. Indeed, during the +more intense and active part of our existence, in the earliest +stages, that is to say, of our embryological life, we could +probably have turned our protoplasm into feathers instead of hair +if we had cared about doing so. If the chicken can make +feathers, there seems no sufficient reason for thinking that we +cannot do so, beyond the fact that we prefer hair, and have +preferred it for so many ages that we have lost the art along +with the desire of making feathers, if indeed any of our +ancestors ever possessed it. The stuff with which we make +hair is practically the same as that with which chickens make +feathers. It is nothing but protoplasm, and protoplasm is +like certain prophecies, out of which anything can be made by the +creature which wants to make it. Everything depends upon +whether a creature knows its own mind sufficiently well, and has +enough faith in its own powers of achievement. When these +two requisites are wanting, the strongest giant cannot lift a +two-ounce weight; when they are given, a bullock can take an +eyelash out of its eye with its hind-foot, or a minute jelly +speck can build itself a house out of various materials which it +will select according to its purpose with the nicest care, though +it have neither brain to think with, nor eyes to see with, nor +hands nor feet to work with, nor is it anything but a minute +speck of jelly—faith and protoplasm only.</p> +<p>That this is indeed so, the following passage from Dr. +Carpenter’s “Mental Physiology” may serve to +show:—</p> +<p>“The simplest type of an animal consists of a minute +mass of ‘protoplasm,’ or living jelly, which is not +yet <i>differentiated</i> into ‘organs;’ every part +having the same endowments, and taking an equal share in every +action which the creature performs. One of these +‘jelly specks,’ the amœba, moves itself about +by changing the form of its body, extemporising a foot (or +pseudopodium), first in one direction, and then in another; and +then, when it has met with a nutritive particle, extemporises a +stomach for its reception, by wrapping its soft body around +it. Another, instead of going about in search of food, +remains in one place, but projects its protoplasmic substance +into long pseudopodia, which entrap and draw in very minute +particles, or absorb nutrient material from the liquid through +which they extend themselves, and are continually becoming fused +(as it were) into the central body, which is itself continually +giving off new pseudopodia. Now we can scarcely conceive +that a creature of such simplicity should possess any distinct +<i>consciousness</i> of its needs” (why not?), “or +that its actions should be directed by any <i>intention</i> of +its own; and yet the writer has lately found results of the most +singular elaborateness to be wrought out by the instrumentality +of these minute jelly specks, which build up tests or casings of +the most regular geometrical symmetry of form, and of the most +artificial construction.”</p> +<p>On this Dr. Carpenter remarks:—“Suppose a human +mason to be put down by the side of a pile of stones of various +shapes and sizes, and to be told to build a dome of these, smooth +on both surfaces, without using more than the least possible +quantity of a very tenacious, but very costly, cement, in holding +the stones together. If he accomplished this well, he would +receive credit for great intelligence and skill. Yet this +is exactly what these little ‘jelly specks’ do on a +most minute scale; the ‘tests’ they construct, when +highly magnified, bearing comparison with the most skilful +masonry of man. From <i>the same sandy bottom</i> one +species picks up the <i>coarser</i> quartz grains, cements them +together with <i>phosphate of iron</i> secreted from its own +substance” (should not this rather be, “which it has +contrived in some way or other to manufacture”?) and thus +constructs a flask-shaped ‘test,’ having a short neck +and a large single orifice. Another picks up the +<i>finest</i> grains, and puts them together, with the same +cement, into perfectly spherical ‘tests’ of the most +extraordinary finish, perforated with numerous small pores +disposed at pretty regular intervals. Another selects the +<i>minutest</i> sand grains and the terminal portions of sponge +spicules, and works them up together—apparently with no +cement at all, by the mere laying of the spicules—into +perfect white spheres, like homœopathic globules, each +having a single-fissured orifice. And another, which makes +a straight, many-chambered ‘test,’ that resembles in +form the chambered shell of an orthoceratite—the conical +mouth of each chamber projecting into the cavity of the +next—while forming the walls of its chambers of ordinary +sand grains rather loosely held together, shapes the conical +mouth of the successive chambers by firmly cementing together +grains of ferruginous quartz, which it must have picked out from +the general mass.”</p> +<p>“To give these actions,” continues Dr. Carpenter, +“the vague designation of ‘instinctive’ does +not in the least help us to account for them, since what we want +is to discover the <i>mechanism</i> by which they are worked out; +and it is most difficult to conceive how so artificial a +selection can be made by a creature so simple” (Mental +Physiology, 4th ed. pp. 41–43)</p> +<p>This is what protoplasm can do when it has the talisman of +faith—of faith which worketh all wonders, either in the +heavens above, or in the earth beneath, or in the waters under +the earth. Truly if a man have faith, even as a grain of +mustard seed, though he may not be able to remove mountains, he +will at any rate be able to do what is no less +difficult—make a mustard plant.</p> +<p>Yet this is but a barren kind of comfort, for we have not, and +in the nature of things cannot have, sufficient faith in the +unfamiliar, inasmuch as the very essence of faith involves the +notion of familiarity, which can grow but slowly, from experience +to confidence, and can make no sudden leap at any time. +Such faith cannot be founded upon reason,—that is to say, +upon a recognised perception on the part of the person holding it +that he is holding it, and of the reasons for his doing +so—or it will shift as other reasons come to disturb +it. A house built upon reason is a house built upon the +sand. It must be built upon the current cant and practice +of one’s peers, for this is the rock which, though not +immovable, is still most hard to move.</p> +<p>But however this may be, we observe broadly that the intensity +of the will to make this or that, and of the confidence that one +can make it, depends upon the length of time during which the +maker’s forefathers have wanted the same thing before it; +the older the custom the more inveterate the habit, and, with the +exception, perhaps, that the reproductive system is generally the +crowning act of development—an exception which I will +hereafter explain—the earlier its manifestation, until, for +some reason or another, we relinquish it and take to another, +which we must, as a general rule, again adhere to for a vast +number of generations, before it will permanently supplant the +older habit. In our own case, the habit of breathing like a +fish through gills may serve as an example. We have now +left off this habit, yet we did it formerly for so many +generations that we still do it a little; it still crosses our +embryological existence like a faint memory or dream, for not +easily is an inveterate habit broken. On the other +hand—again speaking broadly—the more recent the habit +the later the fashion of its organ, as with the teeth, speech, +and the higher intellectual powers, which are too new for +development before we are actually born.</p> +<p>But to return for a short time to Dr. Carpenter. Dr. +Carpenter evidently feels, what must indeed be felt by every +candid mind, that there is no sufficient reason for supposing +that these little specks of jelly, without brain or eyes, or +stomach, or hands, or feet, but the very lowest known form of +animal life, are not imbued with a consciousness of their needs, +and the reasoning faculties which shall enable them to gratify +those needs in a manner, all things considered, equalling the +highest flights of the ingenuity of the highest +animal—man. This is no exaggeration. It is +true, that in an earlier part of the passage, Dr. Carpenter has +said that we can scarcely conceive so simple a creature to +“possess any distinct <i>consciousness</i> of its needs, or +that its actions should be directed by any intention of its +own;” but, on the other hand, a little lower down he says, +that if a workman did what comes to the same thing as what the +amœba does, he “would receive credit for great +intelligence and skill.” Now if an amœba can do +that, for which a workman would receive credit as for a highly +skilful and intelligent performance, the amœba should +receive no less credit than the workman; he should also be no +less credited with skill and intelligence, which words +unquestionably involve a distinct consciousness of needs and an +action directed by an intention of its own. So that Dr. +Carpenter seems rather to blow hot and cold with one +breath. Nevertheless there can be no doubt to which side +the minds of the great majority of mankind will incline upon the +evidence before them; they will say that the creature is highly +reasonable and intelligent, though they would readily admit that +long practice and familiarity may have exhausted its powers of +attention to all the stages of its own performance, just as a +practised workman in building a wall certainly does not +consciously follow all the processes which he goes through.</p> +<p>As an example, however, of the extreme dislike which +philosophers of a certain school have for making the admissions +which seem somewhat grudgingly conceded by Dr. Carpenter, we may +take the paragraph which immediately follows the ones which we +have just quoted. Dr. Carpenter there writes:—</p> +<p>“The writer has often amused himself and others, when by +the seaside, with getting a <i>terebella</i> (a marine worm that +cases its body in a sandy tube) out of its house, and then, +putting it into a saucer of water with a supply of sand and +comminuted shell, watching its appropriation of these materials +in constructing a new tube. The extended tentacles soon +spread themselves over the bottom of the saucer and lay hold of +whatever comes in their way, ‘all being fish that comes to +their net,’ and in half an hour or thereabouts the new +house is finished, though on a very rude and artificial +type. Now here the organisation is far higher; the +instrumentality obviously serves the needs of the animal and +suffices for them; and we characterise the action, on account of +its uniformity and apparent <i>un</i>intelligence, as +instinctive.”</p> +<p>No comment will, one would think, be necessary to make the +reader feel that the difference between the terebella and the +amœba is one of degree rather than kind, and that if the +action of the second is as conscious and reasonable as that, we +will say, of a bird making her nest, the action of the first +should be so also. It is only a question of being a little +less skilful, or more so, but skill and intelligence would seem +present in both cases. Moreover, it is more clever of the +terebella to have made itself the limbs with which it can work, +than of the amœba to be able to work without the limbs; and +perhaps it is more sensible also to want a less elaborate +dwelling, provided it is sufficient for practical purposes. +But whether the terebella be less intelligent than the +amœba or not, it does quite enough to establish its claim +to intelligence of a higher order; and one does not see ground +for the satisfaction which Dr. Carpenter appears to find at +having, as it were, taken the taste of the amœba’s +performance out of our mouth, by setting us about the less +elaborate performance of the terebella, which he thinks we can +call unintelligent and instinctive.</p> +<p>I may be mistaken in the impression I have derived from the +paragraphs I have quoted. I commonly say they give me the +impression that I have tried to convey to the reader, +<i>i.e.</i>, that the writer’s assent to anything like +intelligence, or consciousness of needs, an animal low down in +the scale of life, is grudging, and that he is more comfortable +when he has got hold of onto to which he can point and say that +mere, at any rate, is an unintelligent and merely instinctive +creature. I have only called attention to the passage as an +example of the intellectual bias of a large number of exceedingly +able and thoughtful persons, among whom, so far as I am able to +form an opinion at all, few have greater claims to our respectful +attention than Dr. Carpenter himself.</p> +<p>For the embryo of a chicken, then, we damn exactly the same +kind of reasoning power and contrivance which we damn for the +amœba, or for our own intelligent performances in later +life. We do not claim for it much, if any, perception of +its own forethought, for we know very well that it is among the +most prominent features of intellectual activity that, after a +number of repetitions, it ceases to be perceived, and that it +does not, in ordinary cases, cease to be perceived till after a +very great number of repetitions. The fact that the embryo +chicken makes itself always as nearly as may be in the same way, +would lead us to suppose that it would be unconscious of much of +its own action, <i>provided it were always the same chicken which +made itself over and over again</i>. So far we can see, it +always <i>is</i> unconscious of the greater part of its own +wonderful performance. Surely then we have a presumption +that <i>it is the same chicken which makes itself over and over +again</i>; for such unconsciousness is not won, so far as our +experience goes, by any other means than by frequent repetition +of the same act on the part of one and the same individual. +How this can be we shall perceive in subsequent chapters. +In the meantime, we may say that all knowledge and volition would +seem to be merely parts of the knowledge and volition of the +primordial cell (whatever this may be), which slumbers but never +dies—which has grown, and multiplied, and differentiated +itself into the compound life of the womb, and which never +becomes conscious of knowing what it has once learnt effectually, +till it is for some reason on the point of, or in danger of, +forgetting it.</p> +<p>The action, therefore, of an embryo making its way up in the +world from a simple cell to a baby, developing for itself eyes, +ears, hands, and feet while yet unborn, proves to be exactly of +one and the same kind as that of a man of fifty who goes into the +City and tells his broker to buy him so many Great Northern A +shares—that is to say, an effort of the will exercised in +due course on a balance of considerations as to the immediate +expediency, and guided by past experience; while children who do +not reach birth are but prenatal spendthrifts, +ne’er-do-weels, inconsiderate innovators, the unfortunate +in business, either through their own fault or that of others, or +through inevitable mischances, beings who are culled out before +birth instead of after; so that even the lowest idiot, the most +contemptible in health or beauty, may yet reflect with pride that +they were <i>born</i>. Certainly we observe that those who +have had good fortune (mother and sole cause of virtue, and sole +virtue in itself), and have profited by their experience, and +known their business best before birth, so that they made +themselves both to be and to look well, do commonly on an average +prove to know it best in after-life: they grow their clothes best +who have grown their limbs best. It is rare that those who +have not remembered how to finish their own bodies fairly well +should finish anything well in later life. But how small is +the addition to their unconscious attainments which even the +Titans of human intellect have consciously accomplished, in +comparison with the problems solved by the meanest baby living, +nay, even by one whose birth is untimely! In other words, +how vast is that back knowledge over which we have gone fast +asleep, through the prosiness of perpetual repetition; and how +little in comparison, is that whose novelty keeps it still within +the scope of our conscious perception! What is the +discovery of the laws of gravitation as compared with the +knowledge which sleeps in every hen’s egg upon a kitchen +shelf?</p> +<p>It is all a matter of habit and fashion. Thus we see +kings and councillors of the earth admired for facing death +before what they are pleased to call dishonour. If, on +being required to go without anything they have been accustomed +to, or to change their habits, or do what is unusual in the case +of other kings under like circumstances, then, if they but fold +their cloak decently around them, and die upon the spot of shame +at having had it even required of them to do thus or thus, then +are they kings indeed, of old race, that know their business from +generation to generation. Or if, we will say, a prince, on +having his dinner brought to him ill-cooked, were to feel the +indignity so keenly as that he should turn his face to the wall, +and breathe out his wounded soul in one sigh, do we not admire +him as a “<i>real</i> prince,” who knows the business +of princes so well that he can conceive of nothing foreign to it +in connection with himself, the bare effort to realise a state of +things other than what princes have been accustomed to being +immediately fatal to him? Yet is there no less than this in +the demise of every half-hatched hen’s egg, shaken rudely +by a schoolboy, or neglected by a truant mother; for surely the +prince would not die if he knew how to do otherwise, and the +hen’s egg only dies of being required to do something to +which it is not accustomed.</p> +<p>But the further consideration of this and other like +reflections would too long detain us. Suffice it that we +have established the position that all living creatures which +show any signs of intelligence, must certainly each one have +already gone through the embryonic stages an infinite number of +times, or they could no more have achieved the intricate process +of self-development unconsciously, than they could play the piano +unconsciously without any previous knowledge of the +instrument. It remains, therefore, to show the when and +where of their having done so, and this leads us naturally to the +subject of the following chapter—Personal Identity.</p> +<h2><a name="page78"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +78</span>CHAPTER V.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PERSONAL IDENTITY.</span></h2> +<p>“<span class="smcap">Strange</span> difficulties have +been raised by some,” says Bishop Butler, “concerning +personal identity, or the sameness of living agents as implied in +the notion of our existing now and hereafter, or indeed in any +two consecutive moments.” But in truth it is not easy +to see the strangeness of the difficulty, if the words either +“personal” or “identity” are used in any +strictness.</p> +<p>Personality is one of those ideas with which we are so +familiar that we have lost sight of the foundations upon which it +rests. We regard our personality as a simple definite +whole; as a plain, palpable, individual thing, which can be seen +going about the streets or sitting indoors at home, which lasts +us our lifetime, and about the confines of which no doubt can +exist in the minds of reasonable people. But in truth this +“we,” which looks so simple and definite, is a +nebulous and indefinable aggregation of many component parts +which war not a little among themselves, our perception of our +existence at all being perhaps due to this very clash of warfare, +as our sense of sound and light is due to the jarring of +vibrations. Moreover, as the component parts of our +identity change from moment to moment, our personality becomes a +thing dependent upon the present, which has no logical existence, +but lives only upon the sufferance of times past and future, +slipping out of our hands into the domain of one or other of +these two claimants the moment we try to apprehend it. And +not only is our personality as fleeting as the present moment, +but the parts which compose it blend some of them so +imperceptibly into, and are so inextricably linked on to, outside +things which clearly form no part of our personality, that when +we try to bring ourselves to book, and determine wherein we +consist, or to draw a line as to where we begin or end, we find +ourselves completely baffled. There is nothing but fusion +and confusion.</p> +<p>Putting theology on one side, and dealing only with the common +daily experience of mankind, our body is certainly part of our +personality. With the destruction of our bodies, our +personality, as far as we can follow it, comes to a full stop; +and with every modification of them it is correspondingly +modified. But what are the limits of our bodies? They +are composed of parts, some of them so unessential as to be +hardly included in personality at all, and to be separable from +ourselves without perceptible effect, as the hair, nails, and +daily waste of tissue. Again, other parts are very +important, as our hands, feet, arms, legs, &c., but still are +no essential parts of our “self” or +“soul,” which continues to exist in spite of their +amputation. Other parts, as the brain, heart, and blood, +are so essential that they cannot be dispensed with, yet it is +impossible to say that personality consists in any one of +them.</p> +<p>Each one of these component members of our personality is +continually dying and being born again, supported in this process +by the food we eat, the water we drink, and the air we breathe; +which three things link us on, and fetter us down, to the organic +and inorganic world about us. For our meat and drink, +though no part of our personality before we eat and drink, +cannot, after we have done so, be separated entirely from us +without the destruction of our personality altogether, so far as +we can follow it; and who shall say at what precise moment our +food has or has not become part of ourselves? A famished +man eats food; after a short time his whole personality is so +palpably affected that we know the food to have entered into him +and taken, as it were, possession of him; but who can say at what +precise moment it did so? Thus we find that we are rooted +into outside things and melt away into them, nor can any man say +he consists absolutely in this or that, nor define himself so +certainly as to include neither more nor less than himself; many +undoubted parts of his personality being more separable from it, +and changing it less when so separated, both to his own senses +and those of other people, than other parts which are strictly +speaking no parts at all.</p> +<p>A man’s clothes, for example, as they lie on a chair at +night are no part of him, but when he wears them they would +appear to be so, as being a kind of food which warms him and +hatches him, and the loss of which may kill him of cold. If +this be denied, and a man’s clothes be considered as no +part of his self, nevertheless they, with his money, and it may +perhaps be added his religious opinions, stamp a man’s +individuality as strongly as any natural feature could stamp +it. Change in style of dress, gain or loss of money, make a +man feel and appear more changed than having his chin shaved or +his nails cut. In fact, as soon as we leave common parlance +on one side, and try for a scientific definition of personality, +we find that there is none possible, any more than there can be a +demonstration of the fact that we exist at all—a +demonstration for which, as for that of a personal God, many have +hunted but none have found. The only solid foundation is, +as in the case of the earth’s crust, pretty near the +surface of things; the deeper we try to go, the damper and darker +and altogether more uncongenial we find it. There is no +knowing into what quagmire of superstition we may not find +ourselves drawn, if we once cut ourselves adrift from those +superficial aspects of things, in which alone our nature permits +us to be comforted.</p> +<p>Common parlance, however, settles the difficulty readily +enough (as indeed it settles most others if they show signs of +awkwardness) by the simple process of ignoring it: we decline, +and very properly, to go into the question of where personality +begins and ends, but assume it to be known by every one, and +throw the onus of not knowing it upon the over-curious, who had +better think as their neighbours do, right or wrong, or there is +no knowing into what villainy they may not presently fall.</p> +<p>Assuming, then, that every one knows what is meant by the word +“person” (and such superstitious bases as this are +the foundations upon which all action, whether of man, beast, or +plant, is constructed and rendered possible; for even the corn in +the fields grows upon a superstitious basis as to its own +existence, and only turns the earth and moisture into wheat +through the conceit of its own ability to do so, without which +faith it were powerless; and the lichen only grows upon the +granite rock by first saying to itself, “I think I can do +it;” so that it would not be able to grow unless it thought +it could grow, and would not think it could grow unless it found +itself able to grow, and thus spends its life arguing in a most +vicious circle, basing its action upon a hypothesis, which +hypothesis is in turn based upon its action)—assuming that +we know what is meant by the word “person,” we say +that we are one and the same from the moment of our birth to the +moment of our death, so that whatever is done by or happens to +any one between birth and death, is said to happen to or be done +by one individual. This in practice is found to be +sufficient for the law courts and the purposes of daily life, +which, being full of hurry and the pressure of business, can only +tolerate compromise, or conventional rendering of intricate +phenomena. When facts of extreme complexity have to be +daily and hourly dealt with by people whose time is money, they +must be simplified, and treated much as a painter treats them, +drawing them in squarely, seizing the more important features, +and neglecting all that does not assert itself as too essential +to be passed over—hence the slang and cant words of every +profession, and indeed all language; for language at best is but +a kind of “patter,” the only way, it is true, in many +cases, of expressing our ideas to one another, but still a very +bad way, and not for one moment comparable to the unspoken speech +which we may sometimes have recourse to. The metaphors and +<i>façons de parler</i> to which even in the plainest +speech we are perpetually recurring (as, for example, in this +last two lines, “plain,” “perpetually,” +and “recurring,” are all words based on metaphor, and +hence more or less liable to mislead) often deceive us, as though +there were nothing more than what we see and say, and as though +words, instead of being, as they are, the creatures of our +convenience, had some claim to be the actual ideas themselves +concerning which we are conversing.</p> +<p>This is so well expressed in a letter I have recently received +from a friend, now in New Zealand, and certainly not intended by +him for publication, that I shall venture to quote the passage, +but should say that I do so without his knowledge or permission +which I should not be able to receive before this book must be +completed.</p> +<p>“Words, words, words,” he writes, “are the +stumbling-blocks in the way of truth. Until you think of +things as they are, and not of the words that misrepresent them, +you cannot think rightly. Words produce the appearance of +hard and fast lines where there are none. Words divide; +thus we call this a man, that an ape, that a monkey, while they +are all only differentiations of the same thing. To think +of a thing they must be got rid of: they are the clothes that +thoughts wear—only the clothes. I say this over and +over again, for there is nothing of more importance. Other +men’s words will stop you at the beginning of an +investigation. A man may play with words all his life, +arranging them and rearranging them like dominoes. If I +could <i>think</i> to you without words you would understand me +better.”</p> +<p>If such remarks as the above hold good at all, they do so with +the words “personal identity.” The least +reflection will show that personal identity in any sort of +strictness is an impossibility. The expression is one of +the many ways in which we are obliged to scamp our thoughts +through pressure of other business which pays us better. +For surely all reasonable people will feel that an infant an hour +before birth, when in the eye of the law he has no existence, and +could not be called a peer for another sixty minutes, though his +father were a peer, and already dead,—surely such an embryo +is more personally identical with the baby into which he develops +within an hour’s time than the born baby is so with itself +(if the expression may be pardoned), one, twenty, or it may be +eighty years after birth. There is more sameness of matter; +there are fewer differences of any kind perceptible by a third +person; there is more sense of continuity on the part of the +person himself; and far more of all that goes to make up our +sense of sameness of personality between an embryo an hour before +birth and the child on being born, than there is between the +child just born and the man of twenty. Yet there is no +hesitation about admitting sameness of personality between these +two last.</p> +<p>On the other hand, if that hazy contradiction in terms, +“personal identity,” be once allowed to retreat +behind the threshold of the womb, it has eluded us once for +all. What is true of one hour before birth is true of two, +and so on till we get back to the impregnate ovum, which may +fairly claim to have been personally identical with the man of +eighty into which it ultimately developed, in spite of the fact +that there is no particle of same matter nor sense of continuity +between them, nor recognised community of instinct, nor indeed of +anything which goes to the making up of that which we call +identity.</p> +<p>There is far more of all these things common to the impregnate +ovum and the ovum immediately before impregnation, or again +between the impregnate ovum, and both the ovum before +impregnation and the spermatozoon which impregnated it. +Nor, if we admit personal identity between the ovum and the +octogenarian, is there any sufficient reason why we should not +admit it between the impregnate ovum and the two factors of which +it is composed, which two factors are but offshoots from two +distinct personalities, of which they are as much part as the +apple is of the apple-tree; so that an impregnate ovum cannot +without a violation of first principles be debarred from claiming +personal identity with both its parents, and hence, by an easy +chain of reasoning, <i>with each of the impregnate ova from which +its parents were developed</i>.</p> +<p>So that each ovum when impregnate should be considered not as +descended from its ancestors, but as being a continuation of the +personality of every ovum in the chain of its ancestry, which +every ovum <i>it actually is</i> quite as truly as the +octogenarian <i>is</i> the same identity with the ovum from which +he has been developed.</p> +<p>This process cannot stop short of the primordial cell, which +again will probably turn out to be but a brief +resting-place. We therefore prove each one of us to <i>be +actually</i> the primordial cell which never died nor dies, but +has differentiated itself into the life of the world, all living +beings whatever, being one with it, and members one of +another.</p> +<p>To look at the matter for a moment in another light, it will +be admitted that if the primordial cell had been killed before +leaving issue, all its possible descendants would have been +killed at one and the same time. It is hard to see how this +single fact does not establish at the point, as it were, of a +logical bayonet, an identity, between any creature and all others +that are descended from it.</p> +<p>In Bishop Butler’s first dissertation on personality, we +find expressed very much the same opinions as would follow from +the above considerations, though they are mentioned by the Bishop +only to be condemned, namely, “that personality is not a +permanent but a transient thing; that it lives and dies, begins +and ends continually; that no man can any more remain one and the +same person two moments together, than two successive moments can +be one and the same moment;” in which case, he continues, +our present self would not be “in reality the same with the +self of yesterday, but another like self or person coming up in +its room and mistaken for it, to which another self will succeed +to-morrow.” This view the Bishop proceeds to reduce +to absurdity by saying, “It must be a fallacy upon +ourselves to charge our present selves with anything we did, or +to imagine our present selves interested in anything which befell +us yesterday; or that our present self will be interested in what +will befall us to-morrow. This, I say, must follow, for if +the self or person of to-day and that of to-morrow are not the +same, but only like persons, the person of to-day is really no +more interested in what will befall the person of to-morrow than +in what will befall any other person. It may be thought, +perhaps, that this is not a just representation of the opinion we +are speaking of, because those who maintain it allow that a +person is the same as far back as his remembrance reaches. +And indeed they do use the words <i>identity</i> and <i>same +person</i>. Nor will language permit these words to be laid +aside, since, if they were, there must be I know not what +ridiculous periphrasis substituted in the room of them. But +they cannot consistently with themselves mean that the person is +really the same. For it is self-evident that the +personality cannot be really the same, if, as they expressly +assert, that in which it consists is not the same. And as +consistently with themselves they cannot, so I think it appears +they do not mean that the person is really the same, but only +that he is so in a fictitious sense; in such a sense only as they +assert—for this they do assert—that any number of +persons whatever may be the same person. The bare unfolding +of this notion, and laying it thus naked and open, seems the best +confutation of it.”</p> +<p>This fencing, for it does not deserve the name of serious +disputation, is rendered possible by the laxness with which the +words “identical” and “identity” are +commonly used. Bishop Butler would not seriously deny that +personality undergoes great changes between infancy and old age, +and hence that it must undergo some change from moment to +moment. So universally is this recognised, that it is +common to hear it said of such and such a man that he is not at +all the person he was, or of such and such another that he is +twice the man he used to be—expressions than which none +nearer the truth can well be found. On the other hand, +those whom Bishop Butler is intending to confute would be the +first to admit that, though there are many changes between +infancy and old age, yet they come about in any one individual +under such circumstances as we are all agreed in considering as +the factors of personal identity rather than as hindrances +thereto—that is to say, there has been no death on the part +of the individual between any two phases of his existence, and +any one phase has had a permanent though perhaps imperceptible +effect upon all succeeding ones. So that no one ever +seriously argued in the manner supposed by Bishop Butler, unless +with modifications and saving clauses, to which it does not suit +his purpose to call attention.</p> +<p>Identical strictly means “one and the same;” and +if it were tied down to its strictest usage, it would indeed +follow very logically, as we have said already, that no such +thing as personal identity is possible, but that the case +actually is as Bishop Butler has supposed his opponents without +qualification to maintain it. In common use, however, the +word “identical” is taken to mean anything so like +another that no vital or essential differences can be perceived +between them; as in the case of two specimens of the same kind of +plant, when we say they are identical in spite of considerable +individual differences. So with two impressions of a print +from the same plate; so with the plate itself, which is somewhat +modified with every impression taken from it. In like +manner “identity” is not held to its strict +meaning—absolute sameness—but is predicated rightly +of a past and present which are now very widely asunder, provided +they have been continuously connected by links so small as not to +give too sudden a sense of change at any one point; as, for +instance, in the case of the Thames at Oxford and Windsor or +again at Greenwich, we say the same river flows by all three +places, by which we mean that much of the water at Greenwich has +come down from Oxford and Windsor in a continuous stream. +How sudden a change at any one point, or how great a difference +between the two extremes is sufficient to bar identity, is one of +the most uncertain things imaginable, and seems to be decided on +different grounds in different cases, sometimes very +intelligibly, and again at others arbitrarily and +capriciously.</p> +<p>Personal identity is barred at one end, in the common opinion, +by birth, and at the other by death. Before birth, a child +cannot complain either by himself or another, in such way as to +set the law in motion; after death he is in like manner powerless +to make himself felt by society, except in so far as he can do so +by acts done before the breath has left his body. At any +point between birth and death he is liable, either by himself or +another, to affect his fellow-creatures; hence, no two other +epochs can be found of equal convenience for social purposes, and +therefore they have been seized by society as settling the whole +question of when personal identity begins and ends—society +being rightly concerned with its own practical convenience, +rather than with the abstract truth concerning its individual +members. No one who is capable of reflection will deny that +the limitation of personality is certainly arbitrary to a degree +as regards birth, nor yet that it is very possibly arbitrary as +regards death; and as for intermediate points, no doubt it would +be more strictly accurate to say, “you are the now phase of +the person I met last night,” or “you are the being +which has been evolved from the being I met last night,” +than “you are the person I met last night.” But +life is too short for the pen-phrases which would crowd upon us +from every quarter, if we did not set our face against all that +is under the surface of things, unless, that is to say, the going +beneath the surface is, for some special chance of profit, +excusable or capable of extenuation.</p> +<h2><a name="page91"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +91</span>CHAPTER VI.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">PERSONAL +IDENTITY</span>—(<i>continued</i>).</h2> +<p><span class="smcap">How</span> arbitrary current notions +concerning identity really are, may perhaps be perceived by +reflecting upon some of the many different phases of +reproduction.</p> +<p>Direct reproduction in which a creation reproduces another, +the <i>facsimile</i>, or nearly so, of itself may perhaps occur +among the lowest forms of animal life; but it is certainly not +the rule among beings of a higher order.</p> +<p>A hen lays an egg, which egg becomes a chicken, which chicken, +in the course of time, becomes a hen.</p> +<p>A moth lays an egg, which egg becomes a caterpillar, which +caterpillar, after going through several stages, becomes a +chrysalis, which chrysalis becomes a moth.</p> +<p>A medusa begets a ciliated larva, the larva begets a polyp, +the polyp begets a strobila, and the strobila begets a medusa +again; the cycle of reproduction being completed in the fourth +generation.</p> +<p>A frog lays an egg, which egg becomes a tadpole; the tadpole, +after more or fewer intermediate stages, becomes a frog.</p> +<p>The mammals lay eggs, which they hatch inside their own +bodies, instead of outside them; but the difference is one of +degree and not of kind. In all these cases how difficult is +it to say where identity begins or ends, or again where death +begins or ends, or where reproduction begins or ends.</p> +<p>How small and unimportant is the difference between the +changes which a caterpillar undergoes before becoming a moth, and +those of a strobila before becoming a medusa. Yet in the +one case we say the caterpillar does not die, but is changed +(though, if the various changes in its existence be produced +metagenetically, as is the case with many insects, it would +appear to make a clean sweep of every organ of its existence, and +start <i>de novo</i>, growing a head where its feet were, and so +on—at least twice between its lives as caterpillar and +butterfly); in this case, however, we say the caterpillar does +not die, but is changed; being, nevertheless, one personality +with the moth, into which it is developed. But in the case +of the strobila we say that it is not changed, but dies, and is +no part of the personality of the medusa.</p> +<p>We say the egg becomes the caterpillar, not by the death of +the egg and birth of the caterpillar, but by the ordinary process +of nutrition and waste—waste and repair—waste and +repair continually. In like manner we say the caterpillar +becomes the chrysalis, and the chrysalis the moth, not through +the death of either one or the other, but by the development of +the same creature, and the ordinary processes of waste and +repair. But the medusa after three or four cycles becomes +the medusa again, not, we say, by these same processes of +nutrition and waste, but by a series of generations, each one +involving an actual birth and an actual death. Why this +difference? Surely only because the changes in the +offspring of the medusa are marked by the leaving a little more +husk behind them, and that husk less shrivelled, than is left on +the occasion of each change between the caterpillar and the +butterfly. A little more residuum, which residuum, it may +be, can move about; and though shrivelling from hour to hour, may +yet leave a little more offspring before it is reduced to powder; +or again, perhaps, because in the one case, though the actors are +changed, they are changed behind the scenes, and come on in parts +and dresses, more nearly resembling those of the original actors, +than in the other.</p> +<p>When the caterpillar emerges from the egg, almost all that was +inside the egg has become caterpillar; the shell is nearly empty, +and cannot move; therefore we do not count it, and call the +caterpillar a continuation of the egg’s existence, and +personally identical with the egg. So with the chrysalis +and the moth; but after the moth has laid her eggs she can still +move her wings about, and she looks nearly as large as she did +before she laid them; besides, she may yet lay a few more, +therefore we do not consider the moth’s life as continued +in the life of her eggs, but rather in their husk, which we still +call the moth, and which we say dies in a day or two, and there +is an end of it. Moreover, if we hold the moth’s life +to be continued in that of her eggs, we shall be forced to admit +her to be personally identical with each single egg, and, hence, +each egg to be identical with every other egg, as far as the +past, and community of memories, are concerned; and it is not +easy at first to break the spell which words have cast around us, +and to feel that one person may become many persons, and that +many different persons may be practically one and the same +person, as far as their past experience is concerned; and again, +that two or more persons may unite and become one person, with +the memories and experiences of both, though this has been +actually the case with every one of us.</p> +<p>Our present way of looking at these matters is perfectly right +and reasonable, so long as we bear in mind that it is a +<i>façon de parler</i>, a sort of hieroglyphic which shall +stand for the course of nature, but nothing more. Repair +(as is now universally admitted by physiologists) is only a phase +of reproduction, or rather reproduction and repair are only +phases of the same power; and again, death and the ordinary daily +waste of tissue, are phases of the same thing. As for +identity it is determined in any true sense of the word, not by +death alone, but by a combination of death and failure of issue, +whether of mind or body.</p> +<p>To repeat. Wherever there is a separate centre of +thought and action, we see that it is connected with its +successive stages of being, by a series of infinitely small +changes from moment to moment, with, perhaps, at times more +startling and rapid changes, but, nevertheless, with no such +sudden, complete, and unrepaired break up of the preceding +condition, as we shall agree in calling death. The +branching out from it at different times of new centres of +thought and action, has commonly as little appreciable effect +upon the parent-stock as the fall of an apple full of ripe seeds +has upon an apple-tree; and though the life of the parent, from +the date of the branching off of such personalities, is more +truly continued in these than in the residuum of its own life, we +should find ourselves involved in a good deal of trouble if we +were commonly to take this view of the matter. The residuum +has generally the upper hand. He has more money, and can +eat up his new life more easily than his new life, him. A +moral residuum will therefore prefer to see the remainder of his +life in his own person, than in that of his descendants, and will +act accordingly. Hence we, in common with most other living +beings, ignore the offspring as forming part of the personality +of the parent, except in so far as that we make the father liable +for its support and for its extravagances (than which no greater +proof need be wished that the law is at heart a philosopher, and +perceives the completeness of the personal identity between +father and son) for twenty-one years from birth. In other +respects we are accustomed, probably rather from considerations +of practical convenience than as the result of pure reason, to +ignore the identity between parent and offspring as completely as +we ignore personality before birth. With these exceptions, +however, the common opinion concerning personal identity is +reasonable enough, and is found to consist neither in +consciousness of such identity, nor yet in the power of +recollecting its various phases (for it is plain that identity +survives the distinction or suspension of both these), but in the +fact that the various stages appear to the majority of people to +have been in some way or other linked together.</p> +<p>For a very little reflection will show that identity, as +commonly predicated of living agents, does not consist in +identity of matter, of which there is no same particle in the +infant, we will say, and the octogenarian into whom he has +developed. Nor, again, does it depend upon sameness of form +or fashion; for personality is felt to survive frequent and +radical modification of structure, as in the case of caterpillars +and other insects. Mr. Darwin, quoting from Professor Owen, +tells us (Plants and Animals under Domestication, vol. ii. p. +362, ed. 1875), that in the case of what is called metagenetic +development, “the new parts are not moulded upon the inner +surfaces of the old ones. The plastic force has changed its +mode of operation. <i>The outer case</i>, <i>and all that +gave form and character to the precedent individual</i>, +<i>perish</i>, <i>and are cast off</i>; <i>they are not +changed</i> into the corresponding parts of the same +individual. These are due to a new and distinct +developmental process.” Assuredly, there is more +birth and death in the world than is dreamt of by the greater +part of us; but it is so masked, and on the whole, so little to +our purpose, that we fail to see it. Yet radical and +sweeping as the changes of organism above described must be, we +do not feel them to be more a bar to personal identity than the +considerable changes which take place in the structure of our own +bodies between youth and old age.</p> +<p>Perhaps the most striking illustration of this is to be found +in the case of some Echinoderms, concerning which Mr. Darwin +tells us, that “the animal in the second stage of +development is formed almost like a bud within the animal of the +first stage, the latter being then cast off like an old vestment, +yet sometimes maintaining for a short period an independent +vitality” (“Plants and Animals under +Domestication,” vol. ii. p. 362, ed. 1875).</p> +<p>Nor yet does personality depend upon any consciousness or +sense of such personality on the part of the creature +itself—it is not likely that the moth remembers having been +a caterpillar, more than we ourselves remember having been +children of a day old. It depends simply upon the fact that +the various phases of existence have been linked together, by +links which we agree in considering sufficient to cause identity, +and that they have flowed the one out of the other in what we see +as a continuous, though it may be at times, a troubled +stream. This is the very essence of personality, but it +involves the probable unity of all animal and vegetable life, as +being, in reality, nothing but one single creature, of which the +component members are but, as it were, blood corpuscles or +individual cells; life being a sort of leaven, which, if once +introduced into the world, will leaven it altogether; or of fire, +which will consume all it can burn; or of air or water, which +will turn most things into themselves. Indeed, no +difficulty would probably be felt about admitting the continued +existence of personal identity between parents and their +offspring through all time (there being no <i>sudden</i> break at +any time between the existence of any maternal parent and that of +its offspring), were it not that after a certain time the changes +in outward appearance between descendants and ancestors become +very great, the two seeming to stand so far apart, that it seems +absurd in any way to say that they are one and the same being; +much in the same way as after a time—though exactly when no +one can say—the Thames becomes the sea. Moreover, the +separation of the identity is practically of far greater +importance to it than its continuance. We want to be +ourselves; we do not want any one else to claim part and parcel +of our identity. This community of identities is not found +to answer in everyday life. When then our love of +independence is backed up by the fact that continuity of life +between parents and offspring is a matter which depends on things +which are a good deal hidden, and that thus birth gives us an +opportunity of pretending that there has been a sudden leap into +a separate life; when also we have regard to the utter ignorance +of embryology, which prevailed till quite recently, it is not +surprising that our ordinary language should be found to have +regard to what is important and obvious, rather than to what is +not quite obvious, and is quite unimportant.</p> +<p>Personality is the creature of time and space, changing, as +time changes, imperceptibly; we are therefore driven to deal with +it as with all continuous and blending things; as with time, for +example, itself, which we divide into days, and seasons, and +times, and years, into divisions that are often arbitrary, but +coincide, on the whole, as nearly as we can make them do so, with +the more marked changes which we can observe. We lay hold, +in fact, of anything we can catch; the most important feature in +any existence as regards ourselves being that which we can best +lay hold of rather than that which is most essential to the +existence itself. We can lay hold of the continued +personality of the egg and the moth into which the egg develops, +but it is less easy to catch sight of the continued personality +between the moth and the eggs which she lays; yet the one +continuation of personality is just as true and free from quibble +as the other. A moth becomes each egg that she lays, and +that she does so, she will in good time show by doing, now that +she has got a fresh start, as near as may be what she did when +first she was an egg, and then a moth, before; and this I take +it, so far as I can gather from looking at life and things +generally, she would not be able to do if she had not travelled +the same road often enough already, to be able to know it in her +sleep and blindfold, that is to say, to remember it without any +conscious act of memory.</p> +<p>So also a grain of wheat is linked with an ear, containing, we +will say, a dozen grains, by a series of changes so subtle that +we cannot say at what moment the original grain became the blade, +nor when each ear of the head became possessed of an individual +centre of action. To say that each grain of the head is +personally identical with the original grain would perhaps be an +abuse of terms; but it can be no abuse to say that each grain is +a continuation of the personality of the original grain, and if +so, of every grain in the chain of its own ancestry; and that, as +being such a continuation, it must be stored with the memories +and experiences of its past existences, to be recollected under +the circumstances most favourable to recollection, <i>i.e.</i>, +when under similar conditions to those when the impression was +last made and last remembered. Truly, then, in each case +the new egg and the new grain <i>is</i> the egg, and the grain +from which its parent sprang, as completely as the full-grown ox +is the calf from which it has grown.</p> +<p>Again, in the case of some weeping trees, whose boughs spring +up into fresh trees when they have reached the ground, who shall +say at what time they cease to be members of the parent +tree? In the case of cuttings from plants it is easy to +elude the difficulty by making a parade of the sharp and sudden +act of separation from the parent stock, but this is only a piece +of mental sleight of hand; the cutting remains as much part of +its parent plant as though it had never been severed from it; it +goes on profiting by the experience which it had before it was +cut off, as much as though it had never been cut off at +all. This will be more readily seen in the case of worms +which have been cut in half. Let a worm be cut in half, and +the two halves will become fresh worms; which of them is the +original worm? Surely both. Perhaps no simpler case +than this could readily be found of the manner in which +personality eludes us, the moment we try to investigate its real +nature. There are few ideas which on first consideration +appear so simple, and none which becomes more utterly incapable +of limitation or definition as soon as it is examined +closely.</p> +<p>Finally, Mr. Darwin (“Plants and Animals under +Domestication,” vol. ii. p. 38, ed. 1875), +writes—</p> +<p>“Even with plants multiplied by bulbs, layers, &c., +which may <i>in one sense</i> be said to form part of the same +individual,” &c., &c.; and again, p. 58, “The +same rule holds good with plants when propagated by bulbs, +offsets, &c., which <i>in one sense</i> still form parts of +the same individual,” &c. In each of these +passages it is plain that the difficulty of separating the +personality of the offspring from that of the parent plant is +present to his mind. Yet, p. 351 of the same volume as +above, he tells us that asexual generation “is effected in +many ways—by the formation of buds of various kinds, and by +fissiparous generation, that is, by spontaneous or artificial +division.” The multiplication of plants by bulbs and +layers clearly comes under this head, nor will any essential +difference be felt between one kind of asexual generation and +another; if, then, the offspring formed by bulbs and layers is in +one sense part of the original plant, so also, it would appear, +is all offspring developed by asexual generation in its manifold +phrases.</p> +<p>If we now turn to p. 357, we find the conclusion arrived at, +as it would appear, on the most satisfactory evidence, that +“sexual and asexual reproduction are not seen to differ +essentially; and . . . that asexual reproduction, the power of +regrowth, and development are all parts of one and the same great +law.” Does it not then follow, quite reasonably and +necessarily, that all offspring, however generated, is <i>in one +sense</i> part of the individuality of its parent or +parents. The question, therefore, turns upon “in what +sense” this may be said to be the case? To which I +would venture to reply, “In the same sense as the parent +plant (which is but the representative of the outside matter +which it has assimilated during growth, and of its own powers of +development) is the same individual that it was when it was +itself an offset, or a cow the same individual that it was when +it was a calf—but no otherwise.”</p> +<p>Not much difficulty will be felt about supposing the offset of +a plant, to be imbued with the memory of the past history of the +plant of which it is an offset. It is part of the plant +itself; and will know whatever the plant knows. Why, then, +should there be more difficulty in supposing the offspring of the +highest mammals, to remember in a profound but unselfconscious +way, the anterior history of the creatures of which they too have +been part and parcel?</p> +<p>Personal identity, then, is much like species itself. It +is now, thanks to Mr. Darwin, generally held that species blend +or have blended into one another; so that any possibility of +arrangement and apparent subdivision into definite groups, is due +to the suppression by death both of individuals and whole genera, +which, had they been now existing, would have linked all living +beings by a series of gradations so subtle that little +classification could have been attempted. How it is that +the one great personality of life as a whole, should have split +itself up into so many centres of thought and action, each one of +which is wholly, or at any rate nearly, unconscious of its +connection with the other members, instead of having grown up +into a huge polyp, or as it were coral reef or compound animal +over the whole world, which should be conscious but of its own +one single existence; how it is that the daily waste of this +creature should be carried on by the conscious death of its +individual members, instead of by the unconscious waste of tissue +which goes on in the bodies of each individual (if indeed the +tissue which we waste daily in our own bodies is so unconscious +of its birth and death as we suppose); how, again, that the daily +repair of this huge creature life should have become +decentralised, and be carried on by conscious reproduction on the +part of its component items, instead of by the unconscious +nutrition of the whole from a single centre, as the nutrition of +our own bodies would appear (though perhaps falsely) to be +carried on; these are matters upon which I dare not speculate +here, but on which some reflections may follow in subsequent +chapters.</p> +<h2><a name="page104"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +104</span>CHAPTER VII.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">OUR SUBORDINATE PERSONALITIES.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">We</span> have seen that we can apprehend +neither the beginning nor the end of our personality, which comes +up out of infinity as an island out of the sea, so gently, that +none can say when it is first visible on our mental horizon, and +fades away in the case of those who leave offspring, so +imperceptibly that none can say when it is out of sight. +But, like the island, whether we can see it or no, it is always +there. Not only are we infinite as regards time, but we are +so also as regards extension, being so linked on to the external +world that we cannot say where we either begin or end. If +those who so frequently declare that man is a finite creature +would point out his boundaries, it might lead to a better +understanding.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, we are in the habit of considering that our +personality, or soul, no matter where it begins or ends, and no +matter what it comprises, is nevertheless a single thing, +uncompounded of other souls. Yet there is nothing more +certain than that this is not at all the case, but that every +individual person is a compound creature, being made up of an +infinite number of distinct centres of sensation and will, each +one of which is personal, and has a soul and individual +existence, a reproductive system, intelligence, and memory of its +own, with probably its hopes and fears, its times of scarcity and +repletion, and a strong conviction that it is itself the centre +of the universe.</p> +<p>True, no one is aware of more than one individuality in his +own person at one time. We are, indeed, often greatly +influenced by other people, so much so, that we act on many +occasions in accordance with their will rather than our own, +making our actions answer to their sensations, and register the +conclusions of their cerebral action and not our own; for the +time being, we become so completely part of them, that we are +ready to do things most distasteful and dangerous to us, if they +think it for their advantage that we should do so. Thus we +sometimes see people become mere processes of their wives or +nearest relations. Yet there is a something which blinds +us, so that we cannot see how completely we are possessed by the +souls which influence us upon these occasions. We still +think we are ourselves, and ourselves only, and are as certain as +we can be of any fact, that we are single sentient beings, +uncompounded of other sentient beings, and that our action is +determined by the sole operation of a single will.</p> +<p>But in reality, over and above this possession of our souls by +others of our own species, the will of the lower animals often +enters into our bodies and possesses them, making us do as they +will, and not as we will; as, for example, when people try to +drive pigs, or are run away with by a restive horse, or are +attacked by a savage animal which masters them. It is +absurd to say that a person is a single “ego” when he +is in the clutches of a lion. Even when we are alone, and +uninfluenced by other people except in so far as we remember +their wishes, we yet generally conform to the usages which the +current feeling of our peers has taught us to respect; their will +having so mastered our original nature, that, do what we may, we +can never again separate ourselves and dwell in the isolation of +our own single personality. And even though we succeeded in +this, and made a clean sweep of every mental influence which had +ever been brought to bear upon us, and though at the same time we +were alone in some desert where there was neither beast nor bird +to attract our attention or in any way influence our action, yet +we could not escape the parasites which abound within us; whose +action, as every medical man well knows, is often such as to +drive men to the commission of grave crimes, or to throw them +into convulsions, make lunatics of them, kill them—when but +for the existence and course of conduct pursued by these +parasites they would have done no wrong to any man.</p> +<p>These parasites—are they part of us or no? Some +are plainly not so in any strict sense of the word, yet their +action may, in cases which it is unnecessary to detail, affect us +so powerfully that we are irresistibly impelled to act in such or +such a manner; and yet we are as wholly unconscious of any +impulse outside of our own “ego” as though they were +part of ourselves; others again are essential to our very +existence, as the corpuscles of the blood, which the best +authorities concur in supposing to be composed of an infinite +number of living souls, on whose welfare the healthy condition of +our blood, and hence of our whole bodies, depends. We +breathe that they may breathe, not that we may do so; we only +care about oxygen in so far as the infinitely small beings which +course up and down in our veins care about it: the whole +arrangement and mechanism of our lungs may be our doing, but is +for their convenience, and they only serve us because it suits +their purpose to do so, as long as we serve them. Who shall +draw the line between the parasites which are part of us, and the +parasites which are not part of us? Or again, between the +influence of those parasites which are within us, but are yet not +<i>us</i>, and the external influence of other sentient beings +and our fellow-men? There is no line possible. +Everything melts away into everything else; there are no hard +edges; it is only from a little distance that we see the effect +as of individual features and existences. When we go close +up, there is nothing but a blur and confused mass of apparently +meaningless touches, as in a picture by Turner.</p> +<p>The following passage from Mr. Darwin’s provisional +theory of Pangenesis, will sufficiently show that the above is no +strange and paradoxical view put forward wantonly, but that it +follows as a matter of course from the conclusions arrived at by +those who are acknowledged leaders in the scientific world. +Mr. Darwin writes thus:—</p> +<p>“<i>The functional independence of the elements or units +of the body</i>.—Physiologists agree that the whole +organism consists of a multitude of elemental parts, which are to +a great extent independent of one another. Each organ, says +Claude Bernard, has its proper life, its autonomy; it can develop +and reproduce itself independently of the adjoining +tissues. A great German authority, Virchow, asserts still +more emphatically that each system consists of ‘an enormous +mass of minute centres of action. . . . Every element has +its own special action, and even though it derive its stimulus to +activity from other parts, yet alone effects the actual +performance of duties. . . . Every single epithelial and +muscular fibre-cell leads a sort of parasitical existence in +relation to the rest of the body. . . . Every single bone +corpuscle really possesses conditions of nutrition peculiar to +itself.’ Each element, as Sir J. Paget remarks, lives +its appointed time, and then dies, and is replaced after being +cast off and absorbed. I presume that no physiologist +doubts that, for instance, each bone corpuscle of the finger +differs from the corresponding corpuscle of the corresponding +joint of the toe,” &c., &c. (“Plants +and Animals under Domestication,” vol. ii. pp. 364, 365, +ed. 1875).</p> +<p>In a work on heredity by M. Ribot, I find him saying, +“Some recent authors attribute a memory” (and if so, +surely every attribute of complete individuality) “to every +organic element of the body;” among them Dr. Maudsley, who +is quoted by M. Ribot, as saying, “The permanent effects of +a particular virus, such as that of the variola, in the +constitution, shows that the organic element remembers for the +remainder of its life certain modifications it has +received. The manner in which a cicatrix in a child’s +finger grows with the growth of the body, proves, as has been +shown by Paget, that the organic element of the part does not +forget the impression it has received. What has been said +about the different nervous centres of the body demonstrates the +existence of a memory in the nerve cells diffused through the +heart and intestines; in those of the spinal cord, in the cells +of the motor ganglia, and in the cells of the cortical substance +of the cerebal hemispheres.”</p> +<p>Now, if words have any meaning at all, it must follow from the +passages quoted above, that each cell in the human body is a +person with an intelligent soul, of a low class, perhaps, but +still differing from our own more complex soul in degree, and not +in kind; and, like ourselves, being born, living, and +dying. So that each single creature, whether man or beast, +proves to be as a ray of white light, which, though single, is +compounded of the red, blue, and yellow rays. It would +appear, then, as though “we,” “our +souls,” or “selves,” or +“personalities,” or by whatever name we may prefer to +be called, are but the <i>consensus</i> and full flowing stream +of countless sensations and impulses on the part of our tributary +souls or “selves,” who probably know no more that we +exist, and that they exist as part of us, than a microscopic +water-flea knows the results of spectrum analysis, or than an +agricultural labourer knows the working of the British +constitution: and of whom we know no more, until some misconduct +on our part, or some confusion of ideas on theirs, has driven +them into insurrection, than we do of the habits and feelings of +some class widely separated from our own.</p> +<p>These component souls are of many and very different natures, +living in territories which are to them vast continents, and +rivers, and seas, but which are yet only the bodies of our other +component souls; coral reefs and sponge-beds within us; the +animal itself being a kind of mean proportional between its house +and its soul, and none being able to say where house ends and +animal begins, more than they can say where animal ends and soul +begins. For our bones within us are but inside walls and +buttresses, that is to say, houses constructed of lime and stone, +as it were, by coral insects; and our houses without us are but +outside bones, a kind of exterior skeleton or shell, so that we +perish of cold if permanently and suddenly deprived of the +coverings which warm us and cherish us, as the wing of a hen +cherishes her chickens. If we consider the shells of many +living creatures, we shall find it hard to say whether they are +rather houses, or part of the animal itself, being, as they are, +inseparable from the animal, without the destruction of its +personality.</p> +<p>Is it possible, then, to avoid imagining that if we have +within us so many tributary souls, so utterly different from the +soul which they unite to form, that they neither can perceive us, +nor we them, though it is in us that they live and move and have +their being, and though we are what we are, solely as the result +of their co-operation—is it possible to avoid imagining +that we may be ourselves atoms, undesignedly combining to form +some vaster being, though we are utterly incapable of perceiving +that any such being exists, or of realising the scheme or scope +of our own combination? And this, too, not a spiritual +being, which, without matter, or what we think matter of some +sort, is as complete nonsense to us as though men bade us love +and lean upon an intelligent vacuum, but a being with what is +virtually flesh and blood and bones; with organs, senses, +dimensions, in some way analogous to our own, into some other +part of which being, at the time of our great change we must +infallibly re-enter, starting clean anew, with bygones bygones, +and no more ache for ever from either age or antecedents. +Truly, sufficient for the life is the evil thereof. Any +speculations of ours concerning the nature of such a being, must +be as futile and little valuable as those of a blood corpuscle +might be expected to be concerning the nature of man; but if I +were myself a blood corpuscle, I should be amused at making the +discovery that I was not only enjoying life in my own sphere, but +was <i>bonâ fide</i> part of an animal which would not die +with myself, and in which I might thus think of myself as +continuing to live to all eternity, or to what, as far as my +power of thought would carry me, must seem practically +eternal. But, after all, the amusement would be of a rather +dreary nature.</p> +<p>On the other hand, if I were the being of whom such an +introspective blood corpuscle was a component item, I should +conceive he served me better by attending to my blood and making +himself a successful corpuscle, than by speculating about my +nature. He would serve me best by serving himself best, +without being over curious. I should expect that my blood +might suffer if his brain were to become too active. If, +therefore, I could discover the vein in which he was, I should +let him out to begin life anew in some other and, +<i>quâ</i> me, more profitable capacity.</p> +<p>With the units of our bodies it is as with the stars of +heaven: there is neither speech nor language, but their voices +are heard among them. Our will is the <i>fiat</i> of their +collective wisdom, as sanctioned in their parliament, the brain; +it is they who make us do whatever we do—it is they who +should be rewarded if they have done well, or hanged if they have +committed murder. When the balance of power is well +preserved among them, when they respect each other’s rights +and work harmoniously together, then we thrive and are well; if +we are ill, it is because they are quarrelling with themselves, +or are gone on strike for this or that addition to their +environment, and our doctor must pacify or chastise them as best +he may. They are we and we are they; and when we die it is +but a redistribution of the balance of power among them or a +change of dynasty, the result, it may be, of heroic struggle, +with more epics and love romances than we could read from now to +the Millennium, if they were so written down that we could +comprehend them.</p> +<p>It is plain, then, that the more we examine the question of +personality the more it baffles us, the only safeguard against +utter confusion and idleness of thought being to fall back upon +the superficial and common sense view, and refuse to tolerate +discussions which seem to hold out little prospect of commercial +value, and which would compel us, if logically followed, to be at +the inconvenience of altering our opinions upon matters which we +have come to consider as settled.</p> +<p>And we observe that this is what is practically done by some +of our ablest philosophers, who seem unwilling, if one may say so +without presumption, to accept the conclusions to which their own +experiments and observations would seem to point.</p> +<p>Dr. Carpenter, for example, quotes the well-known experiments +upon headless frogs. If we cut off a frog’s head and +pinch any part of its skin, the animal at once begins to move +away with the same regularity as though the brain had not been +removed. Flourens took guinea-pigs, deprived them of the +cerebral lobes, and then irritated their skin; the animals +immediately walked, leaped, and trotted about, but when the +irritation was discontinued they ceased to move. Headless +birds, under excitation, can still perform with their wings the +rhythmic movements of flying. But here are some facts more +curious still, and more difficult of explanation. If we +take a frog or a strong and healthy triton, and subject it to +various experiments; if we touch, pinch, or burn it with acetic +acid, and if then, after decapitating the animal, we subject it +to the same experiments, it will be seen that the reactions are +exactly the same; it will strive to be free of the pain, and to +shake off the acetic acid that is burning it; it will bring its +foot up to the part of its body that is irritated, and this +movement of the member will follow the irritation wherever it may +be produced.</p> +<p>The above is mainly taken from M. Ribot’s work on +heredity rather than Dr. Carpenter’s, because M. Ribot +tells us that the head of the frog was actually cut off, a fact +which does not appear so plainly in Dr. Carpenter’s +allusion to the same experiments. But Dr. Carpenter tells +us that <i>after the brain of a frog has been +removed</i>—which would seem to be much the same thing as +though its head were cut off—“if acetic acid be +applied over the upper and under part of the thigh, the foot of +the same side will wipe it away; <i>but if that foot be cut +off</i>, <i>after some ineffectual efforts and a short period of +inaction</i>,” during which it is hard not to surmise that +the headless body is considering what it had better do under the +circumstances, “<i>the same movement will be made by the +foot of the opposite side</i>,” which, to ordinary people, +would convey the impression that the headless body was capable of +feeling the impressions it had received, and of reasoning upon +them by a psychological act; and this of course involves the +possession of a soul of some sort.</p> +<p>Here is a frog whose right thigh you burn with acetic +acid. Very naturally it tries to get at the place with its +right foot to remove the acid. You then cut off the +frog’s head, and put more acetic acid on the some place: +the headless frog, or rather the body of the late frog, does just +what the frog did before its head was cut off—it tries to +get at the place with its right foot. You now cut off its +right foot: the headless body deliberates, and after a while +tries to do with its left foot what it can no longer do with its +right. Plain matter-of-fact people will draw their own +inference. They will not be seduced from the superficial +view of the matter. They will say that the headless body +can still, to some extent, feel, think, and act, and if so, that +it must have a living soul.</p> +<p>Dr. Carpenter writes as follows:—“Now the +performance of these, as well as of many other movements, that +show a most remarkable adaptation to a purpose, might be supposed +to indicate that sensations are called up by the +<i>impressions</i>, and that the animal can not only <i>feel</i>, +but can voluntarily direct its movements so as to get rid of the +irritation which annoys it. But such an inference would be +inconsistent with other facts. In the first place, the +motions performed under such circumstances are never spontaneous, +but are always excited by a stimulus of some kind.”</p> +<p>Here we pause to ask ourselves whether any action of any +creature under any circumstances is ever excited without +“stimulus of some kind,” and unless we can answer +this question in the affirmative, it is not easy to see how Dr. +Carpenter’s objection is valid.</p> +<p>“Thus,” he continues, “a decapitated +frog” (here then we have it that the frog’s head was +actually cut off) “after the first violent convulsive +moments occasioned by the operation have passed away, remains at +rest until it is touched; and then the leg, or its whole body may +be thrown into sudden action, which suddenly subsides +again.” (How does this quiescence when it no longer +feels anything show that the “leg or whole body” had +not perceived something which made it feel when it was not +quiescent?)—“Again we find that such movements may be +performed not only when the brain has been removed, the spinal +cord remaining entire, but also when the spinal cord has been +itself cut across, so as to be divided into two or more portions, +each of them completely isolated from each other, and from other +parts of the nervous centres. Thus, if the head of a frog +be cut off, and its spinal cord be divided in the middle of the +back, so that its fore legs remain connected with the upper part, +and its hind legs with the lower, each pair of members may be +excited to movements by stimulants applied to itself; but the two +pairs will not exhibit any consentaneous motions, as they will do +when the spinal cord is undivided.”</p> +<p>This may be put perhaps more plainly thus. If you take a +frog and cut it into three pieces—say, the head for one +piece, the fore legs and shoulder for another, and the hind legs +for a third—and then irritate any one of these pieces, you +will find it move much as it would have moved under like +irritation if the animal had remained undivided, but you will no +longer find any concert between the movements of the three +pieces; that is to say, if you irritate the head, the other two +pieces will remain quiet, and if you irritate the hind legs, you +will excite no action in the fore legs or head.</p> +<p>Dr. Carpenter continues: “Or if the spinal cord be cut +across without the removal of the brain, the lower limbs may be +<i>excited</i> to movement by an appropriate stimulant, though +the animal has clearly no power over them, whilst the upper part +remains under its control as completely as before.”</p> +<p>Why are the head and shoulders “the animal” more +than the hind legs under these circumstances? Neither half +can exist long without the other; the two parts, therefore, being +equally important to each other, we have surely as good a right +to claim the title of “the animal” for the hind legs, +and to maintain that they have no power over the head and +shoulders, as any one else has to claim the animalship for these +last. What we say is, that the animal has ceased to exist +as a frog on being cut in half, and that the two halves are no +longer, either of them, the frog, but are simply pieces of still +living organism, each of which has a soul of its own, being +capable of sensation, and of intelligent psychological action as +the consequence of sensations, though the one part has probably a +much higher and more intelligent soul than the other, and neither +part has a soul for a moment comparable in power and durability +to that of the original frog.</p> +<p>“Now it is scarcely conceivable,” continues Dr +Carpenter, “that in this last case sensations should be +felt and volition exercised through the instrumentality of that +portion of the spinal cord which remains connected with the +nerves of the posterior extremities, but which is cut off from +the brain. For if it were so, there must be two distinct +centres of sensation and will in the same animal, the attributes +of the brain not being affected; and by dividing the spinal cord +into two or more segments we might thus create in the body of one +animal two or more such independent centres in addition to that +which holds its proper place in the head.”</p> +<p>In the face of the facts before us, it does not seen +far-fetched to suppose that there <i>are</i> two, or indeed an +infinite number of centres of sensation and will in an animal, +the attributes of whose brain are not affected but that these +centres, while the brain is intact, habitually act in connection +with and in subordination to that central authority; as in the +ordinary state of the fish trade, fish is caught, we will say, at +Yarmouth, sent up to London, and then sent down to Yarmouth again +to be eaten, instead of being eaten at Yarmouth when +caught. But from the phenomena exhibited by three pieces of +an animal, it is impossible to argue that the causes of the +phenomena were present in the quondam animal itself; the memory +of an infinite series of generations having so habituated the +local centres of sensation and will, to act in concert with the +central government, that as long as they can get at that +government, they are absolutely incapable of acting +independently. When thrown on their own resources, they are +so demoralised by ages of dependence on the brain, that they die +after a few efforts at self-assertion, from sheer unfamiliarity +with the position, and inability to recognise themselves when +disjointed rudely from their habitual associations.</p> +<p>In conclusion, Dr. Carpenter says, “To say that two or +more distinct centres of sensation and will are present in such a +case, would really be the same as saying that we have the power +of constituting two or more distinct egos in one body, <i>which +is manifestly absurd</i>.” One sees the absurdity of +maintaining that we can make one frog into two frogs by cutting a +frog into two pieces, but there is no absurdity in believing that +the two pieces have minor centres of sensation and intelligence +within themselves, which, when the animal is entire, act in much +concert with the brain, and with each other, that it is not easy +to detect their originally autonomous character, but which, when +deprived of their power of acting in concert, are thrown back +upon earlier habit, now too long forgotten to be capable of +permanent resumption.</p> +<p>Illustrations are apt to mislead, nevertheless they may +perhaps be sometimes tolerated. Suppose, for example, that +London to the extent, say, of a circle with a six-mile radius +from Charing Cross, were utterly annihilated in the space of five +minutes during the Session of Parliament. Suppose, also, +that two entirely impassable barriers, say of five miles in +width, half a mile high, and red hot, were thrown across England; +one from Gloucester to Harwich, and another from Liverpool to +Hull, and at the same time the sea were to become a mass of +molten lava, so no water communication should be possible; the +political, mercantile, social, and intellectual life of the +country would be convulsed in a manner which it is hardly +possible to realise. Hundreds of thousands would die +through the dislocation of existing arrangements. +Nevertheless, each of the three parts into which England was +divided would show signs of provincial life for which it would +find certain imperfect organisms ready to hand. Bristol, +Birmingham, Liverpool, and Manchester, accustomed though they are +to act in subordination to London, would probably take up the +reins of government in their several sections; they would make +their town councils into local governments, appoint judges from +the ablest of their magistrates, organise relief committees, and +endeavour as well as they could to remove any acetic acid that +might be now poured on Wiltshire, Warwickshire, or +Northumberland, but no concert between the three divisions of the +country would be any longer possible. Should we be +justified, under these circumstances, in calling any of the three +parts of England, England? Or, again, when we observed the +provincial action to be as nearly like that of the original +undivided nation as circumstances would allow, should we be +justified in saying that the action, such as it was, was not +political? And, lastly, should we for a moment think that +an admission that the provincial action was of a <i>bonâ +fide</i> political character would involve the supposition that +England, undivided, had more than one “ego” as +England, no matter how many subordinate “egos” might +go to the making of it, each one of which proved, on emergency, +to be capable of a feeble autonomy?</p> +<p>M. Ribot would seem to take a juster view of the phenomenon +when he says (p. 222 of the English translation)—</p> +<p>“We can hardly say that here the movements are +co-ordinated like those of a machine; the acts of the animal are +adapted to a special end; we find in them the characters of +intelligence and will, a knowledge and choice of means, since +they are as variable as the cause which provokes them.</p> +<p>“If these, then, and similar acts, were such that both +the impressions which produced them and the acts themselves were +perceived by the animal, would they not be called +psychological? Is there not in them all that constitutes an +intelligent act—adaptation of means to ends; not a general +and vague adaptation, but a determinate adaptation to a +determinate end? In the reflex action we find all that +constitutes in some sort the very groundwork of an intelligent +act—that is to say, the same series of stages, in the same +order, with the same relations between them. We have thus, +in the reflex act, all that constitutes the psychological act +except consciousness. The reflex act, which is +physiological, differs in nothing from the psychological act, +save only in this—that it is without +consciousness.”</p> +<p>The only remark which suggests itself upon this, is that we +have no right to say that the part of the animal which moves does +not also perceive its own act of motion, as much as it has +perceived the impression which has caused it to move. It is +plain “the animal” cannot do so, for the animal +cannot be said to be any longer in existence. Half a frog +is not a frog; nevertheless, if the hind legs are capable, as M. +Ribot appears to admit, of “perceiving the +impression” which produces their action, and if in that +action there is (and there would certainly appear to be so) +“all that constitutes an intelligent act, . . . a +determinate adaptation to a determinate end,” one fails to +see on what ground they should be supposed to be incapable of +perceiving their own action, in which case the action of the hind +legs becomes distinctly psychological.</p> +<p>Secondly, M. Ribot appears to forget that it is the tendency +of all psychological action to become unconscious on being +frequently repeated, and that no line can be drawn between +psychological acts and those reflex acts which he calls +physiological. All we can say is, that there are acts which +we do without knowing that we do them; but the analogy of many +habits which we have been able to watch in their passage from +laborious consciousness to perfect unconsciousness, would suggest +that all action is really psychological, only that the +soul’s action becomes invisible to ourselves after it has +been repeated sufficiently often—that there is, in fact, a +law as simple as in the case of optics or gravitation, whereby +conscious perception of any action shall vary inversely as the +square, say, of its being repeated.</p> +<p>It is easy to understand the advantage to the individual of +this power of doing things rightly without thinking about them; +for were there no such power, the attention would be incapable of +following the multitude of matters which would be continually +arresting it; those animals which had developed a power of +working automatically, and without a recurrence to first +principles when they had once mastered any particular process, +would, in the common course of events, stand a better chance of +continuing their species, and thus of transmitting their new +power to their descendants.</p> +<p>M. Ribot declines to pursue the subject further, and has only +cursorily alluded to it. He writes, however, that, on the +“obscure problem” of the difference between reflex +and psychological actions, some say, “when there can be no +consciousness, because the brain is wanting, there is, in spite +of appearances, only mechanism,” whilst others maintain, +that “when there is selection, reflection, psychical +action, there must also be consciousness in spite of +appearances.” A little later (p. 223), he says, +“It is quite possible that if a headless animal could live +a sufficient length of time” (that is to say, if <i>the +hind legs of an animal</i> could live a sufficient length of time +without the brain), “there would be found in it” +(<i>them</i>) “a consciousness like that of the lower +species, which would consist merely in the faculty of +apprehending the external world.” (Why merely? +It is more than apprehending the outside world to be able to try +to do a thing with one’s left foot, when one finds that one +cannot do it with one’s right.) “It would not +be correct to say that the amphioxus, the only one among fishes +and vertebrata which has a spinal cord without a brain, has no +consciousness because it has no brain; and if it be admitted that +the little ganglia of the invertebrata can form a consciousness, +the same may hold good for the spinal cord.”</p> +<p>We conclude, therefore, that it is within the common scope and +meaning of the words “personal identity,” not only +that one creature can become many as the moth becomes manifold in +her eggs, but that each individual may be manifold in the sense +of being compounded of a vast number of subordinate +individualities which have their separate lives within him, with +their hopes, and fears, and intrigues, being born and dying +within us, many generations, of them during our single +lifetime.</p> +<p>“An organic being,” writes Mr. Darwin, “is a +microcosm, a little universe, formed of a host of +self-propagating organisms, inconceivably minute, and numerous as +the stars in heaven.”</p> +<p>As these myriads of smaller organisms are parts and processes +of us, so are we but parts and processes of life at large.</p> +<h2><a name="page125"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +125</span>CHAPTER VIII.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING +CHAPTERS—THE ASSIMILATION OF OUTSIDE MATTER.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Let</span> us now return to the position +which we left at the end of the fourth chapter. We had then +concluded that the self-development of each new life in +succeeding generations—the various stages through which it +passes (as it would appear, at first sight, without rhyme or +reason)—the manner in which it prepares structures of the +most surpassing intricacy and delicacy, for which it has no use +at the time when it prepares them—and the many elaborate +instincts which it exhibits immediately on, and indeed before, +birth—all point in the direction of habit and memory, as +the only causes which could produce them.</p> +<p>Why should the embryo of any animal go through so many +stages—embryological allusions to forefathers of a widely +different type? And why, again, should the germs of the +same kind of creature always go through the same stages? If +the germ of any animal now living is, in its simplest state, but +part of the personal identity of one of the original germs of all +life whatsoever, and hence, if any now living organism must be +considered without quibble as being itself millions of years old, +and as imbued with an intense though unconscious memory of all +that it has done sufficiently often to have made a permanent +impression; if this be so, we can answer the above questions +perfectly well. The creature goes through so many +intermediate stages between its earliest state as life at all, +and its latest development, for the simplest of all reasons, +namely, because this is the road by which it has always hitherto +travelled to its present differentiation; this is the road it +knows, and into every turn and up or down of which, it has been +guided by the force of circumstances and the balance of +considerations. These, acting in such a manner for such and +such a time, caused it to travel in such and such fashion, which +fashion having been once sufficiently established, becomes a +matter of trick or routine to which the creature is still a +slave, and in which it confirms itself by repetition in each +succeeding generation.</p> +<p>Thus I suppose, as almost every one else, so far as I can +gather, supposes, that we are descended from ancestors of widely +different characters to our own. If we could see some of +our forefathers a million years back, we should find them unlike +anything we could call man; if we were to go back fifty million +years, we should find them, it may be, fishes pure and simple, +breathing through gills, and unable to exist for many minutes in +air.</p> +<p>It is admitted on all hands that there is more or less analogy +between the embryological development of the individual, and the +various phases or conditions of life through which his +forefathers have passed. I suppose, then, that the fish of +fifty million years back and the man of to-day are one single +living being, in the same sense, or very nearly so, as the +octogenarian is one single living being with the infant from +which he has grown; and that the fish has lived himself into +manhood, not as we live out our little life, living, and living, +and living till we die, but living by pulsations, so to speak; +living so far, and after a certain time going into a new body, +and throwing off the old; making his body much as we make +anything that we want, and have often made already, that is to +say, as nearly as may be in the same way as he made it last time; +also that he is as unable as we ourselves are, to make what he +wants without going through the usual processes with which he is +familiar, even though there may be other better ways of doing the +same thing, which might not be far to seek, if the creature +thought them better, and had not got so accustomed to such and +such a method, that he would only be baffled and put out by any +attempt to teach him otherwise.</p> +<p>And this oneness of personality between ourselves and our +supposed fishlike ancestors of many millions of years ago, must +hold also between each individual one of us and the single pair +of fishes from which we are each (on the present momentary +hypothesis) descended; and it must also hold between such pair of +fishes and all their descendants besides man, it may be some of +them birds, and others fishes; all these descendants, whether +human or otherwise, being but the way in which the creature +(which was a pair of fishes when we first took it in hand though +it was a hundred thousand other things as well, and had been all +manner of other things before any part of it became fishlike) +continues to exist—its manner, in fact, of growing. +As the manner in which the human body grows is by the continued +birth and death, in our single lifetime, of many generations of +cells which we know nothing about, but say that we have had only +one hand or foot all our lives, when we have really had many, one +after another; so this huge compound creature, <span +class="GutSmall">LIFE</span>, probably thinks itself but one +single animal whose component cells, as it may imagine, grow, and +it may be waste and repair, but do not die.</p> +<p>It may be that the cells of which we are built up, and which +we have already seen must be considered as separate persons, each +one of them with a life and memory of its own—it may be +that these cells reckon time in a manner inconceivable by us, so +that no word can convey any idea of it whatever. What may +to them appear a long and painful process may to us be so +instantaneous as to escape us altogether, we wanting some +microscope to show us the details of time. If, in like +manner, we were to allow our imagination to conceive the +existence of a being as much in need of a microscope for our time +and affairs as we for those of our own component cells, the years +would be to such a being but as the winkings or the twinklings of +an eye. Would he think, then, that all the ants and flies +of one wink were different from those of the next? or would he +not rather believe that they were always the same flies, and, +again, always the same men and women, if he could see them at +all, and if the whole human race did not appear to him as a sort +of spreading and lichen-like growth over the earth, not +differentiated at all into individuals? With the help of a +microscope and the intelligent exercise of his reason, he would +in time conceive the truth. He would put Covent Garden +Market on the field of his microscope, and would perhaps write a +great deal of nonsense about the unerring “instinct” +which taught each costermonger to recognise his own basket or his +own donkey-cart; and this, <i>mutatis mutandis</i>, is what we +are getting to do as regards our own bodies. What I wish +is, to make the same sort of step in an upward direction which +has already been taken in a downward one, and to show reason for +thinking that we are only component atoms of a single compound +creature, LIFE, which has probably a distinct conception of its +own personality though none whatever of ours, more than we of our +own units. I wish also to show reason for thinking that +this creature, LIFE, has only come to be what it is, by the same +sort of process as that by which any human art or manufacture is +developed, <i>i.e.</i>, through constantly doing the same thing +over and over again, beginning from something which is barely +recognisable as faith, or as the desire to know, or do, or live +at all, and as to the origin of which we are in utter +darkness,—and growing till it is first conscious of effort, +then conscious of power, then powerful with but little +consciousness, and finally, so powerful and so charged with +memory as to be absolutely without all self-consciousness +whatever, except as regards its latest phases in each of its many +differentiations, or when placed in such new circumstances as +compel it to choose between death and a reconsideration of its +position.</p> +<p>No conjecture can be hazarded as to how the smallest particle +of matter became so imbued with faith that it must be considered +as the beginning of <span class="GutSmall">LIFE</span>, or as to +what such faith is, except that it is the very essence of all +things, and that it has no foundation.</p> +<p>In this way, then, I conceive we can fairly transfer the +experience of the race to the individual, without any other +meaning to our words than what they would naturally suggest; that +is to say, that there is in every impregnate ovum a <i>bonâ +fide</i> memory, which carries it back not only to the time when +it was last an impregnate ovum, but to that earlier date when it +was the very beginning of life at all, which same creature it +still is, whether as man or ovum, and hence imbued, so far as +time and circumstance allow, with all its memories. Surely +this is no strained hypothesis; for the mere fact that the germ, +from the earliest moment that we are able to detect it, appears +to be so perfectly familiar with its business, acts with so +little hesitation and so little introspection or reference to +principles, this alone should incline us to suspect that it must +be armed with that which, so far as we observe in daily life, can +alone ensure such a result—to wit, long practice, and the +memory of many similar performances.</p> +<p>The difficulty is, that we are conscious of no such memory in +our own persons, and beyond the one great proof of memory given +by the actual repetition of the performance—and of some of +the latest deviations from the ordinary performance (and this +proof ought in itself, one would have thought, to outweigh any +save the directest evidence to the contrary) we can detect no +symptom of any such mental operation as recollection on the part +of the embryo. On the other hand, we have seen that we know +most intensely those things that we are least conscious of +knowing; we will most intensely what we are least conscious of +willing; we feel continually without knowing that we feel, and +our attention is hourly arrested without our attention being +arrested by the arresting of our attention. Memory is no +less capable of unconscious exercise, and on becoming intense +through frequent repetition, vanishes no less completely as a +conscious action of the mind than knowledge and volition. +We must all be aware of instances in which it is plain we must +have remembered, without being in the smallest degree conscious +of remembering. Is it then absurd to suppose that our past +existences have been repeated on such a vast number of occasions +that the germ, linked on to all preceding germs, and, by once +having become part of their identity, imbued with all their +memories, remembers too intensely to be conscious of remembering, +and works on with the same kind of unconsciousness with which we +play, or walk, or read, until something unfamiliar happens to us? +and is it not singularly in accordance with this view that +consciousness should begin with that part of the creature’s +performance with which it is least familiar, as having repeated +it least often—that is to say, in our own case, with the +commencement of our human life—at birth, or +thereabouts?</p> +<p>It is certainly noteworthy that the embryo is never at a loss, +unless something happens to it which has not usually happened to +its forefathers, and which in the nature of things it cannot +remember.</p> +<p>When events are happening to it which have ordinarily happened +to its forefathers, and which it would therefore remember, if it +was possessed of the kind of memory which we are here attributing +to it, <i>it acts precisely as it would act if it were possessed +of such memory</i>.</p> +<p>When, on the other hand, events are happening to it which, if +it has the kind of memory we are attributing to it, would baffle +that memory, or which have rarely or never been included in the +category of its recollections, <i>it acts precisely as a creature +acts when its recollection is disturbed</i>, <i>or when it is +required to do something which it has never done before</i>.</p> +<p>We cannot remember having been in the embryonic stage, but we +do not on that account deny that we ever were in such a stage at +all. On a little reflection it will appear no more +reasonable to maintain that, when we were in the embryonic stage, +we did not remember our past existences, than to say that we +never were embryos at all. We cannot remember what we did +or did not recollect in that state; we cannot now remember having +grown the eyes which we undoubtedly did grow, much less can we +remember whether or not we then remembered having grown them +before; but it is probable that our memory was then, in respect +of our previous existences as embryos, as much more intense than +it is now in respect of our childhood, as our power of acquiring +a new language was greater when we were one or two years old, +than when we were twenty. And why should this power of +acquiring languages be greater at two years than at twenty, but +that for many generations we have learnt to speak at about this +age, and hence look to learn to do so again on reaching it, just +as we looked to making eyes, when the time came at which we were +accustomed to make them.</p> +<p>If we once had the memory of having been infants (which we had +from day to day during infancy), and have lost it, we may well +have had other and more intense memories which we have lost no +less completely. Indeed, there is nothing more +extraordinary in the supposition that the impregnate ovum has an +intense sense of its continuity with, and therefore of its +identity with, the two impregnate ova from which it has sprung, +than in the fact that we have no sense of our continuity with +ourselves as infants. If then, there is no <i>à +priori</i> objection to this view, and if the impregnate ovum +acts in such a manner as to carry the strongest conviction that +it must have already on many occasions done what it is doing now, +and that it has a vivid though unconscious recollection of what +all, and more especially its nearer, ancestral ova did under +similar circumstances, there would seem to be little doubt what +conclusion we ought to come to.</p> +<p>A hen’s egg, for example, as soon as the hen begins to +sit, sets to work immediately to do as nearly as may be what the +two eggs from which its father and mother were hatched did when +hens began to sit upon them. The inference would seem +almost irresistible,—that the second egg remembers the +course pursued by the eggs from which it has sprung, and of whose +present identity it is unquestionably a part-phase; it also seems +irresistibly forced upon us to believe that the intensity of this +memory is the secret of its easy action.</p> +<p>It has, I believe, been often remarked, that a hen is only an +egg’s way of making another egg. Every creature must +be allowed to “run” its own development in its own +way; the egg’s way may seem a very roundabout manner of +doing things; but it <i>is</i> its way, and it is one of which +man, upon the whole, has no great reason to complain. Why +the fowl should be considered more alive than the egg, and why it +should be said that the hen lays the egg, and not that the egg +lays the hen, these are questions which lie beyond the power of +philosophic explanation, but are perhaps most answerable by +considering the conceit of man, and his habit, persisted in +during many ages, of ignoring all that does not remind him of +himself, or hurt him, or profit him; also by considering the use +of language, which, if it is to serve at all, can only do so by +ignoring a vast number of facts which gradually drop out of mind +from being out of sight. But, perhaps, after all, the real +reason is, that the egg does not cackle when it has laid the hen, +and that it works towards the hen with gradual and noiseless +steps, which we can watch if we be so minded; whereas, we can +less easily watch the steps which lead from the hen to the egg, +but hear a noise, and see an egg where there was no egg. +Therefore, we say, the development of the fowl from the egg bears +no sort of resemblance to that of the egg from the fowl, whereas, +in truth, a hen, or any other living creature, is only the +primordial cell’s way of going back upon itself.</p> +<p>But to return. We see an egg, A, which evidently knows +its own meaning perfectly well, and we know that a twelvemonth +ago there were two other such eggs, B and C, which have now +disappeared, but from which we know A to have been so +continuously developed as to be part of the present form of their +identity. A’s meaning is seen to be precisely the +same as B and C’s meaning; A’s personal appearance +is, to all intents and purposes, B and C’s personal +appearance; it would seem, then, unreasonable to deny that A is +only B and C come back, with such modification as they may have +incurred since their disappearance; and that, in spite of any +such modification, they remember in A perfectly well what they +did as B and C.</p> +<p>We have considered the question of personal identity so as to +see whether, without abuse of terms, we can claim it as existing +between any two generations of living agents (and if between two, +then between any number up to infinity), and we found that we +were not only at liberty to claim this, but that we are compelled +irresistibly to do so, unless, that is to say, we would think +very differently concerning personal identity than we do at +present. We found it impossible to hold the ordinary common +sense opinions concerning personal identity, without admitting +that we are personally identical with all our forefathers, who +have successfully assimilated outside matter to themselves, and +by assimilation imbued it with all their own memories; we being +nothing else than this outside matter so assimilated and imbued +with such memories. This, at least, will, I believe, +balance the account correctly.</p> +<p>A few remarks upon the assimilation of outside matter by +living organisms may perhaps be hazarded here.</p> +<p>As long as any living organism can maintain itself in a +position to which it has been accustomed, more or less nearly, +both in its own life and in those of its forefathers, nothing can +harm it. As long as the organism is familiar with the +position, and remembers its antecedents, nothing can assimilate +it. It must be first dislodged from the position with which +it is familiar, as being able to remember it, before mischief can +happen to it. Nothing can assimilate living organism.</p> +<p>On the other hand, the moment living organism loses sight of +its own position and antecedents, it is liable to immediate +assimilation, and to be thus familiarised with the position and +antecedents of some other creature. If any living organism +be kept for but a very short time in a position wholly different +from what it has been accustomed to in its own life, and in the +lives of its forefathers, it commonly loses its memories +completely, once and for ever; but it must immediately acquire +new ones, for nothing can know nothing; everything must remember +either its own antecedents, or some one else’s. And +as nothing can know nothing, so nothing can believe in +nothing.</p> +<p>A grain of corn, for example, has never been accustomed to +find itself in a hen’s stomach—neither it nor its +forefathers. For a grain so placed leaves no offspring, and +hence cannot transmit its experience. The first minute or +so after being eaten, it may think it has just been sown, and +begin to prepare for sprouting, but in a few seconds, it +discovers the environment to be unfamiliar; it therefore gets +frightened, loses its head, is carried into the gizzard, and +comminuted among the gizzard stones. The hen succeeded in +putting it into a position with which it was unfamiliar; from +this it was an easy stage to assimilating it entirely. Once +assimilated, the grain ceases to remember any more as a grain, +but becomes initiated into all that happens to, and has happened +to, fowls for countless ages. Then it will attack all other +grains whenever it sees them; there is no such persecutor of +grain, as another grain when it has once fairly identified itself +with a hen.</p> +<p>We may remark in passing, that if anything be once +familiarised with anything, it is content. The only things +we really care for in life are familiar things; let us have the +means of doing what we have been accustomed to do, of dressing as +we have been accustomed to dress, of eating as we have been +accustomed to eat, and let us have no less liberty than we are +accustomed to have, and last, but not least, let us not be +disturbed in thinking as we have been accustomed to think, and +the vast majority of mankind will be very fairly +contented—all plants and animals will certainly be +so. This would seem to suggest a possible doctrine of a +future state; concerning which we may reflect that though, after +we die, we cease to be familiar with ourselves, we shall +nevertheless become immediately familiar with many other +histories compared with which our present life must then seem +intolerably uninteresting.</p> +<p>This is the reason why a very heavy and sudden shock to the +nervous system does not pain, but kills outright at once; while +one with which the system can, at any rate, try to familiarise +itself is exceedingly painful. We cannot bear +unfamiliarity. The part that is treated in a manner with +which it is not familiar cries immediately to the brain—its +central government—for help, and makes itself generally as +troublesome as it can, till it is in some way comforted. +Indeed, the law against cruelty to animals is but an example of +the hatred we feel on seeing even dumb creatures put into +positions with which they are not familiar. We hate this so +much for ourselves, that we will not tolerate it for other +creatures if we can possibly avoid it. So again, it is +said, that when Andromeda and Perseus had travelled but a little +way from the rock where Andromeda had so long been chained, she +began upbraiding him with the loss of her dragon, who, on the +whole, she said, had been very good to her. The only things +we really hate are unfamiliar things, and though nature would not +be nature if she did not cross our love of the familiar with a +love also of the unfamiliar, yet there can be no doubt which of +the two principles is master.</p> +<p>Let us return, however, to the grain of corn. If the +grain had had presence of mind to avoid being carried into the +gizzard stones, as many seeds do which are carried for hundreds +of miles in birds’ stomachs, and if it had persuaded itself +that the novelty of the position was not greater than it could +very well manage to put up with—if, in fact, it had not +known when it was beaten—it might have stuck in the +hen’s stomach and begun to grow; in this case it would have +assimilated a good part of the hen before many days were over; +for hens are not familiar with grains that grow in their +stomachs, and unless the one in question was as strongminded for +a hen, as the grain that could avoid being assimilated would be +for a grain, the hen would soon cease to take an interest in her +antecedents. It is to be doubted, however, whether a grain +has ever been grown which has had strength of mind enough to +avoid being set off its balance on finding itself inside a +hen’s gizzard. For living organism is the creature of +habit and routine, and the inside of a gizzard is not in the +grain’s programme.</p> +<p>Suppose, then, that the grain, instead of being carried into +the gizzard, had stuck in the hen’s throat and choked +her. It would now find itself in a position very like what +it had often been in before. That is to say, it would be in +a damp, dark, quiet place, not too far from light, and with +decaying matter around it. It would therefore know +perfectly well what to do, and would begin to grow until +disturbed, and again put into a position with which it might, +very possibly, be unfamiliar.</p> +<p>The great question between vast masses of living organism is +simply this: “Am I to put you into a position with which +your forefathers have been unfamiliar, or are you to put me into +one about which my own have been in like manner +ignorant?” Man is only the dominant animal on the +earth, because he can, as a general rule, settle this question in +his own favour.</p> +<p>The only manner in which an organism, which has once forgotten +its antecedents, can ever recover its memory, is by being +assimilated by a creature of its own kind; one, moreover, which +knows its business, or is not in such a false position as to be +compelled to be aware of being so. It was, doubtless, owing +to the recognition of this fact, that some Eastern nations, as we +are told by Herodotus, were in the habit of eating their deceased +parents—for matter which has once been assimilated by any +identity or personality, becomes for all practical purposes part +of the assimilating personality.</p> +<p>The bearing of the above will become obvious when we return, +as we will now do, to the question of personal identity. +The only difficulty would seem to lie in our unfamiliarity with +the real meanings which we attach to words in daily use. +Hence, while recognising continuity without sudden break as the +underlying principle of identity, we forget that this involves +personal identity between all the beings who are in one chain of +descent, the numbers of such beings, whether in succession, or +contemporaneous, going for nothing at all. Thus we take two +eggs, one male and one female, and hatch them; after some months +the pair of fowls so hatched, having succeeded in putting a vast +quantity of grain and worms into false positions, become +full-grown, breed, and produce a dozen new eggs.</p> +<p>Two live fowls and a dozen eggs are the present phase of the +personality of the two original eggs. They are also part of +the present phase of the personality of all the worms and grain +which the fowls have assimilated from their leaving the eggshell; +but the personalities of these last do not count; they have lost +their grain and worm memories, and are instinct with the +memorises of the whole ancestry of the creature which has +assimilated them.</p> +<p>We cannot, perhaps, strictly say that the two fowls and the +dozen new eggs actually <i>are</i> the two original eggs; these +two eggs are no longer in existence, and we see the two birds +themselves which were hatched from them. A bird cannot be +called an egg without an abuse of terms. Nevertheless, it +is doubtful how far we should not say this, for it is only with a +mental reserve—and with no greater mental +reserve—that we predicate absolute identity concerning any +living being for two consecutive moments; and it is certainly as +free from quibble to say to two fowls and a dozen eggs, +“you are the two eggs I had on my kitchen shelf twelve +months ago,” as to say to a man, “you are the child +whom I remember thirty years ago in your mother’s +arms.” In either case we mean, “you have been +continually putting other organisms into a false position, and +then assimilating them, ever since I last saw you, while nothing +has yet occurred to put <i>you</i> into such a false position as +to have made you lose the memory of your antecedents.”</p> +<p>It would seem perfectly fair, therefore, to say to any egg of +the twelve, or to the two fowls and the whole twelve eggs +together, “you were a couple of eggs twelve months ago; +twelve months before that you were four eggs;” and so on, +<i>ad infinitum</i>, the number neither of the ancestors nor of +the descendants counting for anything, and continuity being the +sole thing looked to. From daily observation we are +familiar with the fact that identity does both unite with other +identities, so that a single new identity is the result, and does +also split itself up into several identities, so that the one +becomes many. This is plain from the manner in which the +male and female sexual elements unite to form a single ovum, +which we observe to be instinct with the memories of both the +individuals from which it has been derived; and there is the +additional consideration, that each of the elements whose fusion +goes to make up the impregnate ovum, is held by some to be itself +composed of a fused mass of germs, which stand very much in the +same relation to the spermatozoon and ovum, as the living +cellular units of which we are composed do to +ourselves—that is to say, are living independent organisms, +which probably have no conception of the existence of the +spermatozoon nor of the ovum, more than the spermatozoon or ovum +have of theirs.</p> +<p>This, at least, is what I gather from Mr. Darwin’s +provisional theory of Pangenesis; and, again, from one of the +concluding sentences in his “Effects of Cross and Self +Fertilisation,” where, asking the question why two sexes +have been developed, he replies that the answer seems to lie +“in the great good which is derived from the fusion of two +somewhat differentiated individuals. With the +exception,” he continues, “or the lowest organisms +this is possible only by means of the sexual +elements—<i>these consisting of cells separated from the +body</i>” (<i>i.e.</i>, separated from the bodies of each +parent) “<i>containing the germs of every part</i>” +(<i>i.e.</i>, consisting of the seeds or germs from which each +individual cell of the coming organism will be +developed—these seeds or germs having been shed by each +individual cell of the parent forms), “<i>and capable of +being fused completely together</i>” (<i>i.e.</i>, so at +least I gather, capable of being fused completely, in the same +way as the cells of our own bodies are fused, and thus, of +forming a single living personality in the case of both the male +and female element; which elements are themselves capable of a +second fusion so as to form the impregnate ovum). This +single impregnate ovum, then, is a single identity that has taken +the place of and come up in the room of two distinct +personalities, each of whose characteristics it, to a certain +extent, partakes, and which consist, each one of them, of the +fused germs of a vast mass of other personalities.</p> +<p>As regards the dispersion of one identity into many, this also +is a matter of daily observation in the case of all female +creatures that are with egg or young; the identity of the young +with the female parent is in many respects so complete, as to +need no enforcing, in spite of the entrance into the offspring of +all the elements derived from the male parent, and of the gradual +separation of the two identities, which becomes more and more +complete, till in time it is hard to conceive that they can ever +have been united.</p> +<p>Numbers, therefore, go for nothing; and, as far as identity or +continued personality goes, it is as fair to say to the two +fowls, above referred to, “you were four fowls twelve +months ago,” as it is to say to a dozen eggs, “you +were two eggs twelve months ago.” But here a +difficulty meets us; for if we say, “you were two eggs +twelve months ago,” it follows that we mean, “you are +now those two eggs;” just as when we say to a person, +“you were such and such a boy twenty years ago,” we +mean, “you are now that boy, or all that represents +him;” it would seem, then, that in like manner we should +say to the two fowls, “you <i>are</i> the four fowls who +between them laid the two eggs from which you +sprung.” But it may be that all these four fowls are +still to be seen running about; we should be therefore saying, +“you two fowls are really not yourselves only, but you are +also the other four fowls into the bargain;” and this might +be philosophically true, and might, perhaps, be considered so, +but for the convenience of the law courts.</p> +<p>The difficulty would seem to arise from the fact that the eggs +must disappear before fowls can be hatched from them, whereas, +the hens so hatched may outlive the development of other hens, +from the eggs which they in due course have laid. The +original eggs being out of sight are out of mind, and it is +without an effort that we acquiesce in the assertion,—that +the dozen new eggs actually are the two original ones. But +the original four fowls being still in sight, cannot be ignored, +we only, therefore, see the new ones as growths from the original +ones.</p> +<p>The strict rendering of the facts should be, “you are +part of the present phase of the identity of such and such a past +identity,” <i>i.e.</i>, either of the two eggs or the four +fowls, as the case may be; this will put the eggs and the fowls, +as it were, into the same box, and will meet both the +philosophical and legal requirement of the case, only it is a +little long.</p> +<p>So far then, as regards actual identity of personality; which, +we find, will allow us to say, that eggs are part of the present +phase of a certain past identity, whether of other eggs, or of +fowls, or chickens, and in like, manner that chickens are part of +the present phase of certain other chickens, or eggs, or fowls; +in fact, that anything is part of the present phase of any past +identity in the line of its ancestry. But as regards the +actual memory of such identity (unconscious memory, but still +clearly memory), we observe that the egg, as long as it is an +egg, appears to have a very distinct recollection of having been +an egg before, and the fowl of having been a fowl before, but +that neither egg nor fowl appear to have any recollection of any +other stage of their past existences, than the one corresponding +to that in which they are themselves at the moment existing.</p> +<p>So we, at six or seven years old, have no recollection of ever +having been infants, much less of having been embryos; but the +manner in which we shed our teeth and make new ones, and the way +in which we grow generally, making ourselves for the most part +exceedingly like what we made ourselves, in the person of some +one of our nearer ancestors, and not unfrequently repeating the +very blunders which we made upon that occasion when we come to a +corresponding age, proves most incontestably that we remember our +past existences, though too utterly to be capable of +introspection in the matter. So, when we grow wisdom teeth, +at the age it may be of one or two and twenty, it is plain we +remember our past existences at that age, however completely we +may have forgotten the earlier stages of our present +existence. It may be said that it is the jaw which +remembers, and not we, but it seems hard to deny the jaw a right +of citizenship in our personality; and in the case of a growing +boy, every part of him seems to remember equally well, and if +every part of him combined does not make <i>him</i>, there would +seem but little use in continuing the argument further.</p> +<p>In like manner, a caterpillar appears not to remember having +been an egg, either in its present or any past existence. +It has no concern with eggs as soon as it is hatched, but it +clearly remembers not only having been a caterpillar before, but +also having turned itself into a chrysalis before; for when the +time comes for it to do this, it is at no loss, as it would +certainly be if the position was unfamiliar, but it immediately +begins doing what it did when last it was in a like case, +repeating the process as nearly as the environment will allow, +taking every step in the same order as last time, and doing its +work with that ease and perfection which we observe to belong to +the force of habit, and to be utterly incompatible with any other +supposition than that of long long practice.</p> +<p>Once having become a chrysalis, its memory of its +caterpillarhood appears to leave it for good and all, not to +return until it again assumes the shape of a caterpillar by +process of descent. Its memory now overleaps all past +modifications, and reverts to the time when it was last what it +is now, and though it is probable that both caterpillar and +chrysalis, on any given day of their existence in either of these +forms, have some sort of dim power of recollecting what happened +to them yesterday, or the day before; yet it is plain their main +memory goes back to the corresponding day of their last existence +in their present form, the chrysalis remembering what happened to +it on such a day far more practically, though less consciously, +than what happened to it yesterday; and naturally, for yesterday +is but once, and its past existences have been legion. +Hence, it prepares its wings in due time, doing each day what it +did on the corresponding day of its last chrysalishood and at +length becoming a moth; whereon its circumstances are so changed +that it loses all sense of its identity as a chrysalis (as +completely as we, for precisely the same reason, lose all sense +of our identity with ourselves as infants), and remembers nothing +but its past existences as a moth.</p> +<p>We observe this to hold throughout the animal and vegetable +kingdoms. In any one phase of the existence of the lower +animals, we observe that they remember the corresponding stage, +and a little on either side of it, of all their past existences +for a very great length of time. In their present existence +they remember a little behind the present moment (remembering +more and more the higher they advance in the scale of life), and +being able to foresee about as much as they could foresee in +their past existences, sometimes more and sometimes less. +As with memory, so with prescience. The higher they advance +in the scale of life the more prescient they are. It must, +of course, be remembered, and will later on be more fully dwelt +upon, that no offspring can remember anything which happens to +its parents after it and its parents have parted company; and +this is why there is, perhaps, more irregularity as regards our +wisdom-teeth than about anything else that we grow; inasmuch as +it must not uncommonly have happened in a long series of +generations, that the offspring has been born before the parents +have grown their wisdom-teeth, and thus there will be faults in +the memory.</p> +<p>Is there, then, anything in memory, as we observe it in +ourselves and others, under circumstances in which we shall agree +in calling it memory pure and simple without ambiguity of +terms—is there anything in memory which bars us from +supposing it capable of overleaping a long time of abeyance, and +thus of enabling each impregnate ovum, or each grain, to remember +what it did when last in a like condition, and to go on +remembering the corresponding period of its prior developments +throughout the whole period of its present growth, though such +memory has entirely failed as regards the interim between any two +corresponding periods, and is not consciously recognised by the +individual as being exercised at all?</p> +<h2><a name="page150"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +150</span>CHAPTER IX.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">ON THE ABEYANCE OF MEMORY.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Let</span> us assume, for the moment, that +the action of each impregnate germ is due to memory, which, as it +were, pulsates anew in each succeeding generation, so that +immediately on impregnation, the germ’s memory reverts to +the last occasion on which it was in a like condition, and +recognising the position, is at no loss what to do. It is +plain that in all cases where there are two parents, that is to +say, in the greater number of cases, whether in the vegetable or +animal kingdoms, there must be two such last occasions, each of +which will have an equal claim upon the attention of the new +germ. Its memory would therefore revert to both, and though +it would probably adhere more closely to the course which it took +either as its father or its mother, and thus come out eventually +male or female, yet it would be not a little influenced by the +less potent memory.</p> +<p>And not only this, but each of the germs to which the memory +of the new germ reverts, is itself imbued with the memories of +its own parent germs, and these again with the memories of +preceding generations, and so on <i>ad infinitum</i>; so that, +<i>ex hypothesi</i>, the germ must become instinct with all these +memories, epitomised as after long time, and unperceived though +they may well be, not to say obliterated in part or entirely so +far as many features are concerned, by more recent +impressions. In this case, we must conceive of the +impregnate germ as of a creature which has to repeat a +performance already repeated before on countless different +occasions, but with no more variation on the more recent ones +than is inevitable in the repetition of any performance by an +intelligent being.</p> +<p>Now if we take the most parallel case to this which we can +find, and consider what we should ourselves do under such +circumstances, that is to say, if we consider what course is +actually taken by beings who are influenced by what we all call +memory, when they repeat an already often-repeated performance, +and if we find a very strong analogy between the course so taken +by ourselves, and that which from whatever cause we observe to be +taken by a living germ, we shall surely be much inclined to think +that there must be a similarity in the causes of action in each +case; and hence, to conclude, that the action of the germ is due +to memory.</p> +<p>It will, therefore, be necessary to consider the general +tendency of our minds in regard to impressions made upon us, and +the memory of such impressions.</p> +<p>Deep impressions upon the memory are made in two ways, +differing rather in degree than kind, but with two somewhat +widely different results. They are made:—</p> +<p>I. By unfamiliar objects, or combinations, which come at +comparatively long intervals, and produce their effect, as it +were, by one hard blow. The effect of these will vary with +the unfamiliarity of the impressions themselves, and the manner +in which they seem likely to lead to a further development of the +unfamiliar, <i>i.e.</i>, with the question, whether they seem +likely to compel us to change our habits, either for better or +worse.</p> +<p>Thus, if an object or incident be very unfamiliar, as, we will +say, a whale or an iceberg to one travelling to America for the +first time, it will make a deep impression, though but little +affecting our interests; but if we struck against the iceberg and +were shipwrecked, or nearly so, it would produce a much deeper +impression, we should think much more about icebergs, and +remember much more about them, than if we had merely seen +one. So, also, if we were able to catch the whale and sell +its oil, we should have a deep impression made upon us. In +either case we see that the amount of unfamiliarity, either +present or prospective, is the main determinant of the depth of +the impression.</p> +<p>As with consciousness and volition, so with sudden +unfamiliarity. It impresses us more and more deeply the +more unfamiliar it is, until it reaches such a point of +impressiveness as to make no further impression at all; on which +we then and there die. For death only kills through +unfamiliarity—that is to say, because the new position, +whatever it is, is so wide a cross as compared with the old one, +that we cannot fuse the two so as to understand the combination; +hence we lose all recognition of, and faith in, ourselves and our +surroundings.</p> +<p>But however much we imagine we remember concerning the details +of any remarkable impression which has been made us by a single +blow, we do not remember as much or nearly as much as we think we +do. The subordinate details soon drop out of mind. +Those who think they remember even such a momentous matter as the +battle of Waterloo recall now probably but half-a-dozen episodes, +a gleam here, and a gleam there, so that what they call +remembering the battle of Waterloo, is, in fact, little more than +a kind of dreaming—so soon vanishes the memory of any +unrepeated occurrence.</p> +<p>As for smaller impressions, there is very little of what +happens to us in each week that will be in our memories a week +hence; a man of eighty remembers few of the unrepeated incidents +of his life beyond those of the last fortnight, a little here, +and a little there, forming a matter of perhaps six weeks or two +months in all, if everything that he can call to mind were acted +over again with no greater fulness than he can remember it. +As for incidents that have been often repeated, his mind strikes +a balance of its past reminiscences, remembering the two or three +last performances, and a general method of procedure, but nothing +more.</p> +<p>If, then, the recollection of all that is not very novel, or +very often repeated, so soon fades from our own minds, during +what we consider as our single lifetime, what wonder that the +details of our daily experience should find no place in that +brief epitome of them which is all we can give in so small a +volume as offspring?</p> +<p>If we cannot ourselves remember the hundred-thousandth part of +what happened to us during our own childhood, how can we expect +our offspring to remember more than what, through frequent +repetition, they can now remember as a residuum, or general +impression. On the other hand, whatever we remember in +consequence of but a single impression, we remember +consciously. We can at will recall details, and are +perfectly well aware, when we do so, that we are +recollecting. A man who has never seen death looks for the +first time upon the dead face of some near relative or +friend. He gazes for a few short minutes, but the +impression thus made does not soon pass out of his mind. He +remembers the room, the hour of the day or night, and if by day, +what sort of a day. He remembers in what part of the room, +and how disposed the body of the deceased was lying. Twenty +years afterwards he can, at will, recall all these matters to his +mind, and picture to himself the scene as he originally witnessed +it.</p> +<p>The reason is plain; the impression was very unfamiliar, and +affected the beholder, both as regards the loss of one who was +dear to him, and as reminding him with more than common force +that he will one day die himself. Moreover the impression +was a simple one, not involving much subordinate detail; we have +in this case, therefore, an example of the most lasting kind of +impression that can be made by a single unrepeated event. +But if we examine ourselves closely, we shall find that after a +lapse of years we do not remember as much as we think we do, even +in such a case as this; and that beyond the incidents above +mentioned, and the expression upon the face of the dead person, +we remember little of what we can so consciously and vividly +recall.</p> +<p>II. Deep impressions are also made by the repetition, +more or less often, of a feeble impression which, if unrepeated, +would have soon passed out of our minds. We observe, +therefore, that we remember best what we have done least +often—any unfamiliar deviation, that is to say, from our +ordinary method of procedure—and what we have done most +often, with which, therefore, we are most familiar; our memory +being mainly affected by the force of novelty and the force of +routine—the most unfamiliar, and the most familiar, +incidents or objects.</p> +<p>But we remember impressions which have been made upon us by +force of routine, in a very different way to that in which we +remember a single deep impression. As regards this second +class, which comprises far the most numerous and important of the +impressions with which our memory is stored, it is often only by +the fact of our performance itself that we are able to recognise +or show to others that we remember at all. We often do not +remember how, or when, or where we acquired our knowledge. +All we remember is, that we did learn, and that at one time and +another we have done this or that very often.</p> +<p>As regards this second class of impressions we may +observe:—</p> +<p>1. That as a general rule we remember only the +individual features of the last few repetitions of the +act—if, indeed, we remember this much. The influence +of preceding ones is to be found only in the general average of +the procedure, which is modified by them, but unconsciously to +ourselves. Take, for example, some celebrated singer, or +pianoforte player, who has sung the same air, or performed the +same sonata several hundreds or, it may be, thousands of times: +of the details of individual performances, he can probably call +to mind none but those of the last few days, yet there can be no +question that his present performance is affected by, and +modified by, all his previous ones; the care he has bestowed on +these being the secret of his present proficiency.</p> +<p>In each performance (the performer being supposed in the same +state of mental and bodily health), the tendency will be to +repeat the immediately preceding performances more nearly than +remoter ones. It is the common tendency of living beings to +go on doing what they have been doing most recently. The +last habit is the strongest. Hence, if he took great pains +last time, he will play better now, and will take a like degree +of pains, and play better still next time, and so go on improving +while life and vigour last. If, on the other hand, he took +less pains last time, he will play worse now, and be inclined to +take little pains next time, and so gradually deteriorate. +This, at least, is the common everyday experience of mankind.</p> +<p>So with painters, actors, and professional men of every +description; after a little while the memory of many past +performances strikes a sort of fused balance in the mind, which +results in a general method of procedure with but little +conscious memory of even the latest performances, and with none +whatever of by far the greater number of the remoter ones.</p> +<p>Still, it is noteworthy, that the memory of some even of these +will occasionally assert itself, so far as we can see, +arbitrarily, the reason why this or that occasion should still +haunt us, when others like them are forgotten, depending on some +cause too subtle for our powers of observation.</p> +<p>Even with such a simple matter as our daily dressing and +undressing, we may remember some few details of our +yesterday’s toilet, but we retain nothing but a general and +fused recollection of the many thousand earlier occasions on +which we have dressed, or gone to bed. Men invariably put +the same leg first into their trousers—this is the survival +of memory in a residuum; but they cannot, till they actually put +on a pair of trousers, remember which leg they <i>do</i> put in +first; this is the rapid fading away of any small individual +impression.</p> +<p>The seasons may serve as another illustration; we have a +general recollection of the kind of weather which is seasonable +for any month in a year; what flowers are due about what time, +and whether the spring is on the whole backward or early; but we +cannot remember the weather on any particular day a year ago, +unless some unusual incident has impressed it upon our +memory. We can remember, as a general rule, what kind of +season it was, upon the whole, a year ago, or perhaps, even two +years; but more than this, we rarely remember, except in such +cases as the winter of 1854–1855, or the summer of 1868; +the rest is all merged.</p> +<p>We observe, then, that as regards small and often repeated +impressions, our tendency is to remember best, and in most +detail, what we have been doing most recently, and what in +general has occurred most recently, but that the earlier +impressions though forgotten individually, are nevertheless, not +wholly lost.</p> +<p>2. When we have done anything very often, and have got +into the habit of doing it, we generally take the various steps +in the same order; in many cases this seems to be a <i>sine +quâ non</i> for our repetition of the action at all. +Thus, there is probably no living man who could repeat the words +of “God save the Queen” backwards, without much +hesitation and many mistakes; so the musician and the singer must +perform their pieces in the order of the notes as written, or at +any rate as they ordinarily perform them; they cannot transpose +bars or read them backwards, without being put out, nor would the +audience recognise the impressions they have been accustomed to, +unless these impressions are made in the accustomed order.</p> +<p>3. If, when we have once got well into the habit of +doing anything in a certain way, some one shows us some other way +of doing it, or some way which would in part modify our +procedure, or if in our endeavours to improve, we have hit upon +some new idea which seems likely to help us, and thus we vary our +course, on the next occasion we remember this idea by reason of +its novelty, but if we try to repeat it, we often find the +residuum of our old memories pulling us so strongly into our old +groove, that we have the greatest difficulty in repeating our +performance in the new manner; there is a clashing of memories, a +conflict, which if the idea is very new, and involves, so to +speak, too sudden a cross—too wide a departure from our +ordinary course—will sometimes render the performance +monstrous, or baffle us altogether, the new memory failing to +fuse harmoniously with the old. If the idea is not too +widely different from our older ones, we can cross them with it, +but with more or less difficulty, as a general rule in proportion +to the amount of variation. The whole process of +understanding a thing consists in this, and, so far as I can see +at present, in this only.</p> +<p>Sometimes we repeat the new performance for a few times, in a +way which shows that the fusion of memories is still in force; +and then insensibly revert to the old, in which case the memory +of the new soon fades away, leaving a residuum too feeble to +contend against that of our many earlier memories of the same +kind. If, however, the new way is obviously to our +advantage, we make an effort to retain it, and gradually getting +into the habit of using it, come to remember it by force of +routine, as we originally remembered it by force of +novelty. Even as regards our own discoveries, we do not +always succeed in remembering our most improved and most striking +performances, so as to be able to repeat them at will +immediately: in any such performance we may have gone some way +beyond our ordinary powers, owing to some unconscious action of +the mind. The supreme effort has exhausted us, and we must +rest on our oars a little, before we make further progress; or we +may even fall back a little, before we make another leap in +advance.</p> +<p>In this respect, almost every conceivable degree of variation +is observable, according to differences of character and +circumstances. Sometimes the new impression has to be made +upon us many times from without, before the earlier strain of +action is eliminated; in this case, there will long remain a +tendency to revert to the earlier habit. Sometimes, after +the impression has been once made, we repeat our old way two or +three times, and then revert to the new, which gradually ousts +the old; sometimes, on the other hand, a single impression, +though involving considerable departure from our routine, makes +its mark so deeply that we adopt the new at once, though not +without difficulty, and repeat it in our next performance, and +henceforward in all others; but those who vary their performance +thus readily will show a tendency to vary subsequent performances +according as they receive fresh ideas from others, or reason them +out independently. They are men of genius.</p> +<p>This holds good concerning all actions which we do habitually, +whether they involve laborious acquirement or not. Thus, if +we have varied our usual dinner in some way that leaves a +favourable impression upon our minds, so that our dinner may, in +the language of the horticulturist, be said to have +“sported,” our tendency will be to revert to this +particular dinner either next day, or as soon as circumstances +will allow, but it is possible that several hundred dinners may +elapse before we can do so successfully, or before our memory +reverts to this particular dinner.</p> +<p>4. As regards our habitual actions, however +unconsciously we remember them, we, nevertheless, remember them +with far greater intensity than many individual impressions or +actions, it may be of much greater moment, that have happened to +us more recently. Thus, many a man who has familiarised +himself, for example, with the odes of Horace, so as to have had +them at his fingers’ ends as the result of many +repetitions, will be able years hence to repeat a given ode, +though unable to remember any circumstance in connection with his +having learnt it, and no less unable to remember when he repeated +it last. A host of individual circumstances, many of them +not unimportant, will have dropped out of his mind, along with a +mass of literature read but once or twice, and not impressed upon +the memory by several repetitions; but he returns to the +well-known ode with so little effort, that he would not know that +he was remembering unless his reason told him so. The ode +seems more like something born with him.</p> +<p>We observe, also, that people who have become imbecile, or +whose memory is much impaired, yet frequently retain their power +of recalling impression which have been long ago repeatedly made +upon them.</p> +<p>In such cases, people are sometimes seen to forget what +happened last week, yesterday, or an hour ago, without even the +smallest power of recovering their recollection; but the oft +repeated earlier impression remains, though there may be no +memory whatever of how it came to be impressed so deeply. +The phenomena of memory, therefore, are exactly like those of +consciousness and volition, in so far as that the consciousness +of recollection vanishes, when the power of recollection has +become intense. When we are aware that we are recollecting, +and are trying, perhaps hard, to recollect, it is a sign that we +do not recollect utterly. When we remember utterly and +intensely, there is no conscious effort of recollection; our +recollection can only be recognised by ourselves and others, +through our performance itself, which testifies to the existence +of a memory, that we could not otherwise follow or detect.</p> +<p>5. When circumstances have led us to change our habits +of life—as when the university has succeeded school, or +professional life the university—we get into many fresh +ways, and leave many old ones. But on revisiting the old +scene, unless the lapse of time has been inordinately great, we +experience a desire to revert to old habits. We say that +old associations crowd upon us. Let a Trinity man, after +thirty years absence from Cambridge, pace for five minutes in the +cloister of Neville’s Court, and listen to the echo of his +footfall, as it licks up against the end of the cloister, or let +an old Johnian stand wherever he likes in the third Court of St. +John’s, in either case he will find the thirty years drop +out of his life, as if they were half-an-hour; his life will have +rolled back upon itself, to the date when he was an +undergraduate, and his instinct will be to do almost +mechanically, whatever it would have come most natural to him to +do, when he was last there at the same season of the year, and +the same hour of the day; and it is plain this is due to +similarity of environment, for if the place he revisits be much +changed, there will be little or no association.</p> +<p>So those who are accustomed at intervals to cross the +Atlantic, get into certain habits on board ship, different to +their usual ones. It may be that at home they never play +whist; on board ship they do nothing else all the evening. +At home they never touch spirits; on the voyage they regularly +take a glass of something before they go to bed. They do +not smoke at home; here they are smoking all day. Once the +voyage is at an end, they return without an effort to their usual +habits, and do not feel any wish for cards, spirits, or +tobacco. They do not remember yesterday, when they did want +all these things; at least, not with such force as to be +influenced by it in their desires and actions; their true +memory—the memory which makes them want, and do, reverts to +the last occasion on which they were in circumstances like their +present; they therefore want now what they wanted then, and +nothing more; but when the time comes for them to go on shipboard +again, no sooner do they smell the smell of the ship, than their +real memory reverts to the times when they were last at sea, and +striking a balance of their recollections, they smoke, play +cards, and drink whisky and water.</p> +<p>We observe it then as a matter of the commonest daily +occurrence within our own experience, that memory does fade +completely away, and recur with the recurrence of surroundings +like those which made any particular impression in the first +instance. We observe that there is hardly any limit to the +completeness and the length of time during which our memory may +remain in abeyance. A smell may remind an old man of eighty +of some incident of his childhood, forgotten for nearly as many +years as he has lived. In other words, we observe that when +an impression has been repeatedly made in a certain sequence on +any living organism—that impression not having been +prejudicial to the creature itself—the organism will have a +tendency, on reassuming the shape and conditions in which it was +when the impression was last made, to remember the impression, +and therefore to do again now what it did then; all intermediate +memories dropping clean out of mind, so far as they have any +effect upon action.</p> +<p>6. Finally, we should note the suddenness and apparent +caprice with which memory will assert itself at odd times; we +have been saying or doing this or that, when suddenly a memory of +something which happened to us, perhaps in infancy, comes into +our head; nor can we in the least connect this recollection with +the subject of which we have just been thinking, though doubtless +there has been a connection, too rapid and subtle for our +apprehension.</p> +<p>The foregoing phenomena of memory, so far as we can judge, +would appear to be present themselves throughout the animal and +vegetable kingdoms. This will be readily admitted as +regards animals; as regards plants it may be inferred from the +fact that they generally go on doing what they have been doing +most lately, though accustomed to make certain changes at certain +points in their existence. When the time comes for these +changes, they appear to know it, and either bud forth into leaf +or shed their leaves, as the case may be. If we keep a bulb +in a paper bag it seems to remember having been a bulb before, +until the time comes for it to put forth roots and grow. +Then, if we supply it with earth and moisture, it seems to know +where it is, and to go on doing now whatever it did when it was +last planted; but if we keep it in the bag too long, it knows +that it ought, according to its last experience, to be treated +differently, and shows plain symptoms of uneasiness; it is +distracted by the bag, which makes it remember its bulbhood, and +also by the want of earth and water, without which associations +its memory of its previous growth cannot be duly kindled. +Its roots, therefore, which are most accustomed to earth and +water, do not grow; but its leaves, which do not require contact +with these things to jog their memory, make a more decided effort +at development—a fact which would seem to go strongly in +favour of the functional independence of the parts of all but the +very simplest living organisms, if, indeed, more evidence were +wanted in support of this.</p> +<h2><a name="page166"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +166</span>CHAPTER X.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">WHAT WE SHOULD EXPECT TO FIND IF +DIFFERENTIATIONS OF STRUCTURE AND INSTINCT ARE MAINLY DUE TO +MEMORY.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">To</span> repeat briefly;—we +remember best our last few performances of any given kind, and +our present performance is most likely to resemble one or other +of these; we only remember our earlier performances by way of +residuum; nevertheless, at times, some older feature is liable to +reappear.</p> +<p>We take our steps in the same order on each successive +occasion, and are for the most part incapable of changing that +order.</p> +<p>The introduction of slightly new elements into our manner is +attended with benefit; the new can be fused with the old, and the +monotony of our action is relieved. But if the new element +is too foreign, we cannot fuse the old and new—nature +seeming equally to hate too wide a deviation from our ordinary +practice, and no deviation at all. Or, in plain +English—if any one gives us a new idea which is not too far +ahead of us, such an idea is often of great service to us, and +may give new life to our work—in fact, we soon go back, +unless we more or less frequently come into contact with new +ideas, and are capable of understanding and making use of them; +if; on the other hand, they are too new, and too little led up +to, so that we find them too strange and hard to be able to +understand them and adopt them, then they put us out, with every +degree of completeness—from simply causing us to fail in +this or that particular part, to rendering us incapable of even +trying to do our work at all, from pure despair of +succeeding.</p> +<p>It requires many repetitions to fix an impression firmly; but +when it is fixed, we cease to have much recollection of the +manner in which it came to be so, or of any single and particular +recurrence.</p> +<p>Our memory is mainly called into action by force of +association and similarity in the surroundings. We want to +go on doing what we did when we were last as we are now, and we +forget what we did in the meantime.</p> +<p>These rules, however, are liable to many exceptions; as for +example, that a single and apparently not very extraordinary +occurrence may sometimes produce a lasting impression, and be +liable to return with sudden force at some distant time, and then +to go on returning to us at intervals. Some incidents, in +fact, we know not how nor why, dwell with us much longer than +others which were apparently quite as noteworthy or perhaps more +so.</p> +<p>Now I submit that if the above observations are just, and if, +also, the offspring, after having become a new and separate +personality, yet retains so much of the old identity of which it +was once indisputably part, that it remembers what it did when it +was part of that identity as soon as it finds itself in +circumstances which are calculated to refresh its memory owing to +their similarity to certain antecedent ones, then we should +expect to find:—</p> +<p>I. That offspring should, as a general rule, resemble +its own most immediate progenitors; that is to say, that it +should remember best what it has been doing most recently. +The memory being a fusion of its recollections of what it did, +both when it was its father and also when it was its mother, the +offspring should have a very common tendency to resemble both +parents, the one in some respects, and the other in others; but +it might also hardly less commonly show a more marked +recollection of the one history than of the other, thus more +distinctly resembling one parent than the other. And this +is what we observe to be the case. Not only so far as that +the offspring is almost invariably either male or female, and +generally resembles rather the one parent than the other, but +also that in spite of such preponderance of one set of +recollections, the sexual characters and instincts of the +<i>opposite</i> sex appear, whether in male or female, though +undeveloped and incapable of development except by abnormal +treatment, such as has occasionally caused milk to be developed +in the mammary glands of males; or by mutilation, or failure of +sexual instinct through age, upon which, male characteristics +frequently appear in the females of any species.</p> +<p>Brothers and sisters, each giving their own version of the +same story, though in different words, should resemble each other +more closely than more distant relations. This too we +see.</p> +<p>But it should frequently happen that offspring should resemble +its penultimate rather than its latest phase, and should thus be +more like a grand-parent than a parent; for we observe that we +very often repeat a performance in a manner resembling that of +some earlier, but still recent, repetition; rather than on the +precise lines of our very last performance. First-cousins +may in this case resemble each other more closely than brothers +and sisters.</p> +<p>More especially, we should not expect very successful men to +be fathers of particularly gifted children; for the best men are, +as it were, the happy thoughts and successes of the +race—nature’s “flukes,” so to speak, in +her onward progress. No creature can repeat at will, and +immediately, its highest flight. It needs repose. The +generations are the essays of any given race towards the highest +ideal which it is as yet able to see ahead of itself, and this, +in the nature of things, cannot be very far; so that we should +expect to see success followed by more or less failure, and +failure by success—a very successful creature being a +<i>great</i> “fluke.” And this is what we +find.</p> +<p>In its earlier stages the embryo should be simply conscious of +a general method of procedure on the part of its forefathers, and +should, by reason of long practice, compress tedious and +complicated histories into a very narrow compass, remembering no +single performance in particular. For we observe this in +nature, both as regards the sleight-of-hand which practice gives +to those who are thoroughly familiar with their business, and +also as regards the fusion of remoter memories into a general +residuum.</p> +<p>II. We should expect to find that the offspring, whether +in its embryonic condition, or in any stage of development till +it has reached maturity, should adopt nearly the same order in +going through all its various stages. There should be such +slight variations as are inseparable from the repetition of any +performance by a living being (as contrasted with a machine), but +no more. And this is what actually happens. A man may +cut his wisdom-teeth a little later than he gets his beard and +whiskers, or a little earlier; but on the whole, he adheres to +his usual order, and is completely set off his balance, and upset +in his performance, if that order be interfered with +suddenly. It is, however, likely that gradual modifications +of order have been made and then adhered to.</p> +<p>After any animal has reached the period at which it ordinarily +begins to continue its race, we should expect that it should show +little further power of development, or, at any rate, that few +great changes of structure or fresh features should appear; for +we cannot suppose offspring to remember anything that happens to +the parent subsequently to the parent’s ceasing to contain +the offspring within itself; from the average age, therefore, of +reproduction, offspring would cease to have any further +experience on which to fall back, and would thus continue to make +the best use of what it already knew, till memory failing either +in one part or another, the organism would begin to decay.</p> +<p>To this cause must be referred the phenomena of old age, which +interesting subject I am unable to pursue within the limits of +this volume.</p> +<p>Those creatures who are longest in reaching maturity might be +expected also to be the longest lived; I am not certain, however, +how far what is called alternate generation militates against +this view, but I do not think it does so seriously.</p> +<p>Lateness of marriage, provided the constitution of the +individuals marrying is in no respect impaired, should also tend +to longevity.</p> +<p>I believe that all the above will be found sufficiently well +supported by facts. If so, when we feel that we are getting +old we should try and give our cells such treatment as they will +find it most easy to understand, through their experience of +their own individual life, which, however, can only guide them +inferentially, and to a very small extent; and throughout life we +should remember the important bearing which memory has upon +health, and both occasionally cross the memories of our component +cells with slightly new experiences, and be careful not to put +them either suddenly or for long together into conditions which +they will not be able to understand. Nothing is so likely +to make our cells forget themselves, as neglect of one or other +of these considerations. They will either fail to recognise +themselves completely, in which case we shall die; or they will +go on strike, more or less seriously as the case may be, or +perhaps, rather, they will try and remember their usual course, +and fail; they will therefore try some other, and will probably +make a mess of it, as people generally do when they try to do +things which they do not understand, unless indeed they have very +exceptional capacity.</p> +<p>It also follows that when we are ill, our cells being in such +or such a state of mind, and inclined to hold a corresponding +opinion with more or less unreasoning violence, should not be +puzzled more than they are puzzled already, by being contradicted +too suddenly; for they will not be in a frame of mind which can +understand the position of an open opponent: they should +therefore either be let alone, if possible, without notice other +than dignified silence, till their spleen is over, and till they +have remembered themselves; or they should be reasoned with as by +one who agrees with them, and who is anxious to see things as far +as possible from their own point of view. And this is how +experience teaches that we must deal with monomaniacs, whom we +simply infuriate by contradiction, but whose delusion we can +sometimes persuade to hang itself if we but give it sufficient +rope. All which has its bearing upon politics, too, at much +sacrifice, it may be, of political principles, but a politician +who cannot see principles where principle-mongers fail to see +them, is a dangerous person.</p> +<p>I may say, in passing, that the reason why a small wound +heals, and leaves no scar, while a larger one leaves a mark which +is more or less permanent, may be looked for in the fact that +when the wound is only small, the damaged cells are snubbed, so +to speak, by the vast majority of the unhurt cells in their own +neighbourhood. When the wound is more serious they can +stick to it, and bear each other out that they were hurt.</p> +<p>III. We should expect to find a predominance of sexual +over asexual generation, in the arrangements of nature for +continuing her various species, inasmuch as two heads are better +than one, and a <i>locus pœnitentiæ</i> is thus given +to the embryo—an opportunity of correcting the experience +of one parent by that of the other. And this is what the +more intelligent embryos may be supposed to do; for there would +seem little reason to doubt that there are clever embryos and +stupid embryos, with better or worse memories, as the case may +be, of how they dealt with their protoplasm before, and better or +worse able to see how they can do better now; and that embryos +differ as widely in intellectual and moral capacity, and in a +general sense of the fitness of things, and of what will look +well into the bargain, as those larger embryos—to wit, +children—do. Indeed it would seem probable that all +our mental powers must go through a quasi-embryological +condition, much as the power of keeping, and wisely spending, +money must do so, and that all the qualities of human thought and +character are to be found in the embryo.</p> +<p>Those who have observed at what an early age differences of +intellect and temper show themselves in the young, for example, +of cats and dogs, will find it difficult to doubt that from the +very moment of impregnation, and onward, there has been a +corresponding difference in the embryo—and that of six +unborn puppies, one, we will say, has been throughout the whole +process of development more sensible and better looking—a +nicer embryo, in fact—than the others.</p> +<p>IV. We should expect to find that all species, whether +of plants or animals, are occasionally benefited by a cross; but +we should also expect that a cross should have a tendency to +introduce a disturbing element, if it be too wide, inasmuch as +the offspring would be pulled hither and thither by two +conflicting memories or advices, much as though a number of +people speaking at once were without previous warning to advise +an unhappy performer to vary his ordinary performance—one +set of people telling him he has always hitherto done thus, and +the other saying no less loudly that he did it thus;—and he +were suddenly to become convinced that they each spoke the +truth. In such a case he will either completely break down, +if the advice be too conflicting, or if it be less conflicting, +he may yet be so exhausted by the one supreme effort of fusing +these experiences that he will never be able to perform again; or +if the conflict of experience be not great enough to produce such +a permanent effect as this, it will yet, if it be at all serious, +probably damage his performances on their next several occasions, +through his inability to fuse the experiences into a harmonious +whole, or, in other words, to understand the ideas which are +prescribed to him; for to fuse is only to understand.</p> +<p>And this is absolutely what we find in fact. Mr. Darwin +writes concerning hybrids and first crosses:—“The +male element may reach the female element, but be incapable of +causing an embryo to be developed, as seems to have been the case +with some of Thuret’s experiments on Fuci. No +explanation can be given of these facts any more than why certain +trees cannot be grafted on others.”</p> +<p>I submit that what I have written above supplies a very fair +<i>primâ facie</i> explanation.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin continues:—</p> +<p>“Lastly, an embryo may be developed, and then perish at +an early period. This latter alternative has not been +sufficiently attended to; but I believe, from observations +communicated to me by Mr. Hewitt, who has had great experience in +hybridising pheasants and fowls, that the early death of the +embryo is a very frequent cause of sterility in first +crosses. Mr. Salter has recently given the results of an +examination of about five hundred eggs produced from various +crosses between three species of Gallus and their hybrids; the +majority of these eggs had been fertilised; and in the majority +of the fertilised eggs, the embryos had either been partially +developed, and had then perished, or had become nearly mature, +but the young chickens had been unable to break through the +shell. Of the chickens which were born more than +four-fifths died within the first few days, or at latest weeks, +‘without any obvious cause, apparently from mere inability +to live,’ so that from the five hundred eggs only twelve +chickens were reared” (“Origin of Species,” +249, ed. 1876).</p> +<p>No wonder the poor creatures died, distracted as they were by +the internal tumult of conflicting memories. But they must +have suffered greatly; and the Society for the Prevention of +Cruelty to Animals may perhaps think it worth while to keep an +eye even on the embryos of hybrids and first crosses. Five +hundred creatures puzzled to death is not a pleasant subject for +contemplation. Ten or a dozen should, I think, be +sufficient for the future.</p> +<p>As regards plants, we read:—</p> +<p>“Hybridised embryos probably often perish in like manner +. . . of which fact Max Wichura has given some striking cases +with hybrid willows . . . It may be here worth noticing, that in +some cases of parthenogenesis, the embryos within the eggs of +silk moths, which have not been fertilised, pass through their +early stages of development, and then perish like the embryos +produced by a cross between distinct species” +(<i>Ibid</i>).</p> +<p>This last fact would at first sight seem to make against me, +but we must consider that the presence of a double memory, +provided it be not too conflicting, would be a part of the +experience of the silk moth’s egg, which might be then as +fatally puzzled by the monotony of a single memory as it would be +by two memories which were not sufficiently like each +other. So that failure here must be referred to the utter +absence of that little internal stimulant of slightly conflicting +memory which the creature has always hitherto experienced, and +without which it fails to recognise itself. In either case, +then, whether with hybrids or in cases of parthenogenesis, the +early death of the embryo is due to inability to recollect, owing +to a fault in the chain of associated ideas. All the facts +here given are an excellent illustration of the principle, +elsewhere insisted upon by Mr. Darwin, that <i>any</i> great and +sudden change of surroundings has a tendency to induce sterility; +on which head he writes (“Plants and Animals under +Domestication,” vol. ii. p. 143, ed. 1875):—</p> +<p>“It would appear that any change in the habits of life, +whatever their habits may be, if great enough, tends to affect in +an inexplicable manner the powers of reproduction.”</p> +<p>And again on the next page:—</p> +<p>“Finally, we must conclude, limited though the +conclusion is, that changed conditions of life have an especial +power of acting injuriously on the reproductive system. The +whole case is quite peculiar, for these organs, though not +diseased, are thus rendered incapable of performing their proper +functions, or perform them imperfectly.”</p> +<p>One is inclined to doubt whether the blame may not rest with +the inability on the part of the creature reproduced to recognise +the new surroundings, and hence with its failing to know +itself. And this seems to be in some measure +supported—but not in such a manner as I can hold to be +quite satisfactory—by the continuation of the passage in +the “Origin of Species,” from which I have just been +quoting—for Mr. Darwin goes on to say:—</p> +<p>“Hybrids, however, are differently circumstanced before +and after birth. When born, and living in a country where +their parents live, they are generally placed under suitable +conditions of life. But a hybrid partakes of only half of +the nature and condition of its mother; it may therefore before +birth, as long as it is nourished within its mother’s womb, +or within the egg or seed produced by its mother, be exposed to +conditions in some degree unsuitable, and consequently be liable +to perish at an early period . . . ” After which, +however, the conclusion arrived at is, that, “after all, +the cause more probably lies in some imperfection in the original +act of impregnation, causing the embryo to be imperfectly +developed rather than in the conditions to which it is +subsequently exposed.” A conclusion which I am not +prepared to accept.</p> +<p>Returning to my second alternative, that is to say, to the +case of hybrids which are born well developed and healthy, but +nevertheless perfectly sterile, it is less obvious why, having +succeeded in understanding the conflicting memories of their +parents, they should fail to produce offspring; but I do not +think the reader will feel surprised that this should be the +case. The following anecdote, true or false, may not be out +of place here:—</p> +<p>“Plutarch tells us of a magpie, belonging to a barber at +Rome, which could imitate to a nicety almost every word it +heard. Some trumpets happened one day to be sounded before +the shop, and for a day or two afterwards the magpie was quite +mute, and seemed pensive and melancholy. All who knew it +were greatly surprised at its silence; and it was supposed that +the sound of the trumpets had so stunned it as to deprive it at +once of both voice and hearing. It soon appeared, however, +that this was far from being the case; for, says Plutarch, the +bird had been all the time occupied in profound meditation, +studying how to imitate the sound of the trumpets; and when at +last master of it, the magpie, to the astonishment of all its +friends, suddenly broke its long silence by a perfect imitation +of the flourish of trumpets it had heard, observing with the +greatest exactness all the repetitions, stops, and changes. +<i>The acquisition of this lesson had</i>, <i>however</i>, +<i>exhausted the whole of the magpie’s stock of +intellect</i>, <i>for it made it forget everything it had learned +before</i>” (“Percy Anecdotes,” Instinct, p. +166).</p> +<p>Or, perhaps, more seriously, the memory of every impregnate +ovum from which every ancestor of a mule, for example, has +sprung, has reverted to a very long period of time during which +its forefathers have been creatures like that which it is itself +now going to become: thus, the impregnate ovum from which the +mule’s father was developed remembered nothing but horse +memories; but it felt its faith in these supported by the +recollection of a <i>vast number</i> of previous generations, in +which it was, to all intents and purposes, what it now is. +In like manner, the impregnate ovum from which the mule’s +mother was developed would be backed by the assurance that it had +done what it is going to do now a hundred thousand times +already. All would thus be plain sailing. A horse and +a donkey would result. These two are brought together; an +impregnate ovum is produced which finds an unusual conflict of +memory between the two lines of its ancestors, nevertheless, +being accustomed to <i>some</i> conflict, it manages to get over +the difficulty, <i>as on either side it finds itself backed by a +very long series of sufficiently steady memory</i>. A mule +results—a creature so distinctly different from either +horse or donkey, that reproduction is baffled, owing to the +creature’s having nothing but its own knowledge of itself +to fall back upon, behind which there comes an immediate +dislocation, or fault of memory, which is sufficient to bar +identity, and hence reproduction, by rendering too severe an +appeal to reason necessary—for no creature can reproduce +itself on the shallow foundation which reason can alone +give. Ordinarily, therefore, the hybrid, or the +spermatozoon or ovum, which it may throw off (as the case may +be), finds one single experience too small to give it the +necessary faith, on the strength of which even to try to +reproduce itself. In other cases the hybrid itself has +failed to be developed; in others the hybrid, or first cross, is +almost fertile; in others it is fertile, but produces depraved +issue. The result will vary with the capacities of the +creatures crossed, and the amount of conflict between their +several experiences.</p> +<p>The above view would remove all difficulties out of the way of +evolution, in so far as the sterility of hybrids is +concerned. For it would thus appear that this sterility has +nothing to do with any supposed immutable or fixed limits of +species, but results simply from the same principle which +prevents old friends, no matter how intimate in youth, from +returning to their old intimacy after a lapse of years, during +which they have been subjected to widely different influences, +inasmuch as they will each have contracted new habits, and have +got into new ways, which they do not like now to alter.</p> +<p>We should expect that our domesticated plants and animals +should vary most, inasmuch as these have been subjected to +changed conditions which would disturb the memory, and, breaking +the chain of recollection, through failure of some one or other +of the associated ideas, would thus directly and most markedly +affect the reproductive system. Every reader of Mr. Darwin +will know that this is what actually happens, and also that when +once a plant or animal begins to vary, it will probably vary a +good deal further; which, again, is what we should +expect—the disturbance of the memory introducing a fresh +factor of disturbance, which has to be dealt with by the +offspring as it best may. Mr. Darwin writes: “All our +domesticated productions, with the rarest exceptions, vary far +more than natural species” (“Plants and +Animals,” &c., vol. ii. p. 241, ed. 1875).</p> +<p>On my third supposition, <i>i.e.</i>, when the difference +between parents has not been great enough to baffle reproduction +on the part of the first cross, but when the histories of the +father and mother have been, nevertheless, widely +different—as in the case of Europeans and Indians—we +should expect to have a race of offspring who should seem to be +quite clear only about those points, on which their progenitors +on both sides were in accord before the manifold divergencies in +their experiences commenced; that is to say, the offspring should +show a tendency to revert to an early savage condition.</p> +<p>That this indeed occurs may be seen from Mr. Darwin’s +“Plants and Animals under Domestication” (vol. ii. p. +21, ed. 1875), where we find that travellers in all parts of the +world have frequently remarked “<i>on the degraded state +and savage condition of crossed races of man</i>.” A +few lines lower down Mr. Darwin tells us that he was himself +“struck with the fact that, in South America, men of +complicated descent between Negroes, Indians, and Spaniards +seldom had, whatever the cause might be, a good +expression.” “Livingstone” (continues Mr. +Darwin) “remarks, ‘It is unaccountable why +half-castes are so much more cruel than the Portuguese, but such +is undoubtedly the case.’ An inhabitant remarked to +Livingstone, ‘God made white men, and God made black men, +but the devil made half-castes.’” A little +further on Mr. Darwin says that we may “perhaps infer that +the degraded state of so many half-castes <i>is in part due to +reversion to a primitive and savage condition</i>, <i>induced by +the act of crossing</i>, even if mainly due to the unfavourable +moral conditions under which they are generally +reared.” Why the crossing should produce this +particular tendency would seem to be intelligible enough, if the +fashion and instincts of offspring are, in any case, nothing but +the memories of its past existences; but it would hardly seem to +be so upon any of the theories now generally accepted; as, +indeed, is very readily admitted by Mr. Darwin himself, who even, +as regards purely-bred animals and plants, remarks that “we +are quite unable to assign any proximate cause” for their +tendency to at times reassume long lost characters.</p> +<p>If the reader will follow for himself the remaining phenomena +of reversion, he will, I believe, find them all explicable on the +theory that they are due to memory of past experiences fused, and +modified—at times specifically and definitely—by +changed conditions. There is, however, one apparently very +important phenomenon which I do not at this moment see how to +connect with memory, namely, the tendency on the part of +offspring to revert to an earlier impregnation. Mr. +Darwin’s “Provisional Theory of Pangenesis” +seemed to afford a satisfactory explanation of this; but the +connection with memory was not immediately apparent. I +think it likely, however, that this difficulty will vanish on +further consideration, so I will not do more than call attention +to it here.</p> +<p>The instincts of certain neuter insects hardly bear upon +reversion, but will be dealt with at some length in Chapter +XII.</p> +<p>V. We should expect to find, as was insisted on in the +preceding section in reference to the sterility of hybrids, that +it required many, or at any rate several, generations of changed +habits before a sufficiently deep impression could be made upon +the living being (who must be regarded always as one person in +his whole line of ascent or descent) for it to be unconsciously +remembered by him, when making himself anew in any succeeding +generation, and thus to make him modify his method of procedure +during his next embryological development. Nevertheless, we +should expect to find that sometimes a very deep single +impression made upon a living organism, should be remembered by +it, even when it is next in an embryonic condition.</p> +<p>That this is so, we find from Mr. Darwin, who writes +(“Plants and Animals under Domestication,” vol. ii. +p. 57, ed. 1875)—“There is ample evidence that the +effect of mutilations and of accidents, especially, or perhaps +exclusively, when followed by disease” (which would +certainly intensify the impression made), “are occasionally +inherited. There can be no doubt that the evil effects of +the long continued exposure of the parent to injurious conditions +are sometimes transmitted to the offspring.” As +regards impressions of a less striking character, it is so +universally admitted that they are not observed to be repeated in +what is called the offspring, until they have been confirmed in +what is called the parent, for several generations, but that +after several generations, more or fewer as the case may be, they +often are transmitted—that it seems unnecessary to say more +upon the matter. Perhaps, however, the following passage +from Mr. Darwin may be admitted as conclusive:—</p> +<p>“That they” (acquired actions) “are +inherited, we see with horses in certain transmitted paces, such +as cantering and ambling, which are not natural to them—in +the pointing of young pointers, and the setting of young +setters—in the peculiar manner of flight of certain breeds +of the pigeon, &c. We have analogous cases with mankind +in the inheritance of tricks or unusual gestures.” . . . +(“Expression of the Emotions,” p. 29).</p> +<p>In another place Mr. Darwin writes:—</p> +<p>“How again can we explain <i>the inherited effects</i> +of the use or disuse of particular organs? The domesticated +duck flies less and walks more than the wild duck, and its limb +bones have become diminished and increased in a corresponding +manner in comparison with those of the wild duck. A horse +is trained to certain paces, and the colt inherits similar +consensual movements. The domesticated rabbit becomes tame +from close confinement; the dog intelligent from associating with +man; the retriever is taught to fetch and carry; and these mental +endowments and bodily powers are all inherited” +(“Plants and Animals,” &c., vol. ii. p. 367, ed. +1875).</p> +<p>“Nothing,” he continues, “in the whole +circuit of physiology is more wonderful. How can the use or +disuse of a particular limb, or of the brain, affect a small +aggregate of reproductive cells, seated in a distant part of the +body in such a manner that the being developed from these cells +inherits the character of one or both parents? Even an +imperfect answer to this question would be satisfactory” +(“Plants and Animals,” &c. vol. ii. p. 367, ed. +1875).</p> +<p>With such an imperfect answer will I attempt to satisfy the +reader, as to say that there appears to be that kind of +continuity of existence and sameness of personality, between +parents and offspring, which would lead us to expect that the +impressions made upon the parent should be epitomised in the +offspring, when they have been or have become important enough, +through repetition in the history of several so-called existences +to have earned a place in that smaller edition, which is issued +from generation to generation; or, in other words, when they have +been made so deeply, either at one blow or through many, that the +offspring can remember them. In practice we observe this to +be the case—so that the answer lies in the assertion that +offspring and parent, being in one sense but the same individual, +there is no great wonder that, in one sense, the first should +remember what had happened to the latter; and that too, much in +the same way as the individual remembers the events in the +earlier history of what he calls his own lifetime, but condensed, +and pruned of detail, and remembered as by one who has had a host +of other matters to attend to in the interim.</p> +<p>It is thus easy to understand why such a rite as circumcision, +though practised during many ages, should have produced little, +if any, modification tending to make circumcision +unnecessary. On the view here supported such modification +would be more surprising than not, for unless the impression made +upon the parent was of a grave character—and probably +unless also aggravated by subsequent confusion of memories in the +cells surrounding the part originally impressed—the parent +himself would not be sufficiently impressed to prevent him from +reproducing himself, as he had already done upon an infinite +number of past occasions. The child, therefore, in the womb +would do what the father in the womb had done before him, nor +should any trace of memory concerning circumcision be expected +till the eighth day after birth, when, but for the fact that the +impression in this case is forgotten almost as soon as made, some +slight presentiment of coming discomfort might, after a large +number of generations, perhaps be looked for as a general +rule. It would not, however, be surprising, that the effect +of circumcision should be occasionally inherited, and it would +appear as though this was sometimes actually the case.</p> +<p>The question should turn upon whether the disuse of an organ +has arisen:—</p> +<p>1. From an internal desire on the part of the creature +disusing it, to be quit of an organ which it finds +troublesome.</p> +<p>2. From changed conditions and habits which render the +organ no longer necessary, or which lead the creature to lay +greater stress on certain other organs or modifications.</p> +<p>3. From the wish of others outside itself; the effect +produced in this case being perhaps neither very good nor very +bad for the individual, and resulting in no grave impression upon +the organism as a whole.</p> +<p>4. From a single deep impression on a parent, affecting +both himself as a whole, and gravely confusing the memories of +the cells to be reproduced, or his memories in respect of those +cells—according as one adopts Pangenesis and supposes a +memory to “run” each gemmule, or as one supposes one +memory to “run” the whole impregnate ovum—a +compromise between these two views being nevertheless perhaps +possible, inasmuch as the combined memories of all the cells may +possibly <i>be</i> the memory which “runs” the +impregnate ovum, just as we <i>are</i> ourselves the combination +of all our cells, each one of which is both autonomous, and also +takes its share in the central government. But within the +limits of this volume it is absolutely impossible for me to go +into this question.</p> +<p>In the first case—under which some instances which +belong more strictly to the fourth would sometimes, but rarely, +come—the organ should soon go, and sooner or later leave no +rudiment, though still perhaps to be found crossing the life of +the embryo, and then disappearing.</p> +<p>In the second it should go more slowly, and leave, it may be, +a rudimentary structure.</p> +<p>In the third it should show little or no sign of natural +decrease for a very long time.</p> +<p>In the fourth there may be absolute and total sterility, or +sterility in regard to the particular organ, or a scar which +shall show that the memory of the wound and of each step in the +process of healing has been remembered; or there may be simply +such disturbance in the reproduced organ as shall show a confused +recollection of injury. There may be infinite gradations +between the first and last of these possibilities.</p> +<p>I think that the facts, as given by Mr. Darwin (“Plants +and Animals,” &c., vol. i. pp. 466–472, ed. +1875), will bear out the above to the satisfaction of the +reader. I can, however, only quote the following +passage:—</p> +<p>“ . . . Brown Séquard has bred during thirty +years many thousand guinea-pigs, . . . nor has he ever seen a +guinea-pig born without toes which was not the offspring of +parents <i>which had gnawed off their own toes</i>, owing to the +sciatic nerve having been divided. Of this fact thirteen +instances were carefully recorded, and a greater number were +seen; yet Brown Séquard speaks of such cases as among the +rarer forms of inheritance. It is a still more interesting +fact—‘that the sciatic nerve in the congenitally +toeless animal has inherited the power of passing through <i>all +the different morbid states</i> which have occurred in one of its +parents <i>from the time of division</i> till after its reunion +with the peripheric end. It is not therefore the power of +simply performing an action which is inherited, but the power of +performing a whole series of actions in a certain +order.’”</p> +<p>I feel inclined to say it is not merely the original wound +that is remembered, but the whole process of cure which is now +accordingly repeated. Brown Séquard concludes, as +Mr. Darwin tells us, “that what is transmitted is the +morbid state of the nervous system,” due to the operation +performed on the parents.</p> +<p>A little lower down Mr. Darwin writes that Professor Rolleston +has given him two cases—“namely, of two men, one of +whom had his knee, and the other his cheek, severely cut, and +both had children born with exactly the same spot marked or +scarred.”</p> +<p>VI. When, however, an impression has once reached +transmission point—whether it be of the nature of a sudden +striking thought, which makes its mark deeply then and there, or +whether it be the result of smaller impressions repeated until +the nail, so to speak, has been driven home—we should +expect that it should be remembered by the offspring as something +which he has done all his life, and which he has therefore no +longer any occasion to learn; he will act, therefore, as people +say, <i>instinctively</i>. No matter how complex and +difficult the process, if the parents have done it sufficiently +often (that is to say, for a sufficient number of generations), +the offspring will remember the fact when association wakens the +memory; it will need no instruction, and—unless when it has +been taught to look for it during many generations—will +expect none. This may be seen in the case of the +humming-bird sphinx moth, which, as Mr. Darwin writes, +“shortly after its emergence from the cocoon, as shown by +the bloom on its unruffled scales, may be seen poised stationary +in the air with its long hair-like proboscis uncurled, and +inserted into the minute orifices of flowers; <i>and no one I +believe has ever seen</i> this moth learning to perform its +difficult task, which requires such unerring aim” +(“Expression of the Emotions,” p. 30).</p> +<p>And, indeed, when we consider that after a time the most +complex and difficult actions come to be performed by man without +the least effort or consciousness—that offspring cannot be +considered as anything but a continuation of the parent life, +whose past habits and experiences it epitomises when they have +been sufficiently often repeated to produce a lasting +impression—that consciousness of memory vanishes on the +memory’s becoming intense, as completely as the +consciousness of complex and difficult movements vanishes as soon +as they have been sufficiently practised—and finally, that +the real presence of memory is testified rather by performance of +the repeated action on recurrence of like surroundings, than by +consciousness of recollecting on the part of the +individual—so that not only should there be no reasonable +bar to our attributing the whole range of the more complex +instinctive actions, from first to last, to memory pure and +simple, no matter how marvellous they may be, but rather that +there is so much to compel us to do so, that we find it difficult +to conceive how any other view can have been ever +taken—when, I say, we consider all these facts, we should +rather feel surprise that the hawk and sparrow still teach their +offspring to fly, than that the humming-bird sphinx moth should +need no teacher.</p> +<p>The phenomena, then, which we observe are exactly those which +we should expect to find.</p> +<p>VII. We should also expect that the memory of animals, +as regards their earlier existences, was solely stimulated by +association. For we find, from Prof. Bain, that +“actions, sensations, and states of feeling occurring +together, or in close succession, tend to grow together or cohere +in such a way that when any one of them is afterwards presented +to the mind, the others are apt to be brought up in idea” +(“The Senses and the Intellect,” 2d ed. 1864, p. +332). And Prof. Huxley says (“Elementary Lessons in +Physiology,” 5th ed. 1872, p. 306), “It may be laid +down as a rule that if any two mental states be called up +together, or in succession, with due frequency and vividness, the +subsequent production of the one of them will suffice to call up +the other, <i>and that whether we desire it or +not</i>.” I would go one step further, and would say +not only whether we desire it or not, but <i>whether we are aware +that the idea has ever before been called up in our minds or +not</i>. I should say that I have quoted both the above +passages from Mr. Darwin’s “Expression of the +Emotions” (p. 30, ed. 1872).</p> +<p>We should, therefore, expect that when the offspring found +itself in the presence of objects which had called up such and +such ideas for a sufficient number of generations, that is to +say, “with due frequency and vividness”—it +being of the same age as its parents were, and generally in like +case as when the ideas were called up in the minds of the +parents—the same ideas should also be called up in the +minds of the offspring “<i>whether they desire it or +not</i>;” and, I would say also, “whether they +recognise the ideas as having ever before been present to them or +not.”</p> +<p>I think we might also expect that no other force, save that of +association, should have power to kindle, so to speak, into the +flame of action the atomic spark of memory, which we can alone +suppose to be transmitted from one generation to another.</p> +<p>That both plants and animals do as we should expect of them in +this respect is plain, not only from the performance of the most +intricate and difficult actions—difficult both physically +and intellectually—at an age, and under circumstances which +preclude all possibility of what we call instruction, but from +the fact that deviations from the parental instinct, or rather +the recurrence of a memory, unless in connection with the +accustomed train of associations, is of comparatively rare +occurrence; the result, commonly, of some one of the many +memories about which we know no more than we do of the memory +which enables a cat to find her way home after a hundred-mile +journey by train, and shut up in a hamper, or, perhaps even more +commonly, of abnormal treatment.</p> +<p>VIII. If, then, memory depends on association, we should +expect two corresponding phenomena in the case of plants and +animals—namely, that they should show a tendency to resume +feral habits on being turned wild after several generations of +domestication, and also that peculiarities should tend to show +themselves at a corresponding age in the offspring and in the +parents. As regards the tendency to resume feral habits, +Mr. Darwin, though apparently of opinion that the tendency to do +this has been much exaggerated, yet does not doubt that such a +tendency exists, as shown by well authenticated instances. +He writes: “It has been repeatedly asserted in the most +positive manner by various authors that feral animals and plants +invariably return to their primitive specific type.”</p> +<p>This shows, at any rate, that there is a considerable opinion +to this effect among observers generally.</p> +<p>He continues: “It is curious on what little evidence +this belief rests. Many of our domesticated animals could +not subsist in a wild state,”—so that there is no +knowing whether they would or would not revert. “In +several cases we do not know the aboriginal parent species, and +cannot tell whether or not there has been any close degree of +reversion.” So that here, too, there is at any rate +no evidence <i>against</i> the tendency; the conclusion, however, +is that, notwithstanding the deficiency of positive evidence to +warrant the general belief as to the force of the tendency, yet +“the simple fact of animals and plants becoming feral does +cause some tendency to revert to the primitive state,” and +he tells us that “when variously-coloured tame rabbits are +turned out in Europe, they generally re-acquire the colouring of +the wild animal;” “there can be no doubt,” he +says, “that this really does occur,” though he seems +inclined to account for it by the fact that oddly-coloured and +conspicuous animals would suffer much from beasts of prey and +from being easily shot. “The best known case of +reversion:” he continues, “and that on which the +widely-spread belief in its universality apparently rests, is +that of pigs. These animals have run wild in the West +Indies, South America, and the Falkland Islands, and have +everywhere re-acquired the dark colour, the thick bristles, and +great tusks of the wild boar; and the young have re-acquired +longitudinal stripes.” And on page 22 of +“Plants and Animals under Domestication” (vol. ii. +ed. 1875) we find that “the re-appearance of coloured, +longitudinal stripes on young feral pigs cannot be attributed to +the direct action of external conditions. In this case, and +in many others, we can only say that any change in the habits of +life apparently favours a tendency, inherent or latent, in the +species to return to the primitive state.” On which +one cannot but remark that though any change may favour such +tendency, yet the return to original habits and surroundings +appears to do so in a way so marked as not to be readily +referable to any other cause than that of association and +memory—the creature, in fact, having got into its old +groove, remembers it, and takes to all its old ways.</p> +<p>As regards the tendency to inherit changes (whether embryonic, +or during post-natal development as ordinarily observed in any +species), or peculiarities of habit or form which do not partake +of the nature of disease, it must be sufficient to refer the +reader to Mr. Darwin’s remarks upon this subject +(“Plants and Animals Under Domestication,” vol. ii. +pp. 51–57, ed. 1875). The existence of the tendency +is not likely to be denied. The instances given by Mr. +Darwin are strictly to the point as regards all ordinary +developmental and metamorphic changes, and even as regards +transmitted acquired actions, and tricks acquired before the time +when the offspring has issued from the body of the parent, or on +an average of many generations does so; but it cannot for a +moment be supposed that the offspring knows by inheritance +anything about what happens to the parent subsequently to the +offspring’s being born. Hence the appearance of +diseases in the offspring, at comparatively late periods in life, +but at the same age as, or earlier, than in the parents, must be +regarded as due to the fact that in each case the machine having +been made after the same pattern (which <i>is</i> due to memory), +is liable to have the same weak points, and to break down after a +similar amount of wear and tear; but after less wear and tear in +the case of the offspring than in that of the parent, because a +diseased organism is commonly a deteriorating organism, and if +repeated at all closely, and without repentance and amendment of +life, will be repeated for the worse. If we do not improve, +we grow worse. This, at least, is what we observe +daily.</p> +<p>Nor again can we believe, as some have fancifully imagined, +that the remembrance of any occurrence of which the effect has +been entirely, or almost entirely mental, should be remembered by +offspring with any definiteness. The intellect of the +offspring might be affected, for better or worse, by the general +nature of the intellectual employment of the parent; or a great +shock to a parent might destroy or weaken the intellect of the +offspring; but unless a deep impression were made upon the cells +of the body, and deepened by subsequent disease, we could not +expect it to be remembered with any definiteness, or +precision. We may talk as we will about mental pain, and +mental scars, but after all, the impressions they leave are +incomparably less durable than those made by an organic +lesion. It is probable, therefore, that the feeling which +so many have described, as though they remembered this or that in +some past existence, is purely imaginary, and due rather to +unconscious recognition of the fact that we certainly have lived +before, than to any actual occurrence corresponding to the +supposed recollection.</p> +<p>And lastly, we should look to find in the action of memory, as +between one generation and another, a reflection of the many +anomalies and exceptions to ordinary rules which we observe in +memory, so far as we can watch its action in what we call our own +single lives, and the single lives of others. We should +expect that reversion should be frequently capricious—that +is to say, give us more trouble to account for than we are either +able or willing to take. And assuredly we find it so in +fact. Mr. Darwin—from whom it is impossible to quote +too much or too fully, inasmuch as no one else can furnish such a +store of facts, so well arranged, and so above all suspicion of +either carelessness or want of candour—so that, however we +may differ from him, it is he himself who shows us how to do so, +and whose pupils we all are—Mr. Darwin writes: “In +every living being we may rest assured that a host of long-lost +characters lie ready to be evolved under proper conditions” +(does not one almost long to substitute the word +“memories” for the word +“characters?”) “How can we make +intelligible, and connect with other facts, this wonderful and +common capacity of reversion—this power of calling back to +life long-lost characters?” (“Plants and +Animals,” &c., vol. ii. p. 369, ed. 1875). Surely +the answer may be hazarded, that we shall be able to do so when +we can make intelligible the power of calling back to life +long-lost memories. But I grant that this answer holds out +no immediate prospect of a clear understanding.</p> +<p>One word more. Abundant facts are to be found which +point inevitably, as will appear more plainly in the following +chapter, in the direction of thinking that offspring inherits the +memories of its parents; but I know of no single fact which +suggests that parents are in the smallest degree affected (other +than sympathetically) by the memories of their offspring <i>after +that offspring has been born</i>. Whether the unborn +offspring affects the memory of the mother in some particulars, +and whether we have here the explanation of occasional reversion +to a previous impregnation, is a matter on which I should hardly +like to express an opinion now. Nor, again, can I find a +single fact which seems to indicate any memory of the parental +life on the part of offspring later than the average date of the +offspring’s quitting the body of the parent.</p> +<h2><a name="page198"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +198</span>CHAPTER XI.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY.</span></h2> +<p>I <span class="smcap">have</span> already alluded to M. +Ribot’s work on “Heredity,” from which I will +now take the following passages.</p> +<p>M. Ribot writes:—</p> +<p>“Instinct is innate, <i>i.e.</i>, <i>anterior to all +individual experience</i>.” This I deny on grounds +already abundantly apparent; but let it pass. +“Whereas intelligence is developed slowly by accumulated +experience, instinct is perfect from the first” +(“Heredity,” p. 14).</p> +<p>Obviously the memory of a habit or experience will not +commonly be transmitted to offspring in that perfection which is +called “instinct,” till the habit or experience has +been repeated in several generations with more or less +uniformity; for otherwise the impression made will not be strong +enough to endure through the busy and difficult task of +reproduction. This of course involves that the habit shall +have attained, as it were equilibrium with the creature’s +sense of its own needs, so that it shall have long seemed the +best course possible, leaving upon the whole and under ordinary +circumstances little further to be desired, and hence that it +should have been little varied during many generations. We +should expect that it would be transmitted in a more or less +partial, varying, imperfect, and intelligent condition before +equilibrium had been attained; it would, however, continually +tend towards equilibrium, for reasons which will appear more +fully later on.</p> +<p>When this stage has been reached, as regards any habit, the +creature will cease trying to improve; on which the repetition of +the habit will become stable, and hence become capable of more +unerring transmission—but at the same time improvement will +cease; the habit will become fixed, and be perhaps transmitted at +an earlier and earlier age, till it has reached that date of +manifestation which shall be found most agreeable to the other +habits of the creature. It will also be manifested, as a +matter of course, without further consciousness or reflection, +for people cannot be always opening up settled questions; if they +thought a matter over yesterday they cannot think it all over +again to-day, but will adopt for better or worse the conclusion +then reached; and this, too, even in spite sometimes of +considerable misgiving, that if they were to think still further +they could find a still better course. It is not, +therefore, to be expected that “instinct” should show +signs of that hesitating and tentative action which results from +knowledge that is still so imperfect as to be actively +self-conscious; nor yet that it should grow or vary, unless under +such changed conditions as shall baffle memory, and present the +alternative of either invention—that is to say, +variation—or death. But every instinct must have +poised through the laboriously intelligent stages through which +human civilisations <i>and mechanical inventions</i> are now +passing; and he who would study the origin of an instinct with +its development, partial transmission, further growth, further +transmission, approach to more unreflecting stability, and +finally, its perfection as an unerring and unerringly transmitted +instinct, must look to laws, customs, <i>and machinery</i> as his +best instructors. Customs and machines are instincts <i>and +organs</i> now in process of development; they will assuredly one +day reach the unconscious state of equilibrium which we observe +in the structures and instincts of bees and ants, and an approach +to which may be found among some savage nations. We may +reflect, however, not without pleasure, that this +condition—the true millennium—is still distant. +Nevertheless the ants and bees seem happy; perhaps more happy +than when so many social questions were in as hot discussion +among them, as other, and not dissimilar ones, will one day be +amongst ourselves.</p> +<p>And this, as will be apparent, opens up the whole question of +the stability of species, which we cannot follow further here, +than to say, that according to the balance of testimony, many +plants and animals do appear to have reached a phase of being +from which they are hard to move—that is to say, they will +die sooner than be at the pains of altering their +habits—true martyrs to their convictions. Such races +refuse to see changes in their surroundings as long as they can, +but when compelled to recognise them, they throw up the game +because they cannot and will not, or will not and cannot, +invent. And this is perfectly intelligible, for a race is +nothing but a long-lived individual, and like any individual, or +tribe of men whom we have yet observed, will have its special +capacities and its special limitations, though, as in the case of +the individual, so also with the race, it is exceedingly hard to +say what those limitations are, and why, having been able to go +so far, it should go no further. Every man and every race +is capable of education up to a certain point, but not to the +extent of being made from a sow’s ear into a silk +purse. The proximate cause of the limitation seems to lie +in the absence of the wish to go further; the presence or absence +of the wish will depend upon the nature and surroundings of the +individual, which is simply a way of saying that one can get no +further, but that as the song (with a slight alteration) +says:—</p> +<p class="poetry">“Some breeds do, and some breeds +don’t,<br /> +Some breeds will, but this breed won’t,<br /> +I tried very often to see if it would,<br /> +But it said it really couldn’t, and I don’t think it +could.”</p> +<p>It may perhaps be maintained, that with time and patience, one +might train a rather stupid plough-boy to understand the +differential calculus. This might be done with the help of +an inward desire on the part of the boy to learn, but never +otherwise. If the boy wants to learn or to improve +generally, he will do so in spite of every hindrance, till in +time he becomes a very different being from what he was +originally. If he does not want to learn, he will not do so +for any wish of another person. If he feels that he has the +power he will wish; or if he wishes, he will begin to think he +has the power, and try to fulfil his wishes; one cannot say which +comes first, for the power and the desire go always hand in hand, +or nearly so, and the whole business is nothing but a most +vicious circle from first to last. But it is plain that +there is more to be said on behalf of such circles than we have +been in the habit of thinking. Do what we will, we must +each one of us argue in a circle of our own, from which, so long +as we live at all, we can by no possibility escape. I am +not sure whether the frank acceptation and recognition of this +fact is not the best corrective for dogmatism that we are likely +to find.</p> +<p>We can understand that a pigeon might in the course of ages +grow to be a peacock if there was a persistent desire on the part +of the pigeon through all these ages to do so. We know very +well that this has not probably occurred in nature, inasmuch as +no pigeon is at all likely to wish to be very different from what +it is now. The idea of being anything very different from +what it now is, would be too wide a cross with the pigeon’s +other ideas for it to entertain it seriously. If the pigeon +had never seen a peacock, it would not be able to conceive the +idea, so as to be able to make towards it; if, on the other hand, +it had seen one, it would not probably either want to become one, +or think that it would be any use wanting seriously, even though +it were to feel a passing fancy to be so gorgeously arrayed; it +would therefore lack that faith without which no action, and with +which, every action, is possible.</p> +<p>That creatures have conceived the idea of making themselves +like other creatures or objects which it was to their advantage +or pleasure to resemble, will be believed by any one who turns to +Mr. Mivart’s “Genesis of Species,” where he +will find (chapter ii.) an account of some very showy South +American butterflies, which give out such a strong odour that +nothing will eat them, and which are hence mimicked both in +appearance and flight by a very different kind of butterfly; and, +again, we see that certain birds, without any particular desire +of gain, no sooner hear any sound than they begin to mimick it, +merely for the pleasure of mimicking; so we all enjoy to mimick, +or to hear good mimicry, so also monkeys imitate the actions +which they observe, from pure force of sympathy. To mimick, +or to wish to mimick, is doubtless often one of the first steps +towards varying in any given direction. Not less, in all +probability, than a full twenty per cent. of all the courage and +good nature now existing in the world, derives its origin, at no +very distant date, from a desire to appear courageous and +good-natured. And this suggests a work whose title should +be “On the Fine Arts as bearing on the Reproductive +System,” of which the title must suffice here.</p> +<p>Against faith, then, and desire, all the “natural +selection” in the world will not stop an amœba from +becoming an elephant, if a reasonable time be granted; without +the faith and the desire, neither “natural selection” +nor artificial breeding will be able to do much in the way of +modifying any structure. When we have once thoroughly +grasped the conception that we are all one creature, and that +each one of us is many millions of years old, so that all the +pigeons in the one line of an infinite number of generations are +still one pigeon only—then we can understand that a bird, +as different from a peacock as a pigeon is now, could yet have +wandered on and on, first this way and then that, doing what it +liked, and thought that it could do, till it found itself at +length a peacock; but we cannot believe either that a bird like a +pigeon should be able to apprehend any ideal so different from +itself as a peacock, and make towards it, or that man, having +wished to breed a bird anything like a peacock from a bird +anything like a pigeon, would be able to succeed in accumulating +accidental peacock-like variations till he had made the bird he +was in search of, no matter in what number of generations; much +less can we believe that the accumulation of small fortuitous +variations by “natural selection” could succeed +better. We can no more believe the above, than we can +believe that a wish outside a plough-boy could turn him into a +senior wrangler. The boy would prove to be too many for his +teacher, and so would the pigeon for its breeder.</p> +<p>I do not forget that artificial breeding has modified the +original type of the horse and the dog, till it has at length +produced the dray-horse and the greyhound; but in each case man +has had to get use and disuse—that is to say, the desires +of the animal itself—to help him.</p> +<p>We are led, then, to the conclusion that all races have what +for practical purposes may be considered as their limits, though +there is no saying what those limits are, nor indeed why, in +theory, there should be any limits at all, but only that there +are limits in practice. Races which vary considerably must +be considered as clever, but it may be speculative, people who +commonly have a genius in some special direction, as perhaps for +mimicry, perhaps for beauty, perhaps for music, perhaps for the +higher mathematics, but seldom in more than one or two +directions; while “inflexible organisations,” like +that of the goose, may be considered as belonging to people with +one idea, and the greater tendency of plants and animals to vary +under domestication may be reasonably compared with the effects +of culture and education: that is to say, may be referred to +increased range and variety of experience or perceptions, which +will either cause sterility, if they be too unfamiliar, so as to +be incapable of fusion with preceding ideas, and hence to bring +memory to a sudden fault, or will open the door for all manner of +further variation—the new ideas having suggested new trains +of thought, which a clever example of a clever race will be only +too eager to pursue.</p> +<p>Let us now return to M. Ribot. He writes (p. +14):—“The duckling hatched by the hen makes straight +for water.” In what conceivable way can we account +for this, except on the supposition that the duckling knows +perfectly well what it can, and what it cannot do with water, +owing to its recollection of what it did when it was still one +individuality with its parents, and hence, when it was a duckling +before?</p> +<p>“The squirrel, before it knows anything of winter, lays +up a store of nuts. A bird when hatched in a cage will, +when given its freedom, build for itself a nest like that of its +parents, out of the same materials, and of the same +shape.”</p> +<p>If this is not due to memory, even an imperfect explanation of +what else it can be due to, “would be +satisfactory.”</p> +<p>“Intelligence gropes about, tries this way and that, +misses its object, commits mistakes, and corrects +them.”</p> +<p>Yes. Because intelligence is of consciousness, and +consciousness is of attention, and attention is of uncertainty, +and uncertainty is of ignorance or want of consciousness. +Intelligence is not yet thoroughly up to its business.</p> +<p>“Instinct advances with a mechanical +certainty.”</p> +<p>Why mechanical? Should not “with apparent +certainty” suffice?</p> +<p>“Hence comes its unconscious character.”</p> +<p>But for the word “mechanical” this is true, and is +what we have been all along insisting on.</p> +<p>“It knows nothing either of ends, or of the means of +attaining them; it implies no comparison, judgment, or +choice.”</p> +<p>This is assumption. What is certain is that instinct +does not betray signs of self-consciousness as to its own +knowledge. It has dismissed reference to first principles, +and is no longer under the law, but under the grace of a settled +conviction.</p> +<p>“All seems directed by thought.”</p> +<p>Yes; because all <i>has been</i> in earlier existences +directed by thought.</p> +<p>“Without ever arriving at thought.”</p> +<p>Because it has <i>got past thought</i>, and though +“directed by thought” originally, is now travelling +in exactly the opposite direction. It is not likely to +reach thought again, till people get to know worse and worse how +to do things, the oftener they practise them.</p> +<p>“And if this phenomenon appear strange, it must be +observed that analogous states occur in ourselves. <i>All +that we do from habit—walking</i>, <i>writing</i>, <i>or +practising a mechanical act</i>, <i>for instance—all these +and many other very complex acts are performed without +consciousness</i>.</p> +<p>“Instinct appears stationary. It does not, like +intelligence, seem to grow and decay, to gain and to lose. +It does not improve.”</p> +<p>Naturally. For improvement can only as a general rule be +looked for along the line of latest development, that is to say, +in matters concerning which the creature is being still +consciously exercised. Older questions are settled, and the +solution must be accepted as final, for the question of living at +all would be reduced to an absurdity, if everything decided upon +one day was to be undecided again the next; as with painting or +music, so with life and politics, let every man be fully +persuaded in his own mind, for decision with wrong will be +commonly a better policy than indecision—I had almost added +with right; and a firm purpose with risk will be better than an +infirm one with temporary exemption from disaster. Every +race has made its great blunders, to which it has nevertheless +adhered, inasmuch as the corresponding modification of other +structures and instincts was found preferable to the revolution +which would be caused by a radical change of structure, with +consequent havoc among a legion of vested interests. +Rudimentary organs are, as has been often said, the survivals of +these interests—the signs of their peaceful and gradual +extinction as living faiths; they are also instances of the +difficulty of breaking through any cant or trick which we have +long practised, and which is not sufficiently troublesome to make +it a serious object with us to cure ourselves of the habit.</p> +<p>“If it does not remain perfectly invariable, at least it +only varies within very narrow limits; and though this question +has been warmly debated in our day, and is yet unsettled, we may +yet say that in instinct immutability is the law, variation the +exception.”</p> +<p>This is quite as it should be. Genius will occasionally +rise a little above convention, but with an old convention +immutability will be the rule.</p> +<p>“Such,” continues M. Ribot, “are the +admitted characters of instinct.”</p> +<p>Yes; but are they not also the admitted characters of actions +that are due to memory?</p> +<p>At the bottom of p. 15, M. Ribot quotes the following from Mr. +Darwin:—</p> +<p>“We have reason to believe that aboriginal habits are +long retained under domestication. Thus with the common +ass, we see signs of its original desert-life in its strong +dislike to cross the smallest stream of water, and in its +pleasure in rolling in the dust. The same strong dislike to +cross a stream is common to the camel which has been domesticated +from a very early period. Young pigs, though so tame, +sometimes squat when frightened, and then try to conceal +themselves, even in an open and bare place. Young turkeys, +and occasionally even young fowls, when the hen gives the +danger-cry, run away and try to hide themselves, like young +partridges or pheasants, in order that their mother may take +flight, of which she has lost the power. The musk duck in +its native country often perches and roosts on trees, and our +domesticated musk ducks, though sluggish birds, are fond of +perching on the tops of barns, walls, &c. . . . We know +that the dog, however well and regularly fed, often buries like +the fox any superfluous food; we see him turning round and round +on a carpet as if to trample down grass to form a bed. . . . In +the delight with which lambs and kids crowd together and frisk +upon the smallest hillock we see a vestige of their former alpine +habits.”</p> +<p>What does this delightful passage go to show, if not that the +young in all these cases must still have a latent memory of their +past existences, which is called into an active condition as soon +as the associated ideas present themselves?</p> +<p>Returning to M. Ribot’s own observations, we find he +tells us that it usually requires three or four generations to +fix the results of training, and to prevent a return to the +instincts of the wild state. I think, however, it would not +be presumptuous to suppose that if an animal after only three or +four generations of training be restored to its original +conditions of life, it will forget its intermediate training and +return to its old ways, almost as readily as a London street Arab +would forget the beneficial effects of a weeks training in a +reformatory school, if he were then turned loose again on the +streets. So if we hatch wild ducks’ eggs under a tame +duck, the ducklings “will have scarce left the egg-shell +when they obey the instincts of their race and take their +flight.” So the colts from wild horses, and mongrel +young between wild and domesticated horses, betray traces of +their earlier memories.</p> +<p>On this M. Ribot says: “Originally man had considerable +trouble in taming the animals which are now domesticated; and his +work would have been in vain had not heredity” (memory) +“come to his aid. It may be said that after man has +modified a wild animal to his will, there goes on in its progeny +a silent conflict between two heredities” (memories), +“the one tending to fix the acquired modifications and the +other to preserve the primitive instincts. The latter often +get the mastery, and only after several generations is training +sure of victory. But we may see that in either case +heredity” (memory) “always asserts its +rights.”</p> +<p>How marvellously is the above passage elucidated and made to +fit in with the results of our recognised experience, by the +simple substitution of the word “memory” for +“heredity.”</p> +<p>“Among the higher animals”—to continue +quoting—“which are possessed not only of instinct, +but also of intelligence, nothing is more common than to see +mental dispositions, which have evidently been acquired, so fixed +by heredity, that they are confounded with instinct, so +spontaneous and automatic do they become. Young pointers +have been known to point the first time they were taken out, +sometimes even better than dogs that had been for a long time in +training. The habit of saving life is hereditary in breeds +that have been brought up to it, as is also the shepherd +dog’s habit of moving around the flock and guarding +it.”</p> +<p>As soon as we have grasped the notion, that instinct is only +the epitome of past experience, revised, corrected, made perfect, +and learnt by rote, we no longer find any desire to separate +“instinct” from “mental dispositions, which +have evidently been acquired and fixed by heredity,” for +the simple reason that they are one and the same thing.</p> +<p>A few more examples are all that my limits will +allow—they abound on every side, and the difficulty lies +only in selecting—M. Ribot being to hand, I will venture to +lay him under still further contributions.</p> +<p>On page 19 we find:—“Knight has shown +experimentally the truth of the proverb, ‘a good hound is +bred so,’ he took every care that when the pups were first +taken into the field, they should receive no guidance from older +dogs; yet the very first day, one of the pups stood trembling +with anxiety, having his eyes fixed and all his muscles strained +<i>at the partridges which their parents had been trained to +point</i>. A spaniel belonging to a breed which had been +trained to woodcock-shooting, knew perfectly well from the first +how to act like an old dog, avoiding places where the ground was +frozen, and where it was, therefore, useless to seek the game, as +there was no scent. Finally, a young polecat terrier was +thrown into a state of great excitement the first time he ever +saw one of these animals, while a spaniel remained perfectly +calm.</p> +<p>“In South America, according to Roulin, dogs belonging +to a breed that has long been trained to the dangerous chase of +the peccary, when taken for the first time into the woods, know +the tactics to adopt quite as well as the old dogs, and that +without any instruction. Dogs of other races, and +unacquainted with the tactics, are killed at once, no matter how +strong they may be. The American greyhound, instead of +leaping at the stag, attacks him by the belly, and throws him +over, as his ancestors had been trained to do in hunting the +Indians.</p> +<p>“Thus, then, heredity transmits modification no less +than natural instincts.”</p> +<p>Should not this rather be—“thus, then, we see that +not only older and remoter habits, but habits which have been +practised for a comparatively small number of generations, may be +so deeply impressed on the individual that they may dwell in his +memory, surviving the so-called change of personality which he +undergoes in each successive generation”?</p> +<p>“There is, however, an important difference to be noted: +the heredity of instincts admits of no exceptions, while in that +of modifications there are many.”</p> +<p>It may be well doubted how far the heredity of instincts +admits of no exceptions; on the contrary, it would seem probable +that in many races geniuses have from time to time arisen who +remembered not only their past experiences, as far as action and +habit went, but have been able to rise in some degree above habit +where they felt that improvement was possible, and who carried +such improvement into further practice, by slightly modifying +their structure in the desired direction on the next occasion +that they had a chance of dealing with protoplasm at all. +It is by these rare instances of intellectual genius (and I would +add of moral genius, if many of the instincts and structures of +plants and animals did not show that they had got into a region +as far above morals—other than enlightened +self-interest—as they are above articulate consciousness of +their own aims in many other respects)—it is by these +instances of either rare good luck or rare genius that many +species have been, in all probability, originated or +modified. Nevertheless inappreciable modification of +instinct is, and ought to be, the rule.</p> +<p>As to M. Ribot’s assertion, that to the heredity of +modifications there are many exceptions, I readily agree with it, +and can only say that it is exactly what I should expect; the +lesson long since learnt by rote, and repeated in an infinite +number of generations, would be repeated unintelligently, and +with little or no difference, save from a rare accidental slip, +the effect of which would be the culling out of the bungler who +was guilty of it, or from the still rarer appearance of an +individual of real genius; while the newer lesson would be +repeated both with more hesitation and uncertainty, and with more +intelligence; and this is well conveyed in M. Ribot’s next +sentence, for he says—“It is only when variations +have been firmly rooted; when having become organic, they +constitute a second nature, which supplants the first; when, like +instinct, they have assumed a mechanical character, that they can +be transmitted.”</p> +<p>How nearly M. Ribot comes to the opinion which I myself +venture to propound will appear from the following further +quotation. After dealing with somnambulism, and saying, +that if somnambulism were permanent and innate, it would be +impossible to distinguish it from instinct, he +continues:—</p> +<p>“Hence it is less difficult than is generally supposed, +to conceive how intelligence may become instinct; we might even +say that, leaving out of consideration the character of +innateness, to which we will return, we have seen the +metamorphosis take place. <i>There can then be no ground +for making instinct a faculty apart</i>, <i>sui generis</i>, a +phenomenon so mysterious, so strange, that usually no other +explanation of it is offered but that of attributing it to the +direct act of the Deity. This whole mistake is the result +of a defective psychology which makes no account of the +unconscious activity of the soul.”</p> +<p>We are tempted to add—“and which also makes no +account of the <i>bonâ fide</i> character of the continued +personality of successive generations.”</p> +<p>“But we are so accustomed,” he continues, +“to contrast the characters of instinct with those of +intelligence—to say that instinct is innate, invariable, +automatic, while intelligence is something acquired, variable, +spontaneous—that it looks at first paradoxical to assert +that instinct and intelligence are identical.</p> +<p>“It is said that instinct is innate. But if, on +the one hand, we bear in mind that many instincts are acquired, +and that, according to a theory hereafter to be explained” +(which theory, I frankly confess, I never was able to get hold +of), “<i>all instincts are only hereditary +habits</i>” (italics mine); “if, on the other hand, +we observe that intelligence is in some sense held to be innate +by all modern schools of philosophy, which agree to reject the +theory of the <i>tabula rasa</i>” (if there is no <i>tabula +rasa</i>, there is continued psychological personality, or words +have lost their meaning), “and to accept either latent +ideas, or <i>à priori</i> forms of thought” (surely +only a periphrasis for continued personality and memory) +“or pre-ordination of the nervous system and of the +organism; <i>it will be seen that this character of innateness +does not constitute an absolute distinction between instinct and +intelligence</i>.</p> +<p>“It is true that intelligence is variable, but so also +is instinct, as we have seen. In winter, the Rhine beaver +plasters his wall to windward; once he was a builder, now a +burrower; once he lived in society, now he is solitary. +Intelligence itself can scarcely be more variable . . . instinct +may be modified, lost, reawakened.</p> +<p>“Although intelligence is, as a rule, conscious, it may +also become unconscious and automatic, without losing its +identity. Neither is instinct always so blind, so +mechanical, as is supposed, for at times it is at fault. +The wasp that has faultily trimmed a leaf of its paper begins +again. The bee only gives the hexagonal form to its cell +after many attempts and alterations. It is difficult to +believe that the loftier instincts” (and surely, then, the +more recent instincts) “of the higher animals are not +accompanied <i>by at least a confused consciousness</i>. +There is, therefore, no absolute distinction between instinct and +intelligence; there is not a single characteristic which, +seriously considered, remains the exclusive property of +either. The contrast established between instinctive acts +and intellectual acts is, nevertheless, perfectly true, but only +when we compare the extremes. <i>As instinct rises it +approaches intelligence—as intelligence descends it +approaches instinct</i>.”</p> +<p>M. Ribot and myself (if I may venture to say so) are +continually on the verge of coming to an understanding, when, at +the very moment that we seem most likely to do so, we fly, as it +were, to opposite poles. Surely the passage last quoted +should be, “As instinct falls,” <i>i.e.</i>, becomes +less and less certain of its ground, “it approaches +intelligence; as intelligence rises,” <i>i.e.</i>, becomes +more and more convinced of the truth and expediency of its +convictions—“it approaches instinct.”</p> +<p>Enough has been said to show that the opinions which I am +advancing are not new, but I have looked in vain for the +conclusions which, it appears to me, M. Ribot should draw from +his facts; throughout his interesting book I find the facts which +it would seem should have guided him to the conclusions, and +sometimes almost the conclusions themselves, but he never seems +quite to have reached them, nor has he arranged his facts so that +others are likely to deduce them, unless they had already arrived +at them by another road. I cannot, however, sufficiently +express my obligations to M. Ribot.</p> +<p>I cannot refrain from bringing forward a few more instances of +what I think must be considered by every reader as hereditary +memory. Sydney Smith writes:—</p> +<p>“Sir James Hall hatched some chickens in an oven. +Within a few minutes after the shell was broken, a spider was +turned loose before this very youthful brood; the destroyer of +flies had hardly proceeded more than a few inches, before he was +descried by one of these oven-born chickens, and, at one peck of +his bill, immediately devoured. This certainly was not +imitation. A female goat very near delivery died; Galen cut +out the young kid, and placed before it a bundle of hay, a bunch +of fruit, and a pan of milk; the young kid smelt to them all very +attentively, and then began to lap the milk. This was not +imitation. And what is commonly and rightly called +instinct, cannot be explained away, under the notion of its being +imitation” (Lecture xvii. on Moral Philosophy).</p> +<p>It cannot, indeed, be explained away under the notion of its +being imitation, but I think it may well be so under that of its +being memory.</p> +<p>Again, a little further on in the same lecture, as that above +quoted from, we find:—</p> +<p>“Ants and beavers lay up magazines. Where do they +get their knowledge that it will not be so easy to collect food +in rainy weather, as it is in summer? Men and women know +these things, because their grandpapas and grandmammas have told +them so. Ants hatched from the egg artificially, or birds +hatched in this manner, have all this knowledge by intuition, +without the smallest communication with any of their +relations. Now observe what the solitary wasp does; she +digs several holes in the sand, in each of which she deposits an +egg, though she certainly knows not (?) that an animal is +deposited in that egg, and still less that this animal must be +nourished with other animals. She collects a few green +flies, rolls them up neatly in several parcels (like Bologna +sausages), and stuffs one parcel into each hole where an egg is +deposited. When the wasp worm is hatched, it finds a store +of provision ready made; and what is most curious, the quantity +allotted to each is exactly sufficient to support it, till it +attains the period of wasphood, and can provide for itself. +This instinct of the parent wasp is the more remarkable as it +does not feed upon flesh itself. Here the little creature +has never seen its parent; for by the time it is born, the parent +is always eaten by sparrows; and yet, without the slightest +education, or previous experience, it does everything that the +parent did before it. Now the objectors to the doctrine of +instinct may say what they please, but young tailors have no +intuitive method of making pantaloons; a new-born mercer cannot +measure diaper; nature teaches a cook’s daughter nothing +about sippets. All these things require with us seven +years’ apprenticeship; but insects are like +Molière’s persons of quality—they know +everything (as Molière says), without having learnt +anything. ‘Les gens de qualité savent tout, +sans avoir rien appris.’”</p> +<p>How completely all difficulty vanishes from the facts so +pleasantly told in this passage when we bear in mind the true +nature of personal identity, the ordinary working of memory, and +the vanishing tendency of consciousness concerning what we know +exceedingly well.</p> +<p>My last instance I take from M. Ribot, who +writes:—“Gratiolet, in his <i>Anatomie +Comparèe du Système Nerveux</i>, states that an old +piece of wolf’s skin, with the hair all worn away, when set +before a little dog, threw the animal into convulsions of fear by +the slight scent attaching to it. The dog had never seen a +wolf, and we can only explain this alarm by the hereditary +transmission of certain sentiments, coupled with a certain +perception of the sense of smell” (“Heredity,” +p. 43).</p> +<p>I should prefer to say “we can only explain the alarm by +supposing that the smell of the wolf’s +skin”—the sense of smell being, as we all know, more +powerful to recall the ideas that have been associated with it +than any other sense—“brought up the ideas with which +it had been associated in the dog’s mind during many +previous existences”—he on smelling the wolf’s +skin remembering all about wolves perfectly well.</p> +<h2><a name="page220"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +220</span>CHAPTER XII.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">INSTINCTS OF NEUTER INSECTS.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">In</span> this chapter I will consider, as +briefly as possible, the strongest argument that I have been able +to discover against the supposition that instinct is chiefly due +to habit. I have said “the strongest argument;” +I should have said, the only argument that struck me as offering +on the face of it serious difficulties.</p> +<p>Turning, then, to Mr. Darwin’s chapter on instinct +(“Natural Selection,” ed. 1876, p. 205), we find +substantially much the same views as those taken at a later date +by M. Ribot, and referred to in the preceding chapter. Mr. +Darwin writes:—</p> +<p>“An action, which we ourselves require experience to +enable us to perform, when performed by an animal, more +especially a very young one, without experience, and when +performed by many animals in the same way without their knowing +for what purpose it is performed, is usually said to be +instinctive.”</p> +<p>The above should strictly be, “without their being +conscious of their own knowledge concerning the purpose for which +they act as they do;” and though some may say that the two +phrases come to the same thing, I think there is an important +difference, as what I propose distinguishes ignorance from +over-familiarity, both which states are alike unself-conscious, +though with widely different results.</p> +<p>“But I could show,” continues Mr. Darwin, +“that none of these characters are universal. A +little dose of judgement or reason, as Pierre Huber expresses it, +often comes into play even with animals low in the scale of +nature.</p> +<p>“Frederick Cuvier and several of the older +metaphysicians have compared instinct with habit.”</p> +<p>I would go further and would say, that instinct, in the great +majority of cases, is habit pure and simple, contracted +originally by some one or more individuals; practised, probably, +in a consciously intelligent manner during many successive lives, +until the habit has acquired the highest perfection which the +circumstances admitted; and, finally, so deeply impressed upon +the memory as to survive that effacement of minor impressions +which generally takes place in every fresh life-wave or +generation.</p> +<p>I would say, that unless the identity of offspring with their +parents be so far admitted that the children be allowed to +remember the deeper impressions engraved on the minds of those +who begot them, it is little less than trilling to talk, as so +many writers do, about inherited habit, or the experience of the +race, or, indeed, accumulated variations of instincts.</p> +<p>When an instinct is not habit, as resulting from memory pure +and simple, it is habit modified by some treatment, generally in +the youth or embryonic stages of the individual, which disturbs +his memory, and drives him on to some unusual course, inasmuch as +he cannot recognise and remember his usual one by reason of the +change now made in it. Habits and instincts, again, may be +modified by any important change in the condition of the parents, +which will then both affect the parent’s sense of his own +identity, and also create more or less fault, or dislocation of +memory, in the offspring immediately behind the memory of his +last life. Change of food may at times be sufficient to +create a specific modification—that is to say, to affect +all the individuals whose food is so changed, in one and the same +way—whether as regards structure or habit. Thus we +see that certain changes in food (and domicile), from those with +which its ancestors have been familiar, will disturb the memory +of a queen bee’s egg, and set it at such disadvantage as to +make it make itself into a neuter bee; but yet we find that the +larva thus partly aborted may have its memories restored to it, +if not already too much disturbed, and may thus return to its +condition as a queen bee, if it only again be restored to the +food and domicile, which its past memories can alone +remember.</p> +<p>So we see that opium, tobacco, alcohol, hasheesh, and tea +produce certain effects upon our own structure and +instincts. But though capable of modification, and of +specific modification, which may in time become inherited, and +hence resolve itself into a true instinct or settled question, +yet I maintain that the main bulk of the instinct (whether as +affecting structure or habits of life) will be derived from +memory pure and simple; the individual growing up in the shape he +does, and liking to do this or that when he is grown up, simply +from recollection of what he did last time, and of what on the +whole suited him.</p> +<p>For it must be remembered that a drug which should destroy +some one part at an early embryonic stage, and thus prevent it +from development, would prevent the creature from recognising the +surroundings which affected that part when he was last alive and +unmutilated, as being the same as his present surroundings. +He would be puzzled, for he would be viewing the position from a +different standpoint. If any important item in a number of +associated ideas disappears, the plot fails; and a great internal +change is an exceedingly important item. Life and things to +a creature so treated at an early embryonic stage would not be +life and things as he last remembered them; hence he would not be +able to do the same now as he did then; that is to say, he would +vary both in structure and instinct; but if the creature were +tolerably uniform to start with, and were treated in a tolerably +uniform way, we might expect the effect produced to be much the +same in all ordinary cases.</p> +<p>We see, also, that any important change in treatment and +surroundings, if not sufficient to kill, would and does tend to +produce not only variability but sterility, as part of the same +story and for the same reason—namely, default of memory; +this default will be of every degree of intensity, from total +failure, to a slight disturbance of memory as affecting some one +particular organ only; that is to say, from total sterility, to a +slight variation in an unimportant part. So that even +<i>the slightest conceivable variations should be referred to +changed conditions</i>, <i>external or internal</i>, <i>and to +their disturbing effects upon the memory</i>; and sterility, +without any apparent disease of the reproductive system, may be +referred not so much to special delicacy or susceptibility of the +organs of reproduction as to inability on the part of the +creature to know where it is, and to recognise itself as the same +creature which it has been accustomed to reproduce.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin thinks that the comparison of habit with instinct +gives “an accurate notion of the frame of mind under which +an instinctive action is performed, but not,” he thinks, +“of its origin.”</p> +<p>“How unconsciously,” Mr. Darwin continues, +“many habitual actions are performed, indeed not rarely in +direct opposition to our conscious will! Yet they may be +modified by the will or by reason. Habits easily become +associated with other habits, with certain periods of time and +states of body. When once acquired, they often remain +constant throughout life. Several other points of +resemblance between instincts and habits could be pointed +out. As in repeating a well-known song, so in instincts, +one action follows another by a sort of rhythm. If a person +be interrupted in a song or in repeating anything by rote, he is +generally forced to go back to recover the habitual train of +thought; so P. Huber found it was with a caterpillar, which makes +a very complicated hammock. For if he took a caterpillar +which had completed its hammock up to, say, the sixth stage of +construction, and put it into a hammock completed up only to the +third stage, the caterpillar simply re-performed the fourth, +fifth, and sixth stages of construction. If, however, a +caterpillar were taken out of a hammock made up, for instance, to +the third stage, and were put into one finished up to the sixth +stage, so that much of its work was already done for it, far from +deriving any benefit from this, it was much embarrassed, and in +order to complete its hammock, seemed forced to start from the +third stage, where it had left off, and thus tried to complete +the already finished work.”</p> +<p>I see I must have unconsciously taken my first chapter from +this passage, but it is immaterial. I owe Mr. Darwin much +more than this. I owe it to him that I believe in evolution +at all. I owe him for almost all the facts which have led +me to differ from him, and which I feel absolutely safe in taking +for granted, if he has advanced them. Nevertheless, I +believe that the conclusion arrived at in the passage which I +will next quote is a mistaken one, and that not a little only, +but fundamentally. I shall therefore venture to dispute +it.</p> +<p>The passage runs:—</p> +<p>“If we suppose any habitual action to become +inherited—and it can be shown that this does sometimes +happen—then the resemblance between what originally was a +habit and an instinct becomes so close as not to be +distinguished. . . . <i>But it would be a serious error to +suppose that the greater number of instincts have been acquired +by habit in one generation</i>, <i>and then transmitted by +inheritance to succeeding generations</i>. <i>It can be +clearly shown that the most wonderful instincts with which we are +acquainted—namely</i>, <i>those of the hive-bee and of many +ants</i>, <i>could not possibly have been acquired by +habit</i>.” (“Origin of Species,” p. 206, +ed. 1876.) The italics in this passage are mine.</p> +<p>No difficulty is opposed to my view (as I call it, for the +sake of brevity) by such an instinct as that of ants to milk +aphids. Such instincts may be supposed to have been +acquired in much the same way as the instinct of a farmer to keep +a cow. Accidental discovery of the fact that the excretion +was good, with “a little dose of judgement or reason” +from time to time appearing in an exceptionally clever ant, and +by him communicated to his fellows, till the habit was so +confirmed as to be capable of transmission in full +unself-consciousness (if indeed the instinct be unself-conscious +in this case), would, I think, explain this as readily as the +slow and gradual accumulations of instincts which had never +passed through the intelligent and self-conscious stage, but had +always prompted action without any idea of a why or a wherefore +on the part of the creature itself.</p> +<p>For it must be remembered, as I am afraid I have already +perhaps too often said, that even when we have got a slight +variation of instinct, due to some cause which we know nothing +about, but which I will not even for a moment call +“spontaneous”—a word that should be cut out of +every dictionary, or in some way branded as perhaps the most +misleading in the language—we cannot see how it comes to be +repeated in successive generations, so as to be capable of being +acted upon by “natural selection” and accumulated, +unless it be also capable of being remembered by the offspring of +the varying creature. It may be answered that we cannot +know anything about this, but that “like father like +son” is an ultimate fact in nature. I can only answer +that I never observe any “like father like son” +without the son’s both having had every opportunity of +remembering, and showing every symptom of having remembered, in +which case I decline to go further than memory (whatever memory +may be) as the cause of the phenomenon.</p> +<p>But besides inheritance, teaching must be admitted as a means +of at any rate modifying an instinct. We observe this in +our own case; and we know that animals have great powers of +communicating their ideas to one another, though their manner of +doing this is as incomprehensible by us as a plant’s +knowledge of chemistry, or the manner in which an amœba +makes its test, or a spider its web, without having gone through +a long course of mathematics. I think most readers will +allow that our early training and the theological systems of the +last eighteen hundred years are likely to have made us +involuntarily under-estimate the powers of animals low in the +scale of life, both as regards intelligence and the power of +communicating their ideas to one another; but even now we admit +that ants have great powers in this respect.</p> +<p>A habit, however, which is taught to the young or each +successive generation, by older members of the community who have +themselves received it by instruction, should surely rank as an +inherited habit, and be considered as due to memory, though +personal teaching be necessary to complete the inheritance.</p> +<p>An objection suggests itself that if such a habit as the +flight of birds, which seems to require a little personal +supervision and instruction before it is acquired perfectly, were +really due to memory, the need of instruction would after a time +cease, inasmuch as the creature would remember its past method of +procedure, and would thus come to need no more teaching. +The answer lies in the fact, that if a creature gets to depend +upon teaching and personal help for any matter, its memory will +make it look for such help on each repetition of the action; so +we see that no man’s memory will exert itself much until he +is thrown upon memory as his only resource. We may read a +page of a book a hundred times, but we do not remember it by +heart unless we have either cultivated our powers of learning to +repeat, or have taken pains to learn this particular page.</p> +<p>And whether we read from a book, or whether we repeat by +heart, the repetition is still due to memory; only in the one +case the memory is exerted to recall something which one saw only +half a second ago, and in the other, to recall something not seen +for a much longer period. So I imagine an instinct or habit +may be called an inherited habit, and assigned to memory, even +though the memory dates, not from the performance of the action +by the learner when he was actually part of the personality of +the teacher, but rather from a performance witnessed by, or +explained by the teacher to, the pupil at a period subsequent to +birth. In either case the habit is inherited in the sense +of being acquired in one generation, and transmitted with such +modifications as genius and experience may have suggested.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin would probably admit this without hesitation; when, +therefore, he says that certain instincts could not possibly have +been acquired by habit, he must mean that they could not, under +the circumstances, have been remembered by the pupil in the +person of the teacher, and that it would be a serious error to +suppose that the greater number of instincts can be thus +remembered. To which I assent readily so far as that it is +difficult (though not impossible) to see how some of the most +wonderful instincts of neuter ants and bees can be due to the +fact that the neuter ant or bee was ever in part, or in some +respects, another neuter ant or bee in a previous +generation. At the same time I maintain that this does not +militate against the supposition that both instinct and structure +are in the main due to memory. For the power of receiving +any communication, and acting on it, is due to memory; and the +neuter ant or bee may have received its lesson from another +neuter ant or bee, who had it from another and modified it; and +so back and back, till the foundation of the habit is reached, +and is found to present little more than the faintest family +likeness to its more complex descendant. Surely Mr. Darwin +cannot mean that it can be shewn that the wonderful instincts of +neuter ants and bees cannot have been acquired either, as above, +by instruction, or by some not immediately obvious form of +inherited transmission, but that they must be due to the fact +that the ant or bee is, as it were, such and such a machine, of +which if you touch such and such a spring, you will get a +corresponding action. If he does, he will find, so far as I +can see, no escape from a position very similar to the one which +I put into the mouth of the first of the two professors, who +dealt with the question of machinery in my earlier work, +“Erewhon,” and which I have since found that my great +namesake made fun of in the following lines:—</p> +<p class="poetry">. . . “They now begun<br /> +To spur their living engines on.<br /> +For as whipped tops and bandy’d balls,<br /> +The learned hold are animals:<br /> +So horses they affirm to be<br /> +Mere engines made by geometry,<br /> +And were invented first from engines<br /> +As Indian Britons were from Penguins.”</p> +<p style="text-align: right" +class="poetry">—<i>Hudibras</i>, Canto ii. line 53, +&c.</p> +<p>I can see, then, no difficulty in the development of the +ordinary so-called instincts, whether of ants or bees, or the +cuckoo, or any other animal, on the supposition that they were, +for the most part, intelligently acquired with more or less +labour, as the case may be, in much the same way as we see any +art or science now in process of acquisition among ourselves, but +were ultimately remembered by offspring, or communicated to +it. When the limits of the race’s capacity had been +attained (and most races seem to have their limits, +unsatisfactory though the expression may very fairly be +considered), or when the creature had got into a condition, so to +speak, of equilibrium with its surroundings, there would be no +new development of instincts, and the old ones would cease to be +improved, inasmuch as there would be no more reasoning or +difference of opinion concerning them. The race, therefore, +or species would remain in <i>statu quo</i> till either +domesticated, and so brought into contact with new ideas and +placed in changed conditions, or put under such pressure, in a +wild state, as should force it to further invention, or +extinguish it if incapable of rising to the occasion. That +instinct and structure may be acquired by practice in one or more +generations, and remembered in succeeding ones, is admitted by +Mr. Darwin, for he allows (“Origin of Species,” p. +206) that habitual action does sometimes become inherited, and, +though he does not seem to conceive of such action as due to +memory, yet it is inconceivable how it is inherited, if not as +the result of memory.</p> +<p>It must be admitted, however, that when we come to consider +the structures as well as the instincts of some of the neuter +insects, our difficulties seem greatly increased. The +neuter hive-bees have a cavity in their thighs in which to keep +the wax, which it is their business to collect; but the drones +and queen, which alone bear offspring, collect no wax, and +therefore neither want, nor have, any such cavity. The +neuter bees are also, if I understand rightly, furnished with a +proboscis or trunk for extracting honey from flowers, whereas the +fertile bees, who gather no honey, have no such proboscis. +Imagine, if the reader will, that the neuter bees differ still +more widely from the fertile ones; how, then, can they in any +sense be said to derive organs from their parents, which not one +of their parents for millions of generations has ever had? +How, again, can it be supposed that they transmit these organs to +the future neuter members of the community when they are +perfectly sterile?</p> +<p>One can understand that the young neuter bee might be taught +to make a hexagonal cell (though I have not found that any one +has seen the lesson being given) inasmuch as it does not make the +cell till after birth, and till after it has seen other neuter +bees who might tell it much in, <i>quâ</i> us, a very +little time; but we can hardly understand its growing a proboscis +before it could possibly want it, or preparing a cavity in its +thigh, to have it ready to put wax into, when none of its +predecessors had ever done so, by supposing oral communication, +during the larvahood. Nevertheless, it must not be +forgotten that bees seem to know secrets about reproduction, +which utterly baffle ourselves; for example, the queen bee +appears to know how to deposit male or female, eggs at will; and +this is a matter of almost inconceivable sociological importance, +denoting a corresponding amount of sociological and physiological +knowledge generally. It should not, then, surprise us if +the race should possess other secrets, whose working we are +unable to follow, or even detect at all.</p> +<p>Sydney Smith, indeed, writes:—</p> +<p>“The warmest admirers of honey, and the greatest friends +to bees, will never, I presume, contend that the young swarm, who +begin making honey three or four months after they are born, and +immediately construct these mathematical cells, should have +gained their geometrical knowledge as we gain ours, and in three +months’ time outstrip Mr. Maclaurin in mathematics as much +as they did in making honey. It would take a senior +wrangler at Cambridge ten hours a day for three years together to +know enough mathematics for the calculation of these problems, +with which not only every queen bee, but every undergraduate +grub, is acquainted the moment it is born.” This last +statement may be a little too strong, but it will at once occur +to the reader, that as we know the bees <i>do</i> surpass Mr. +Maclaurin in the power of making honey, they may also surpass him +in capacity for those branches of mathematics with which it has +been their business to be conversant during many millions of +years, and also in knowledge of physiology and psychology in so +far as the knowledge bears upon the interests of their own +community.</p> +<p>We know that the larva which develops into a neuter bee, and +that again which in time becomes a queen bee, are the same kind +of larva to start with; and that if you give one of these +larvæ the food and treatment which all its foremothers have +been accustomed to, it will turn out with all the structure and +instincts of its foremothers—and that it only fails to do +this because it has been fed, and otherwise treated, in such a +manner as not one of its foremothers was ever yet fed or +treated. So far, this is exactly what we should expect, on +the view that structure and instinct are alike mainly due to +memory, or to medicined memory. Give the larva a fair +chance of knowing where it is, and it shows that it remembers by +doing exactly what it did before. Give it a different kind +of food and house, and it cannot be expected to be anything else +than puzzled. It remembers a great deal. It comes out +a bee, and nothing but a bee; but it is an aborted bee; it is, in +fact, mutilated before birth instead of after—with +instinct, as well as growth, correlated to its abortion, as we +see happens frequently in the case of animals a good deal higher +than bees that have been mutilated at a stage much later than +that at which the abortion of neuter bees commences.</p> +<p>The larvæ being similar to start with, and being +similarly mutilated—i.e., by change of food and dwelling, +will naturally exhibit much similarity of instinct and structure +on arriving at maturity. When driven from their usual +course, they must take <i>some</i> new course or die. There +is nothing strange in the fact that similar beings puzzled +similarly should take a similar line of action. I grant, +however, that it is hard to see how change of food and treatment +can puzzle an insect into such “complex growth” as +that it should make a cavity in its thigh, grow an invaluable +proboscis, and betray a practical knowledge of difficult +mathematical problems.</p> +<p>But it must be remembered that the memory of having been queen +bees and drones—which is all that according to my +supposition the larvæ can remember, (on a first view of the +case), in their own proper persons—would nevertheless carry +with it a potential recollection of all the social arrangements +of the hive. They would thus potentially remember that the +mass of the bees were always neuter bees; they would remember +potentially the habits of these bees, so far as drones and queens +know anything about them; and this may be supposed to be a very +thorough acquaintance; in like manner, and with the same +limitation, they would know from the very moment that they left +the queen’s body that neuter bees had a proboscis to gather +honey with, and cavities in their thighs to put wax into, and +that cells were to be made with certain angles—for surely +it is not crediting the queen with more knowledge than she is +likely to possess, if we suppose her to have a fair acquaintance +with the phenomena of wax and cells generally, even though she +does not make any; they would know (while still +larvæ—and earlier) the kind of cells into which +neuter bees were commonly put, and the kind of treatment they +commonly received—they might therefore, as +eggs—immediately on finding their recollection driven from +its usual course, so that they must either find some other +course, or die—know that they were being treated as neuter +bees are treated, and that they were expected to develop into +neuter bees accordingly; they might know all this, and a great +deal more into the bargain, inasmuch as even before being +actually deposited as eggs they would know and remember +potentially, but unconsciously, all that their parents knew and +remembered intensely. Is it, then, astonishing that they +should adapt themselves so readily to the position which they +know it is for the social welfare of the community, and hence of +themselves, that they should occupy, and that they should know +that they will want a cavity in their thighs and a proboscis, and +hence make such implements out of their protoplasm as readily as +they make their wings?</p> +<p>I admit that, under normal treatment, none of the +above-mentioned potential memories would be kindled into such a +state of activity that action would follow upon them, until the +creature had attained a more or less similar condition to that in +which its parent was when these memories were active within its +mind: but the essence of the matter is, that these larvæ +have been treated <i>abnormally</i>, so that if they do not die, +there is nothing for it but that they must vary. One cannot +argue from the normal to the abnormal. It would not, then, +be strange if the potential memories should (owing to the margin +for premature or tardy development which association admits) +serve to give the puzzled larvæ a hint as to the course +which they had better take, or that, at any rate, it should +greatly supplement the instruction of the “nurse” +bees themselves by rendering the larvæ so, as it were, +inflammable on this point, that a spark should set them in a +blaze. Abortion is generally premature. Thus the +scars referred to in the last chapter as having appeared on the +children of men who had been correspondingly wounded, should not, +under normal circumstances, have appeared in the offspring till +the children had got fairly near the same condition generally as +that in which their fathers were when they were wounded, and even +then, normally, there should have been an instrument to wound +them, much as their fathers had been wounded. Association, +however, does not always stick to the letter of its bond.</p> +<p>The line, again, might certainly be taken that the difference +in structure and instincts between neuter and fertile bees is due +to the specific effects of certain food and treatment; yet, +though one would be sorry to set limits to the convertibility of +food and genius, it seems hard to believe that there can be any +untutored food which should teach a bee to make a hexagonal cell +as soon as it was born, or which, before it was born, should +teach it to prepare such structures as it would require in after +life. If, then, food be considered as a direct agent in +causing the structures and instinct, and not an indirect agent, +merely indicating to the larva itself that it is to make itself +after the fashion of neuter bees, then we should bear in mind +that, at any rate, it has been leavened and prepared in the +stomachs of those neuter bees into which the larva is now +expected to develop itself, and may thus have in it more true +germinative matter—gemmules, in fact—than is commonly +supposed. Food, when sufficiently assimilated (the whole +question turning upon what <i>is</i> “sufficiently”), +becomes stored with all the experience and memories of the +assimilating creature; corn becomes hen, and knows nothing but +hen, when hen has eaten it. We know also that the neuter +working-bees inject matter into the cell after the larva has been +produced; nor would it seem harsh to suppose that though devoid +of a reproductive system like that of their parents, they may yet +be practically not so neuter as is commonly believed. One +cannot say what gemmules of thigh and proboscis may not have got +into the neutral bees’ stomachs, if they assimilate their +food sufficiently, and thus into the larva.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin will be the first to admit that though a creature +have no reproductive system, in any ordinary sense of the word, +yet every unit or cell of its body may throw off gemmules which +may be free to move over every part of the whole organism, and +which “natural selection” might in time cause to +stray into food which had been sufficiently prepared in the +stomachs of the neuter bees.</p> +<p>I cannot say, then, precisely in what way, but I can see no +reason for doubting that in some of the ways suggested above, or +in some combination of them, the phenomena of the instincts of +neuter ants and bees can be brought into the same category as the +instincts and structure of fertile animals. At any rate, I +see the great fact that when treated as they have been accustomed +to be treated, these neuters act as though they remembered, and +accordingly become queen bees; and that they only depart from +their ancestral course on being treated in such fashion as their +ancestors can never have remembered; also, that when they have +been thrown off their accustomed line of thought and action, they +only take that of their nurses, who have been about them from the +moment of their being deposited as eggs by the queen bee, who +have fed them from their own bodies, and between whom and them +there may have been all manner of physical and mental +communication, of which we know no more than we do of the power +which enables a bee to find its way home after infinite shifting +and turning among flowers, which no human powers could +systematise so as to avoid confusion.</p> +<p>Or take it thus: We know that mutilation at an early age +produces an effect upon the structure and instincts of cattle, +sheep, and horses; and it might be presumed that if feasible at +an earlier age, it would produce a still more marked +effect. We observe that the effect produced is uniform, or +nearly so. Suppose mutilation to produce a little more +effect than it does, as we might easily do, if cattle, sheep, and +horses had been for ages accustomed to a mutilated class living +among them, which class had been always a caste apart, and had +fed the young neuters from their own bodies, from an early +embryonic stage onwards; would any one in this case dream of +advancing the structure and instincts of this mutilated class +against the doctrine that instinct is inherited habit? Or, +if inclined to do this, would he not at once refrain, on +remembering that the process of mutilation might be arrested, and +the embryo be developed into an entire animal by simply treating +it in the way to which all its ancestors had been +accustomed? Surely he would not allow the difficulty (which +I must admit in some measure to remain) to outweigh the evidence +derivable from these very neuter insects themselves, as well as +from such a vast number of other sources—all pointing in +the direction of instinct as inherited habit. <a +name="citation239"></a><a href="#footnote239" +class="citation">[239]</a></p> +<p>Lastly, it must be remembered that the instinct to make cells +and honey is one which has no very great hold upon its +possessors. Bees <i>can</i> make cells and honey, nor do +they seem to have any very violent objection to doing so; but it +is quite clear that there is nothing in their structure and +instincts which urges them on to do these things for the mere +love of doing them, as a hen is urged to sit upon a chalk stone, +concerning which she probably is at heart utterly sceptical, +rather than not sit at all. There is no honey and +cell-making instinct so strong as the instinct to eat, if they +are hungry, or to grow wings, and make themselves into bees at +all. Like ourselves, so long as they can get plenty to eat +and drink, they will do no work. Under these circumstances, +not one drop of honey nor one particle of wax will they collect, +except, I presume, to make cells for the rearing of their +young.</p> +<p>Sydney Smith writes:—</p> +<p>“The most curious instance of a change of instinct is +recorded by Darwin. The bees carried over to Barbadoes and +the Western Isles ceased to lay up any honey after the first +year, as they found it not useful to them. They found the +weather so fine, and materials for making honey so plentiful, +that they quitted their grave, prudent, and mercantile character, +became exceedingly profligate and debauched, ate up their +capital, resolved to work no more, and amused themselves by +flying about the sugar-houses and stinging the blacks” +(Lecture XVII. on Moral Philosophy). The ease, then, with +which the honey-gathering and cell-making habits are +relinquished, would seem to point strongly in the direction of +their acquisition at a comparatively late period of +development.</p> +<p>I have dealt with bees only, and not with ants, which would +perhaps seem to present greater difficulty, inasmuch as in some +families of these there are two, or even three, castes of neuters +with well-marked and wide differences of structure and instinct; +but I think the reader will agree with me that the ants are +sufficiently covered by the bees, and that enough, therefore, has +been said already. Mr. Darwin supposes that these +modifications of structure and instinct have been effected by the +accumulation of numerous slight, profitable, spontaneous +variations on the part of the fertile parents, which has caused +them (so, at least, I understand him) to lay this or that +particular kind of egg, which should develop into a kind of bee +or ant, with this or that particular instinct, which instinct is +merely a co-ordination with structure, and in no way attributable +to use or habit in preceding generations.</p> +<p>Even so, one cannot see that the habit of laying this +particular kind of egg might not be due to use and memory in +previous generations on the part of the fertile parents, +“for the numerous slight spontaneous variations,” on +which “natural selection” is to work, must have had +some cause than which none more reasonable than sense of need and +experience presents itself; and there seems hardly any limit to +what long-continued faith and desire, aided by intelligence, may +be able to effect. But if sense of need and experience are +denied, I see no escape from the view that machines are new +species of life.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin concludes: “I am surprised that no one has +hitherto advanced this demonstrative case of neuter insects +against the well-known doctrine of inherited habit as advanced by +Lamarck” (“Natural Selection,” p. 233, ed. +1876).</p> +<p>After reading this, one feels as though there was no more to +be said. The well-known doctrine of inherited habit, as +advanced by Lamarck, has indeed been long since so thoroughly +exploded, that it is not worth while to go into an explanation of +what it was, or to refute it in detail. Here, however, is +an argument against it, which is so much better than anything +advanced yet, that one is surprised it has never been made use +of; so we will just advance it, as it were, to slay the slain, +and pass on. Such, at least, is the effect which the +paragraph above quoted produced upon myself, and would, I think, +produce on the great majority of readers. When driven by +the exigencies of my own position to examine the value of the +demonstration more closely, I conclude, either that I have +utterly failed to grasp Mr. Darwin’s meaning, or that I +have no less completely mistaken the value and bearing of the +facts I have myself advanced in these few last pages. +Failing this, my surprise is, not that “no one has hitherto +advanced” the instincts of neuter insects as a +demonstrative case against the doctrine of inherited habit, but +rather that Mr. Darwin should have thought the case +demonstrative; or again, when I remember that the neuter working +bee is only an aborted queen, and may be turned back again into a +queen, by giving it such treatment as it can alone be expected to +remember—then I am surprised that the structure and +instincts of neuter bees has never (if never) been brought +forward in support of the doctrine of inherited habit as advanced +by Lamarck, and against any theory which would rob such instincts +of their foundation in intelligence, and of their connection with +experience and memory.</p> +<p>As for the instinct to mutilate, that is as easily accounted +for as any other inherited habit, whether of man to mutilate +cattle, or of ants to make slaves, or of birds to make their +nests. I can see no way of accounting for the existence of +any one of these instincts, except on the supposition that they +have arisen gradually, through perceptions of power and need on +the part of the animal which exhibits them—these two +perceptions advancing hand in hand from generation to generation, +and being accumulated in time and in the common course of +nature.</p> +<p>I have already sufficiently guarded against being supposed to +maintain that very long before an instinct or structure was +developed, the creature descried it in the far future, and made +towards it. We do not observe this to be the manner of +human progress. Our mechanical inventions, which, as I +ventured to say in “Erewhon,” through the mouth of +the second professor, are really nothing but extra-corporaneous +limbs—a wooden leg being nothing but a bad kind of flesh +leg, and a flesh leg being only a much better kind of wooden leg +than any creature could be expected to manufacture +introspectively and consciously—our mechanical inventions +have almost invariably grown up from small beginnings, and +without any very distant foresight on the part of the +inventors. When Watt perfected the steam engine, he did +not, it seems, foresee the locomotive, much less would any one +expect a savage to invent a steam engine. A child breathes +automatically, because it has learnt to breathe little by little, +and has now breathed for an incalculable length of time; but it +cannot open oysters at all, nor even conceive the idea of opening +oysters for two or three years after it is born, for the simple +reason that this lesson is one which it is only beginning to +learn. All I maintain is, that, give a child as many +generations of practice in opening oysters as it has had in +breathing or sucking, and it would on being born, turn to the +oyster-knife no less naturally than to the breast. We +observe that among certain families of men there has been a +tendency to vary in the direction of the use and development of +machinery; and that in a certain still smaller number of +families, there seems to be an almost infinitely great capacity +for varying and inventing still further, whether socially or +mechanically; while other families, and perhaps the greater +number, reach a certain point and stop; but we also observe that +not even the most inventive races ever see very far ahead. +I suppose the progress of plants and animals to be exactly +analogous to this.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin has always maintained that the effects of use and +disuse are highly important in the development of structure, and +if, as he has said, habits are sometimes inherited—then +they should sometimes be important also in the development of +instinct, or habit. But what does the development of an +instinct or structure, or, indeed, any effect upon the organism +produced by “use and disuse,” imply? It implies +an effect produced by a desire to do something for which the +organism was not originally well adapted or sufficient, but for +which it has come to be sufficient in consequence of the +desire. The wish has been father to the power; but this +again opens up the whole theory of Lamarck, that the development +of organs has been due to the wants or desires of the animal in +which the organ appears. So far as I can see, I am +insisting on little more than this.</p> +<p>Once grant that a blacksmith’s arm grows thicker through +hammering iron, and you have an organ modified in accordance with +a need or wish. Let the desire and the practice be +remembered, and go on for long enough, and the slight alterations +of the organ will be accumulated, until they are checked either +by the creature’s having got all that he cares about making +serious further effort to obtain, or until his wants prove +inconvenient to other creatures that are stronger than he, and he +is hence brought to a standstill. Use and disuse, then, +with me, and, as I gather also, with Lamarck, are the keys to the +position, coupled, of course, with continued personality and +memory. No sudden and striking changes would be effected, +except that occasionally a blunder might prove a happy accident, +as happens not unfrequently with painters, musicians, chemists, +and inventors at the present day; or sometimes a creature, with +exceptional powers of memory or reflection, would make his +appearance in this race or in that. We all profit by our +accidents as well as by our more cunning contrivances, so that +analogy would point in the direction of thinking that many of the +most happy thoughts in the animal and vegetable kingdom were +originated much as certain discoveries that have been made by +accident among ourselves. These would be originally blind +variations, though even so, probably less blind than we think, if +we could know the whole truth. When originated, they would +be eagerly taken advantage of and improved upon by the animal in +whom they appeared; but it cannot be supposed that they would be +very far in advance of the last step gained, more than are those +“flukes” which sometimes enable us to go so far +beyond our own ordinary powers. For if they were, the +animal would despair of repeating them. No creature hopes, +or even wishes, for very much more than he has been accustomed to +all his life, he and his family, and the others whom he can +understand, around him. It has been well said that +“enough” is always “a little more than one +has.” We do not try for things which we believe to be +beyond our reach, hence one would expect that the fortunes, as it +were, of animals should have been built up gradually. Our +own riches grow with our desires and the pains we take in pursuit +of them, and our desires vary and increase with our means of +gratifying them; but unless with men of exceptional business +aptitude, wealth grows gradually by the adding field to field and +farm to farm; so with the limbs and instincts of animals; these +are but the things they have made or bought with their money, or +with money that has been left them by their forefathers, which, +though it is neither silver nor gold, but faith and protoplasm +only, is good money and capital notwithstanding.</p> +<p>I have already admitted that instinct may be modified by food +or drugs, which may affect a structure or habit as powerfully as +we see certain poisons affect the structure of plants by +producing, as Mr. Darwin tells us, very complex galls upon their +leaves. I do not, therefore, for a moment insist on habit +as the sole cause of instinct. Every habit must have had +its originating cause, and the causes which have started one +habit will from time to time start or modify others; nor can I +explain why some individuals of a race should be cleverer than +others, any more than I can explain why they should exist at all; +nevertheless, I observe it to be a fact that differences in +intelligence and power of growth are universal in the individuals +of all those races which we can best watch. I also most +readily admit that the common course of nature would both cause +many variations to arise independently of any desire on the part +of the animal (much as we have lately seen that the moons of Mars +were on the point of being discovered three hundred years ago, +merely through Galileo sending to Kepler a Latin anagram which +Kepler could not understand, and arranged into the +line—“<i>Salve umbistineum geminatum Martia +prolem</i>,” and interpreted to mean that Mars had two +moons, whereas Galileo had meant to say “<i>Altissimum +planetam tergeminum observavi</i>,” meaning that he had +seen Saturn’s ring), and would also preserve and accumulate +such variations when they had arisen; but I can no more believe +that the wonderful adaptation of structures to needs, which we +see around us in such an infinite number of plants and animals, +can have arisen without a perception of those needs on the part +of the creature in whom the structure appears, than I can believe +that the form of the dray-horse or greyhound—so well +adapted both to the needs of the animal in his daily service to +man, and to the desires of man, that the creature should do him +this daily service—can have arisen without any desire on +man’s part to produce this particular structure, or without +the inherited habit of performing the corresponding actions for +man, on the part of the greyhound and dray-horse.</p> +<p>And I believe that this will be felt as reasonable by the +great majority of my readers. I believe that nine fairly +intelligent and observant men out of ten, if they were asked +which they thought most likely to have been the main cause of the +development of the various phases either of structure or instinct +which we see around us, namely—sense of need, or even whim, +and hence occasional discovery, helped by an occasional piece of +good luck, communicated, it may be, and generally adopted, long +practised, remembered by offspring, modified by changed +surroundings, and accumulated in the course of time—or, the +accumulation of small divergent, indefinite, and perfectly +unintelligent variations, preserved through the survival of their +possessor in the struggle for existence, and hence in time +leading to wide differences from the original type—would +answer in favour of the former alternative; and if for no other +cause yet for this—that in the human race, which we are +best able to watch, and between which and the lower animals no +difference in kind will, I think, be supposed, but only in +degree, we observe that progress must have an internal current +setting in a definite direction, but whither we know not for very +long beforehand; and that without such internal current there is +stagnation. Our own progress—or variation—is +due not to small, fortuitous inventions or modifications which +have enabled their fortunate possessors to survive in times of +difficulty, not, in fact, to strokes of luck (though these, of +course, have had some effect—but not more, probably, than +strokes of ill luck have counteracted) but to strokes of +cunning—to a sense of need, and to study of the past and +present which have given shrewd people a key with which to unlock +the chambers of the future.</p> +<p>Further, Mr. Darwin himself says (“Plants and Animals +under Domestication,” ii. p. 237, ed. 1875):—</p> +<p>“But I think we must take a broader view and conclude +that organic beings when subjected during several generations to +any change whatever in their conditions tend to vary: <i>the kind +of variation which ensues depending in most cases in a far higher +degree on the nature or constitution of the being</i>, <i>than on +the nature of the changed conditions</i>.” And this +we observe in man. The history of a man prior to his birth +is more important as far as his success or failure goes than his +surroundings after birth, important though these may indeed +be. The able man rises in spite of a thousand hindrances, +the fool fails in spite of every advantage. “Natural +selection,” however, does not make either the able man or +the fool. It only deals with him after other causes have +made him, and would seem in the end to amount to little more than +to a statement of the fact that when variations have arisen they +will accumulate. One cannot look, as has already been said, +for the origin of species in that part of the course of nature +which settles the preservation or extinction of variations which +have already arisen from some unknown cause, but one must look +for it in the causes that have led to variation at all. +These causes must get, as it were, behind the back of +“natural selection,” which is rather a shield and +hindrance to our perception of our own ignorance than an +explanation of what these causes are.</p> +<p>The remarks made above will apply equally to plants such as +the misletoe and red clover. For the sake of brevity I will +deal only with the misletoe, which seems to be the more striking +case. Mr. Darwin writes:—</p> +<p>“Naturalists continually refer to external conditions, +such as climate, food, &c., as the only possible cause of +variation. In one limited sense, as we shall hereafter see, +this may be true; but it is preposterous to attribute to mere +external conditions, the structure, for instance, of the +woodpecker, with its feet, tail, beak, and tongue, so admirably +adapted to catch insects under the bark of trees. In the +case of the misletoe, which draws its nourishment from certain +trees, which has seeds that must be transported by certain birds, +and which has flowers with separate sexes absolutely requiring +the agency of certain insects to bring pollen from one flower to +another, it is equally preposterous to account for the structure +of this parasite with its relations to several distinct organic +beings, by the effect of external conditions, or of habit, or of +the volition of the plant itself” (“Natural +Selection,” p. 3, ed. 1876).</p> +<p>I cannot see this. To me it seems still more +preposterous to account for it by the action of “natural +selection” operating upon indefinite variations. It +would be preposterous to suppose that a bird very different from +a woodpecker should have had a conception of a woodpecker, and so +by volition gradually grown towards it. So in like manner +with the misletoe. Neither plant nor bird knew how far they +were going, or saw more than a very little ahead as to the means +of remedying this or that with which they were dissatisfied, or +of getting this or that which they desired; but given perceptions +at all, and thus a sense of needs and of the gratification of +those needs, and thus hope and fear, and a sense of content and +discontent—given also the lowest power of gratifying those +needs—given also that some individuals have these powers in +a higher degree than others—given also continued +personality and memory over a vast extent of time—and the +whole phenomena of species and genera resolve themselves into an +illustration of the old proverb, that what is one man’s +meat is another man’s poison. Life in its lowest form +under the above conditions—and we cannot conceive of life +at all without them—would be bound to vary, and to result +after not so very many millions of years in the infinite forms +and instincts which we see around us.</p> +<h2><a name="page252"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +252</span>CHAPTER XIII.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">LAMARCK AND MR. DARWIN.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">It</span> will have been seen that in the +preceding pages the theory of evolution, as originally propounded +by Lamarck, has been more than once supported, as against the +later theory concerning it put forward by Mr. Darwin, and now +generally accepted.</p> +<p>It is not possible for me, within the limits at my command, to +do anything like justice to the arguments that may be brought +forward in favour of either of these two theories. Mr. +Darwin’s books are at the command of every one; and so much +has been discovered since Lamarck’s day, that if he were +living now, he would probably state his case very differently; I +shall therefore content myself with a few brief remarks, which +will hardly, however, aspire to the dignity of argument.</p> +<p>According to Mr. Darwin, differentiations of structure and +instinct have mainly come about through the accumulation of +small, fortuitous variations without intelligence or desire upon +the part of the creature varying; modification, however, through +desire and sense of need, is not denied entirely, inasmuch as +considerable effect is ascribed by Mr. Darwin to use and disuse, +which involves, as has been already said, the modification of a +structure in accordance with the wishes of its possessor.</p> +<p>According to Lamarck, genera and species have been evolved, in +the main, by exactly the same process as that by which human +inventions and civilisations are now progressing; and this +involves that intelligence, ingenuity, heroism, and all the +elements of romance, should have had the main share in the +development of every herb and living creature around us.</p> +<p>I take the following brief outline of the most important part +of Lamarck’s theory from vol. xxxvi. of the +Naturalist’s Library (Edinburgh, 1843):—</p> +<p>“The more simple bodies,” says the editor, giving +Lamarck’s opinion without endorsing it, “are easily +formed, and this being the case, it is easy to conceive how in +the lapse of time animals of a more complex structure should be +produced, <i>for it must be admitted as a fundamental law</i>, +<i>that the production of a new organ in an animal body results +from any new want or desire it may experience</i>. The +first effort of a being just beginning to develop itself must be +to procure subsistence, and hence in time there comes to be +produced a stomach or alimentary cavity.” (Thus we +saw that the amœba is in the habit of +“extemporising” a stomach when it wants one.) +“Other wants occasioned by circumstances will lead to other +efforts, which in their turn will generate new organs.”</p> +<p>Lamarck’s wonderful conception was hampered by an +unnecessary adjunct, namely, a belief in an inherent tendency +towards progressive development in every low organism. He +was thus driven to account for the presence of many very low and +very ancient organisms at the present day, and fell back upon the +theory, which is not yet supported by evidence, that such low +forms are still continually coming into existence from inorganic +matter. But there seems no necessity to suppose that all +low forms should possess an inherent tendency towards +progression. It would be enough that there should +occasionally arise somewhat more gifted specimens of one or more +original forms. These would vary, and the ball would be +thus set rolling, while the less gifted would remain <i>in statu +quo</i>, provided they were sufficiently gifted to escape +extinction.</p> +<p>Nor do I gather that Lamarck insisted on continued personality +and memory so as to account for heredity at all, and so as to see +life as a single, or as at any rate, only a few, vast compound +animals, but without the connecting organism between each +component item in the whole creature, which is found in animals +that are strictly called compound. Until continued +personality and memory are connected with the idea of heredity, +heredity of any kind is little more than a term for something +which one does not understand. But there seems little +<i>à priori</i> difficulty as regards Lamarck’s main +idea, now that Mr. Darwin has familiarised us with evolution, and +made us feel what a vast array of facts can be brought forward in +support of it.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin tells us, in the preface to his last edition of the +“Origin of Species,” that Lamarck was partly led to +his conclusions by the analogy of domestic productions. It +is rather hard to say what these words imply; they may mean +anything from a baby to an apple dumpling, but if they imply that +Lamarck drew inspirations from the gradual development of the +mechanical inventions of man, and from the progress of +man’s ideas, I would say that of all sources this would +seem to be the safest and most fertile from which to draw.</p> +<p>Plants and animals under domestication are indeed a suggestive +field for study, but machines are the manner in which man is +varying at this moment. We know how our own minds work, and +how our mechanical organisations—for, in all sober +seriousness, this is what it comes to—have progressed hand +in hand with our desires; sometimes the power a little ahead, and +sometimes the desire; sometimes both combining to form an organ +with almost infinite capacity for variation, and sometimes +comparatively early reaching the limit of utmost development in +respect of any new conception, and accordingly coming to a full +stop; sometimes making leaps and bounds, and sometimes advancing +sluggishly. Here we are behind the scenes, and can see how +the whole thing works. We have man, the very animal which +we can best understand, caught in the very act of variation, +through his own needs, and not through the needs of others; the +whole process is a natural one; the varying of a creature as much +in a wild state as the ants and butterflies are wild. There +is less occasion here for the continual “might be” +and “may be,” which we are compelled to put up with +when dealing with plants and animals, of the workings of whose +minds we can only obscurely judge. Also, there is more +prospect of pecuniary profit attaching to the careful study of +machinery than can be generally hoped for from the study of the +lower animals; and though I admit that this consideration should +not be carried too far, a great deal of very unnecessary +suffering will be spared to the lower animals; for much that +passes for natural history is little better than prying into +other people’s business, from no other motive than +curiosity. I would, therefore, strongly advise the reader +to use man, and the present races of man, and the growing +inventions and conceptions of man, as his guide, if he would seek +to form an independent judgement on the development of organic +life. For all growth is only somebody making something.</p> +<p>Lamarck’s theories fell into disrepute, partly because +they were too startling to be capable of ready fusion with +existing ideas; they were, in fact, too wide a cross for +fertility; partly because they fell upon evil times, during the +reaction that followed the French Revolution; partly because, +unless I am mistaken, he did not sufficiently link on the +experience of the race to that of the individual, nor perceive +the importance of the principle that consciousness, memory, +volition, intelligence, &c., vanish, or become latent, on +becoming intense. He also appears to have mixed up matter +with his system, which was either plainly wrong, or so incapable +of proof as to enable people to laugh at him, and pooh-pooh him; +but I believe it will come to be perceived, that he has received +somewhat scant justice at the hands of his successors, and that +his “crude theories,” as they have been somewhat +cheaply called, are far from having had their last say.</p> +<p>Returning to Mr. Darwin, we find, as we have already seen, +that it is hard to say exactly how much Mr. Darwin differs from +Lamarck, and how much he agrees with him. Mr. Darwin has +always maintained that use and disuse are highly important, and +this implies that the effect produced on the parent should be +remembered by the offspring, in the same way as the memory of a +wound is transmitted by one set of cells to succeeding ones, who +long repeat the scar, though it may fade finally away. +Also, after dealing with the manner in which one eye of a young +flat-fish travels round the head till both eyes are on the same +side of the fish, he gives (“Natural Selection,” p. +188, ed. 1875) an instance of a structure “which apparently +owes its origin exclusively to use or habit.” He +refers to the tail of some American monkeys “which has been +converted into a wonderfully perfect prehensile organ, and serves +as a fifth hand. A reviewer,” he continues, . . +. “remarks on this structure—‘It is +impossible to believe that in any number of ages the first slight +incipient tendency to grasp, could preserve the lives of the +individuals possessing it, or favour their chance of having and +of rearing offspring.’ But there is no necessity for +any such belief. Habit, and this almost implies that some +benefit, great or small, is thus derived, would in all +probability suffice for the work.” If, then, habit +can do this—and it is no small thing to develop a +wonderfully perfect prehensile organ which can serve as a fifth +hand—how much more may not habit do, even though unaided, +as Mr. Darwin supposes to have been the case in this instance, by +“natural selection”? After attributing many of +the structural and instinctive differences of plants and animals +to the effects of use—as we may plainly do with Mr. +Darwin’s own consent—after attributing a good deal +more to unknown causes, and a good deal to changed conditions, +which are bound, if at all important, to result either in +sterility or variation—how much of the work of originating +species is left for natural selection?—which, as Mr. Darwin +admits (“Natural Selection,” p. 63, ed. 1876), does +not <i>induce variability</i>, but “implies only the +preservation of <i>such variations as arise</i>, and are +beneficial to the being under its conditions of +life?” An important part assuredly, and one which we +can never sufficiently thank Mr. Darwin for having put so +forcibly before us, but an indirect part only, like the part +played by time and space, and not, I think, the one which Mr. +Darwin would assign to it.</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin himself has admitted that in the earlier editions +of his “Origin of Species” he “underrated, as +it now seems probable, the frequency and importance of +modifications due to spontaneous variability.” And +this involves the having over-rated the action of “natural +selection” as an agent in the evolution of species. +But one gathers that he still believes the accumulation of small +and fortuitous variations through the agency of “natural +selection” to be the main cause of the present divergencies +of structure and instinct. I do not, however, think that +Mr. Darwin is clear about his own meaning. I think the +prominence given to “natural selection” in connection +with the “origin of species” has led him, in spite of +himself, and in spite of his being on his guard (as is clearly +shown by the paragraph on page 63 “Natural +Selection,” above referred to), to regard “natural +selection” as in some way accounting for variation, just as +the use of the dangerous word +“spontaneous,”—though he is so often on his +guard against it, and so frequently prefaces it with the words +“so-called,”—would seem to have led him into +very serious confusion of thought in the passage quoted at the +beginning of this paragraph.</p> +<p>For after saying that he had underrated “the frequency +and importance of modifications due to spontaneous +variability,” he continues, “but it is impossible to +attribute to this cause the innumerable structures which are so +well adapted to the habits of life of each species.” +That is to say, it is impossible to attribute these innumerable +structures to spontaneous variability.</p> +<p>What <i>is</i> spontaneous variability?</p> +<p>Clearly, from his preceding paragraph, Mr. Darwin means only +“so-called spontaneous variations,” such as +“the appearance of a moss-rose on a common rose, or of a +nectarine on a peach-tree,” which he gives as good examples +of so-called spontaneous variation.</p> +<p>And these variations are, after all, due to causes, but to +unknown causes; spontaneous variation being, in fact, but another +name for variation due to causes which we know nothing about, but +in no possible sense a <i>cause of variation</i>. So that +when we come to put clearly before our minds exactly what the +sentence we are considering amounts to, it comes to this: that it +is impossible to attribute the innumerable structures which are +so well adapted to the habits of life of each species to +<i>unknown causes</i>.</p> +<p>“I can no more believe in <i>this</i>,” continues +Mr. Darwin, “than that the well-adapted form of a +race-horse or greyhound, which, before the principle of selection +by man was well understood, excited so much surprise in the minds +of the older naturalists, can <i>thus</i> be explained” +(“Natural Selection,” p. 171, ed. 1876).</p> +<p>Or, in other words, “I can no more believe that the +well-adapted structures of species are due to unknown causes, +than I can believe that the well-adapted form of a race-horse can +be explained by being attributed to unknown causes.”</p> +<p>I have puzzled over this paragraph for several hours with the +sincerest desire to get at the precise idea which underlies it, +but the more I have studied it the more convinced I am that it +does not contain, or at any rate convey, any clear or definite +idea at all. If I thought it was a mere slip, I should not +call attention to it; this book will probably have slips enough +of its own without introducing those of a great man +unnecessarily; but I submit that it is necessary to call +attention to it here, inasmuch as it is impossible to believe +that after years of reflection upon his subject, Mr. Darwin +should have written as above, especially in such a place, if his +mind was really clear about his own position. Immediately +after the admission of a certain amount of miscalculation, there +comes a more or less exculpatory sentence which sounds so right +that ninety-nine people out of a hundred would walk through it, +unless led by some exigency of their own position to examine it +closely but which yet upon examination proves to be as nearly +meaningless as a sentence can be.</p> +<p>The weak point in Mr. Darwin’s theory would seem to be a +deficiency, so to speak, of motive power to originate and direct +the variations which time is to accumulate. It deals +admirably with the accumulation of variations in creatures +already varying, but it does not provide a sufficient number of +sufficiently important variations to be accumulated. Given +the motive power which Lamarck suggested, and Mr. Darwin’s +mechanism would appear (with the help of memory, as bearing upon +reproduction, of continued personality, and hence of inherited +habit, and of the vanishing tendency of consciousness) to work +with perfect ease. Mr. Darwin has made us all feel that in +some way or other variations <i>are accumulated</i>, and that +evolution is the true solution of the present widely different +structures around us, whereas, before he wrote, hardly any one +believed this. However we may differ from him in detail, +the present general acceptance of evolution must remain as his +work, and a more valuable work can hardly be imagined. +Nevertheless, I cannot think that “natural +selection,” working upon small, fortuitous, indefinite, +unintelligent variations, would produce the results we see around +us. One wants something that will give a more definite aim +to variations, and hence, at times, cause bolder leaps in +advance. One cannot but doubt whether so many plants and +animals would be being so continually saved “by the skin of +their teeth,” as must be so saved if the variations from +which genera ultimately arise are as small in their commencement +and at each successive stage as Mr. Darwin seems to +believe. God—to use the language of the +Bible—is not extreme to mark what is done amiss, whether +with plant or beast or man; on the other hand, when towers of +Siloam fall, they fall on the just as well as the unjust.</p> +<p>One feels, on considering Mr. Darwin’s position, that if +it be admitted that there is in the lowest creature a power to +vary, no matter how small, one has got in this power as near the +“origin of species” as one can ever hope to +get. For no one professes to account for the origin of +life; but if a creature with a power to vary reproduces itself at +all, it must reproduce another creature <i>which shall also have +the power to vary</i>; so that, given time and space enough, +there is no knowing where such a creature could or would +stop.</p> +<p>If the primordial cell had been only capable of reproducing +itself once, there would have followed a single line of +descendants, the chain of which might at any moment have been +broken by casualty. Doubtless the millionth repetition +would have differed very materially from the original—as +widely, perhaps, as we differ from the primordial cell; but it +would only have differed by addition, and could no more in any +generation resume its latest development without having passed +through the initial stage of being what its first forefather was, +and doing what its first forefather did, and without going +through all or a sufficient number of the steps whereby it had +reached its latest differentiation, than water can rise above its +own level.</p> +<p>The very idea, then, of reproduction involves, unless I am +mistaken, that, no matter how much the creature reproducing +itself may gain in power and versatility, it must still always +begin <i>with itself again</i> in each generation. The +primordial cell being capable of reproducing itself not only +once, but many times over, each of the creatures which it +produces must be similarly gifted; hence the geometrical ratio of +increase and the existing divergence of type. In each +generation it will pass rapidly and unconsciously through all the +earlier stages of which there has been infinite experience, and +for which the conditions are reproduced with sufficient +similarity to cause no failure of memory or hesitation; but in +each generation, when it comes to the part in which the course is +not so clear, it will become conscious; still, however, where the +course is plain, as in breathing, digesting, &c., retaining +unconsciousness. Thus organs which present all the +appearance of being designed—as, for example, the tip for +its beak prepared by the embryo chicken—would be prepared +in the end, as it were, by rote, and without sense of design, +though none the less owing their origin to design.</p> +<p>The question is not concerning evolution, but as to the main +cause which has led to evolution in such and such shapes. +To me it seems that the “Origin of Variation,” +whatever it is, is the only true “Origin of Species,” +and that this must, as Lamarck insisted, be looked for in the +needs and experiences of the creatures varying. Unless we +can explain the origin of variations, we are met by the +unexplained <i>at every step</i> in the progress of a creature +from its original homogeneous condition to its differentiation, +we will say, as an elephant; so that to say that an elephant has +become an elephant through the accumulation of a vast number of +small, fortuitous, but unexplained, variations in some lower +creatures, is really to say that it has become an elephant owing +to a series of causes about which we know nothing whatever, or, +in other words, that one does not know how it came to be an +elephant. But to say that an elephant has become an +elephant owing to a series of variations, nine-tenths of which +were caused by the wishes of the creature or creatures from which +the elephant is descended—this is to offer a reason, and +definitely put the insoluble one step further back. The +question will then turn upon the sufficiency of the +reason—that is to say, whether the hypothesis is borne out +by facts.</p> +<p>The effects of competition would, of course, have an extremely +important effect upon any creature, in the same way as any other +condition of nature under which it lived, must affect its sense +of need and its opinions generally. The results of +competition would be, as it were, the decisions of an arbiter +settling the question whether such and such variation was really +to the animal’s advantage or not—a matter on which +the animal will, on the whole, have formed a pretty fair +judgement for itself. <i>Undoubtedly the past decisions of +such an arbiter would affect the conduct of the creature</i>, +which would have doubtless had its shortcomings and blunders, and +would amend them. The creature would shape its course +according to its experience of the common course of events, but +it would be continually trying and often successfully, to evade +the law by all manner of sharp practice. New precedents +would thus arise, so that the law would shift with time and +circumstances; but the law would not otherwise direct the +channels into which life would flow, than as laws, whether +natural or artificial, have affected the development of the +widely differing trades and professions among mankind. +These have had their origin rather in the needs and experiences +of mankind than in any laws.</p> +<p>To put much the same as the above in different words. +Assume that small favourable variations are preserved more +commonly, in proportion to their numbers, than is perhaps the +case, and assume that considerable variations occur more rarely +than they probably do occur, how account for any variation at +all? “Natural selection” cannot <i>create</i> +the smallest variation unless it acts through perception of its +mode of operation, recognised inarticulately, but none the less +clearly, by the creature varying. “Natural +selection” operates on what it finds, and not on what it +has made. Animals that have been wise and lucky live longer +and breed more than others less wise and lucky. +Assuredly. The wise and lucky animals transmit their wisdom +and luck. Assuredly. They add to their powers, and +diverge into widely different directions. Assuredly. +What is the cause of this? Surely the fact that they were +capable of feeling needs, and that they differed in their needs +and manner of gratifying them, and that they continued to live in +successive generations, rather than the fact that when lucky and +wise they thrived and bred more descendants. This last is +an accessory hardly less important for the <i>development</i> of +species than the fact of the continuation of life at all; but it +is an accessory of much the same kind as this, for if animals +continue to live at all, they must live <i>in some way</i>, and +will find that there are good ways and bad ways of living. +An animal which discovers the good way will gradually develop +further powers, and so species will get further and further +apart; but the origin of this is to be looked for, not in the +power which decides whether this or that way was good, but in the +cause which determines the creature, consciously or +unconsciously, to try this or that way.</p> +<p>But Mr. Darwin might say that this is not a fair way of +stating the issue. He might say, “You beg the +question; you assume that there is an inherent tendency in +animals towards progressive development, whereas I say that there +is no good evidence of any such tendency. I maintain that +the differences that have from time to time arisen have come +about mainly from causes so far beyond our ken, that we can only +call them spontaneous; and if so, natural selection which you +must allow to have at any rate played an important part in the +<i>accumulation</i> of variations, must also be allowed to be the +nearest thing to the cause of Specific differences, which we are +able to arrive at.”</p> +<p>Thus he writes (“Natural Selection,” p. 176, ed. +1876): “Although we have no good evidence of the existence +in organic beings of a tendency towards progressive development, +yet this necessarily follows, as I have attempted to show in the +fourth chapter, through the continued action of natural +selection.” Mr. Darwin does not say that organic +beings have no tendency to vary at all, but only that there is no +good evidence that they have a tendency to progressive +development, which, I take it, means, to see an ideal a long way +off, and very different to their present selves, which ideal they +think will suit them, and towards which they accordingly +make. I would admit this as contrary to all +experience. I doubt whether plants and animals have any +<i>innate tendency to vary</i> at all, being led to question this +by gathering from “Plants and Animals under +Domestication” that this is Mr. Darwin’s own +opinion. I am inclined rather to think that they have only +an innate <i>power to vary</i> slightly, in accordance with +changed conditions, and an innate capability of being affected +both in structure and instinct, by causes similar to those which +we observe to affect ourselves. But however this may be, +they do vary somewhat, and unless they did, they would not in +time have come to be so widely different from each other as they +now are. The question is as to the origin and character of +these variations.</p> +<p>We say they mainly originate in a creature through a sense of +its needs, and vary through the varying surroundings which will +cause those needs to vary, and through the opening up of new +desires in many creatures, as the consequence of the +gratification of old ones; they depend greatly on differences of +individual capacity and temperament; they are communicated, and +in the course of time transmitted, as what we call hereditary +habits or structures, though these are only, in truth, intense +and epitomised memories of how certain creatures liked to deal +with protoplasm. The question whether this or that is +really good or ill, is settled, as the proof of the pudding by +the eating thereof, <i>i.e.</i>, by the rigorous competitive +examinations through which most living organisms must pass. +Mr. Darwin says that there is no good evidence in support of any +great principle, or tendency on the part of the creature itself, +which would steer variation, as it were, and keep its head +straight, but that the most marvellous adaptations of structures +to needs are simply the result of small and blind variations, +accumulated by the operation of “natural selection,” +which is thus the main cause of the origin of species.</p> +<p>Enough has perhaps already been said to make the reader feel +that the question wants reopening; I shall, therefore, here only +remark that we may assume no fundamental difference as regards +intelligence, memory, and sense of needs to exist between man and +the lowest animals, and that in man we do distinctly see a +tendency towards progressive development, operating through his +power of profiting by and transmitting his experience, but +operating in directions which man cannot foresee for any long +distance. We also see this in many of the higher animals +under domestication, as with horses which have learnt to canter +and dogs which point; more especially we observe it along the +line of latest development, where equilibrium of settled +convictions has not yet been fully attained. One neither +finds nor expects much <i>a priori</i> knowledge, whether in man +or beast; but one does find some little in the beginnings of, and +throughout the development of, every habit, at the commencement +of which, and on every successive improvement in which, deductive +and inductive methods are, as it were, fused. Thus the +effect, where we can best watch its causes, seems mainly produced +by a desire for a definite object—in some cases a serious +and sensible desire, in others an idle one, in others, again, a +mistaken one; and sometimes by a blunder which, in the hands of +an otherwise able creature, has turned up trumps. In wild +animals and plants the divergences have been accumulated, if they +answered to the prolonged desires of the creature itself, and if +these desires were to its true ultimate good; with plants or +animals under domestication they have been accumulated if they +answered a little to the original wishes of the creature, and +much, to the wishes of man. As long as man continued to +like them, they would be advantageous to the creature; when he +tired of them, they would be disadvantageous to it, and would +accumulate no longer. Surely the results produced in the +adaptation of structure to need among many plants and insects are +better accounted for on this, which I suppose to be +Lamarck’s view, namely, by supposing that what goes on +amongst ourselves has gone on amongst all creatures, than by +supposing that these adaptations are the results of perfectly +blind and unintelligent variations.</p> +<p>Let me give two examples of such adaptations, taken from Mr. +St. George Mivart’s “Genesis of Species,” to +which work I would wish particularly to call the reader’s +attention. He should also read Mr. Darwin’s answers +to Mr. Mivart (p. 176, “Natural Selection,” ed. 1876, +and onwards).</p> +<p>Mr. Mivart writes:—</p> +<p>“Some insects which imitate leaves extend the imitation +even to the very injuries on those leaves made by the attacks of +insects or fungi. Thus speaking of the walking-stick +insects, Mr. Wallace says, ‘One of these creatures obtained +by myself in Borneo (<i>ceroxylus laceratus</i>) was covered over +with foliaceous excrescences of a clear olive green colour, so as +exactly to resemble a stick grown over by a creeping moss or +jungermannia. The Dyak who brought it me assured me it was +grown over with moss, though alive, and it was only after a most +minute examination that I could convince myself it was not +so.’ Again, as to the leaf butterfly, he says, +‘We come to a still more extraordinary part of the +imitation, for we find representations of leaves in every stage +of decay, variously blotched, and mildewed, and pierced with +holes, and in many cases irregularly covered with powdery black +dots, gathered into patches and spots so closely resembling the +various kinds of minute fungi that grow on dead leaves, that it +is impossible to avoid thinking at first sight that the +butterflies themselves have been attacked by real +fungi.’”</p> +<p>I can no more believe that these artificial fungi in which the +moth arrays itself are due to the accumulation of minute, +perfectly blind, and unintelligent variations, than I can believe +that the artificial flowers which a woman wears in her hat can +have got there without design; or that a detective puts on plain +clothes without the slightest intention of making his victim +think that he is not a policeman.</p> +<p>Again Mr. Mivart writes:—</p> +<p>“In the work just referred to (‘The Fertilisation +of Orchids’), Mr. Darwin gives a series of the most +wonderful and minute contrivances, by which the visits of insects +are utilised for the fertilisation of orchids—structures so +wonderful that nothing could well be more so, except the +attribution of their origin to minute, fortuitous, and indefinite +variations.</p> +<p>“The instances are too numerous and too long to quote, +but in his ‘Origin of Species’ he describes two which +must not be passed over. In one (<i>coryanthes</i>) the +orchid has its lower lip enlarged into a bucket, above which +stand two water-secreting horns. These latter replenish the +bucket, from which, when half-filled, the water overflows by a +spout on one side. Bees visiting the flower fall into the +bucket and crawl out at the spout. By the peculiar +arrangement of the parts of the flower, the first bee which does +so, carries away the pollen mass glued to his back, and then when +he has his next involuntary bath in another flower, as he crawls +out, the pollen attached to him comes in contact with the stigma +of that second flower and fertilises it. In the other +example (<i>catasetum</i>), when a bee gnaws a certain part of +the flower, he inevitably touches a long delicate projection +which Mr. Darwin calls the ‘antenna.’ +‘This antenna transmits a vibration to a membrane which is +instantly ruptured; this sets free a spring by which the pollen +mass is shot forth like an arrow in the right direction, and +adheres by its viscid extremity to the back of the +bee’” (“Genesis of Species,” p. 63).</p> +<p>No one can tell a story so charmingly as Mr. Darwin, but I can +no more believe that all this has come about without design on +the part of the orchid, and a gradual perception of the +advantages it is able to take over the bee, and a righteous +determination to enjoy them, than I can believe that a mousetrap +or a steam-engine is the result of the accumulation of blind +minute fortuitous variations in a creature called man, which +creature has never wanted either mousetraps or steam-engines, but +has had a sort of promiscuous tendency to make them, and was +benefited by making them, so that those of the race who had a +tendency to make them survived and left issue, which issue would +thus naturally tend to make more mousetraps and more +steam-engines.</p> +<p>Pursuing this idea still further, can we for a moment believe +that these additions to our limbs—for this is what they +are—have mainly come about through the occasional birth of +individuals, who, without design on their own parts, nevertheless +made them better or worse, and who, accordingly, either survived +and transmitted their improvement, or perished, they and their +incapacity together?</p> +<p>When I can believe in this, then—and not till +then—can I believe in an origin of species which does not +resolve itself mainly into sense of need, faith, intelligence, +and memory. Then, and not till then, can I believe that +such organs as the eye and ear can have arisen in any other way +than as the result of that kind of mental ingenuity, and of moral +as well as physical capacity, without which, till then, I should +have considered such an invention as the steam-engine to be +impossible.</p> +<h2><a name="page273"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +273</span>CHAPTER XIV.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">MR. MIVART AND MR. DARWIN.</span></h2> +<p>“A <span class="smcap">distinguished</span> zoologist, +Mr. St. George Mivart,” writes Mr. Darwin, “has +recently collected all the objections which have ever been +advanced by myself and others against the theory of natural +selection, as propounded by Mr. Wallace and myself, and has +illustrated them with admirable art and force” +(“Natural Selection,” p. 176, ed. 1876). I have +already referred the reader to Mr. Mivart’s work, but quote +the above passage as showing that Mr. Mivart will not, probably, +be found to have left much unsaid that would appear to make +against Mr. Darwin’s theory. It is incumbent upon me +both to see how far Mr. Mivart’s objections are weighty as +against Mr. Darwin, and also whether or not they tell with equal +force against the view which I am myself advocating. I will +therefore touch briefly upon the most important of them, with the +purpose of showing that they are serious as against the doctrine +that small fortuitous variations are the origin of species, but +that they have no force against evolution as guided by +intelligence and memory.</p> +<p>But before doing this, I would demur to the words used by Mr. +Darwin, and just quoted above, namely, “the theory of +natural selection.” I imagine that I see in them the +fallacy which I believe to run through almost all Mr. +Darwin’s work, namely, that “natural selection” +is a theory (if, indeed, it can be a theory at all), in some way +accounting for the origin of variation, and so of +species—“natural selection,” as we have already +seen, being unable to “induce variability,” and being +only able to accumulate what—on the occasion of each +successive variation, and so during the whole process—must +have been originated by something else.</p> +<p>Again, Mr. Darwin writes—“In considering the +origin of species it is quite conceivable that a naturalist, +reflecting on the mutual affinities of organic beings, or their +embryological relations, their geographical distribution, +geological succession, and other such facts, might come to the +conclusion that species had not been independently created, but +had descended, like varieties from other species. +Nevertheless, such a conclusion, even if well founded, would be +unsatisfactory, until it could be shown how the innumerable +species inhabiting this world had been modified, so as to acquire +that perfection of structure and co-adaptation which justly +excites our admiration” (“Origin of Species,” +p. 2, ed. 1876).</p> +<p>After reading the above we feel that nothing more satisfactory +could be desired. We are sure that we are in the hands of +one who can indeed tell us “how the innumerable species +inhabiting this world have been modified,” and we are no +less sure that though others may have written upon the subject +before, there has been, as yet, no satisfactory explanation put +forward of the grand principle upon which modification has +proceeded. Then follows a delightful volume, with facts +upon facts concerning animals, all showing that species is due to +successive small modifications accumulated in the course of +nature. But one cannot suppose that Lamarck ever doubted +this; for he can never have meant to say, that a low form of life +made itself into an elephant at one or two great bounds; and if +he did not mean this, he must have meant that it made itself into +an elephant through the accumulation of small successive +modifications; these, he must have seen, were capable of +accumulation in the scheme of nature, though he may not have +dwelt on the manner in which this is accomplished, inasmuch as it +is obviously a matter of secondary importance in comparison with +the origin of the variations themselves. We believe, +however, throughout Mr. Darwin’s book, that we are being +told what we expected to be told; and so convinced are we, by the +facts adduced, that in some way or other evolution must be true, +and so grateful are we for being allowed to think this, that we +put down the volume without perceiving that, whereas Lamarck +<i>did</i> adduce a great and general cause of variation, the +insufficiency of which, in spite of errors of detail, has yet to +be shown, Mr. Darwin’s main cause of variation resolves +itself into a confession of ignorance.</p> +<p>This, however, should detract but little from our admiration +for Mr. Darwin’s achievement. Any one can make people +see a thing if he puts it in the right way, but Mr. Darwin made +us see evolution, in spite of his having put it, in what seems to +not a few, an exceedingly mistaken way. Yet his triumph is +complete, for no matter how much any one now moves the +foundation, he cannot shake the superstructure, which has become +so currently accepted as to be above the need of any support from +reason, and to be as difficult to destroy as it was originally +difficult of construction. Less than twenty years ago, we +never met with, or heard of, any one who accepted evolution; we +did not even know that such a doctrine had been ever broached; +unless it was that some one now and again said that there was a +very dreadful book going about like a rampant lion, called +“Vestiges of Creation,” whereon we said that we would +on no account read it, lest it should shake our faith; then we +would shake our heads and talk of the preposterous folly and +wickedness of such shallow speculations. Had not the book +of Genesis been written for our learning? Yet, now, who +seriously disputes the main principles of evolution? I +cannot believe that there is a bishop on the bench at this moment +who does not accept them; even the “holy priests” +themselves bless evolution as their predecessors blessed +Cleopatra—when they ought not. It is not he who first +conceives an idea, nor he who sets it on its legs and makes it go +on all fours, but he who makes other people accept the main +conclusion, whether on right grounds or on wrong ones, who has +done the greatest work as regards the promulgation of an +opinion. And this is what Mr. Darwin has done for +evolution. He has made us think that we know the origin of +species, and so of genera, in spite of his utmost efforts to +assure us that we know nothing of the causes from which the vast +majority of modifications have arisen—that is to say, he +has made us think we know the whole road, though he has almost +ostentatiously blindfolded us at every step of the journey. +But to the end of time, if the question be asked, “Who +taught people to believe in evolution?” there can only be +one answer—that it was Mr. Darwin.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p>Mr. Mivart urges with much force the difficulty of +<i>starting</i> any modification on which “natural +selection” is to work, and of getting a creature to vary in +any definite direction. Thus, after quoting from Mr. +Wallace some of the wonderful cases of “mimicry” +which are to be found among insects, he writes:—</p> +<p>“Now, let us suppose that the ancestors of these various +animals were all destitute of the very special protection they at +present possess, as on the Darwinian hypothesis we must do. +Let it be also conceded that small deviations from the antecedent +colouring or form would tend to make some of their ancestors +escape destruction, by causing them more or less frequently to be +passed over or mistaken by their persecutors. Yet the +deviation must, as the event has shown, in each case, be in some +definite direction, whether it be towards some other animal or +plant, or towards some dead or inorganic matter. But as, +according to Mr. Darwin’s theory, there is a constant +tendency to indefinite variation, and as the minute incipient +variations will be <i>in all directions</i>, they must tend to +neutralise each other, and at first to form such unstable +modifications, that it is difficult, if not impossible, to see +how such indefinite modifications of insignificant beginnings can +ever build up a sufficiently appreciable resemblance to a leaf, +bamboo, or other object for “natural selection,” to +seize upon and perpetuate. This difficulty is augmented +when we consider—a point to be dwelt upon +hereafter—how necessary it is that many individuals should +be similarly modified simultaneously. This has been +insisted on in an able article in the ‘North British +Review’ for June 1867, p. 286, and the consideration of the +article has occasioned Mr. Darwin” (“Origin of +Species,” 5th ed., p. 104) “to make an important +modification in his views” (“Genesis of +Species,” p. 38).</p> +<p>To this Mr. Darwin rejoins:—</p> +<p>“But in all the foregoing cases the insects in their +original state, no doubt, presented some rude and accidental +resemblance to an object commonly found in the stations +frequented by them. Nor is this improbable, considering the +almost infinite number of surrounding objects, and the diversity +of form and colour of the host of insects that exist” +(“Natural Selection,” p. 182, ed. 1876).</p> +<p>Mr. Mivart has just said: “It is difficult to see how +such indefinite modifications of insignificant beginnings <i>can +ever build up a sufficiently appreciable resemblance to a +leaf</i>, <i>bamboo</i>, <i>or other object</i>, <i>for</i> +‘<i>natural selection</i>’ <i>to work +upon</i>.”</p> +<p>The answer is, that “natural selection” did not +begin to work <i>until</i>, <i>from unknown causes</i>, <i>an +appreciable resemblance had nevertheless been +presented</i>. I think the reader will agree with me that +the development of the lowest life into a creature which bears +even “a rude resemblance” to the objects commonly +found in the station in which it is moving in its present +differentiation, requires more explanation than is given by the +word “accidental.”</p> +<p>Mr. Darwin continues: “As some rude resemblance is +necessary for the first start,” &c.; and a little lower +he writes: “Assuming that an insect originally happened to +resemble in some degree a dead twig or a decayed leaf, and that +it varied slightly in many ways, then all the variations which +rendered the insect at all more like any such object, and thus +favoured its escape, would be preserved, while other variations +would be neglected, and ultimately lost, or if they rendered the +insect at all less like the imitated object, they would be +eliminated.”</p> +<p>But here, again, we are required to begin with Natural +Selection when the work is already in great part done, owing to +causes about which we are left completely in the dark; we may, I +think, fairly demur to the insects <i>originally</i> happening to +resemble in some degree a dead twig or a decayed leaf. And +when we bear in mind that the variations, being supposed by Mr. +Darwin to be indefinite, or devoid of aim, will appear in every +direction, we cannot forget what Mr. Mivart insists upon, namely, +that the chances of many favourable variations being counteracted +by other unfavourable ones in the same creature are not +inconsiderable. Nor, again, is it likely that the +favourable variation would make its mark upon the race, and +escape being absorbed in the course of a few generations, +unless—as Mr. Mivart elsewhere points out, in a passage to +which I shall call the reader’s attention presently—a +larger number of similarly varying creatures made their +appearance at the same time than there seems sufficient reason to +anticipate, if the variations can be called fortuitous.</p> +<p>“There would,” continues Mr. Darwin, “indeed +be force in Mr. Mivart’s objection if we were to attempt to +account for the above resemblances, independently of +‘natural selection,’ through mere fluctuating +variability; but as the case stands, there is none.”</p> +<p>This comes to saying that, if there was no power in nature +which operates so that of all the many fluctuating variations, +those only are preserved which tend to the resemblance which is +beneficial to the creature, then indeed there would be difficulty +in understanding how the resemblance could have come about; but +that as there is a beneficial resemblance to start with, and as +there is a power in nature which would preserve and accumulate +further beneficial resemblance, should it arise from this cause +or that, the difficulty is removed. But Mr. Mivart does +not, I take it, deny the existence of such a power in nature, as +Mr. Darwin supposes, though, if I understand him rightly, he does +not see that its operation <i>upon small fortuitous +variations</i> is at all the simple and obvious process, which on +a superficial view of the case it would appear to be. He +thinks—and I believe the reader will agree with +him—that this process is too slow and too risky. What +he wants to know is, how the insect came even rudely to resemble +the object, and how, if its variations are indefinite, we are +ever to get into such a condition as to be able to report +progress, owing to the constant liability of the creature which +has varied favourably, to play the part of Penelope and undo its +work, by varying in some one of the infinite number of other +directions which are open to it—all of which, except this +one, tend to destroy the resemblance, and yet may be in some +other respect even more advantageous to the creature, and so tend +to its preservation. Moreover, here, too, I think (though I +cannot be sure), we have a recurrence of the original fallacy in +the words—“If we were to account for the above +resemblances, independently of ‘natural selection,’ +through mere fluctuating variability.” Surely Mr. +Darwin does, after all, “account for the resemblances +through mere fluctuating variability,” for “natural +selection” does not account for one single variation in the +whole list of them from first to last, other than indirectly, as +shewn in the preceding chapter.</p> +<p>It is impossible for me to continue this subject further; but +I would beg the reader to refer to other paragraphs in the +neighbourhood of the one just quoted, in which he +may—though I do not think he will—see reason to think +that I should have given Mr. Darwin’s answer more +fully. I do not quote Mr. Darwin’s next paragraph, +inasmuch as I see no great difficulty about “the last +touches of perfection in mimicry,” provided Mr. +Darwin’s theory will account for any mimicry at all. +If it could do this, it might as well do more; but a strong +impression is left on my mind, that without the help of something +over and above the power to vary, which should give a definite +aim to variations, all the “natural selection” in the +world would not have prevented stagnation and +self-stultification, owing to the indefinite tendency of the +variations, which thus could not have developed either a preyer +or a preyee, but would have gone round and round and round the +primordial cell till they were weary of it.</p> +<p>As against Mr. Darwin, therefore, I think that the objection +just given from Mr. Mivart is fatal. I believe, also, that +the reader will feel the force of it much more strongly if he +will turn to Mr. Mivart’s own pages. Against the view +which I am myself supporting, the objection breaks down entirely, +for grant “a little dose of judgement and reason” on +the part of the creature itself—grant also continued +personality and memory—and a definite tendency is at once +given to the variations. The process is thus started, and +is kept straight, and helped forward through every stage by +“the little dose of reason,” &c., which enabled +it to take its first step. We are, in fact, no longer +without a helm, but can steer each creature that is so +discontented with its condition, as to make a serious effort to +better itself, into <i>some</i>—and into a very +distant—harbour.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p>It has been objected against Mr. Darwin’s theory that if +all species and genera have come to differ through the +accumulation of minute but—as a general +rule—fortuitous variations, there has not been time enough, +so far as we are able to gather, for the evolution of all +existing forms by so slow a process. On this subject I +would again refer the reader to Mr. Mivart’s book, from +which I take the following:—</p> +<p>“Sir William Thompson has lately advanced arguments from +three distinct lines of inquiry agreeing in one approximate +result. The three lines of inquiry are—(1) the action +of the tides upon the earth’s rotation; (2) the probable +length of time during which the sun has illuminated this planet; +and (3) the temperature of the interior of the earth. The +result arrived at by these investigations is a conclusion that +the existing state of things on the earth, life on the earth, all +geological history showing continuity of life, must be limited +within some such period of past time as one hundred million +years. The first question which suggests itself, supposing +Sir W. Thompson’s views to be correct, is: Has this period +been anything like enough for the evolution of all organic forms +by ‘natural selection’? The second is: Has the +period been anything like enough for the deposition of the strata +which must have been deposited if all organic forms have been +evolved by minute steps, according to the Darwinian +theory?” (“Genesis of Species,” p. +154).</p> +<p>Mr. Mivart then quotes from Mr. Murphy—whose work I have +not seen—the following passage:—</p> +<p>“Darwin justly mentions the greyhound as being equal to +any natural species in the perfect co-ordination of its parts, +‘all adapted for extreme fleetness and for running down +weak prey.’ Yet it is an artificial species (and not +physiologically a species at all) formed by a long-continued +selection under domestication; and there is no reason to suppose +that any of the variations which have been selected to form it +have been other than gradual and almost imperceptible. +Suppose that it has taken five hundred years to form the +greyhound out of his wolf-like ancestor. This is a mere +guess, but it gives the order of magnitude. Now, if so, how +long would it take to obtain an elephant from a protozoon or even +from a tadpole-like fish? Ought it not to take much more +than a million times as long?” (“Genesis of +Species,” p. 155).</p> +<p>I should be very sorry to pronounce any opinion upon the +foregoing data; but a general impression is left upon my mind, +that if the differences between an elephant and a tadpole-like +fish have arisen from the accumulation of small variations that +have had no direction given them by intelligence and sense of +needs, then no time conceivable by man would suffice for their +development. But grant “a little dose of reason and +judgement,” even to animals low down in the scale of +nature, and grant this, not only during their later life, but +during their embryological existence, and see with what +infinitely greater precision of aim and with what increased speed +the variations would arise. Evolution entirely unaided by +inherent intelligence must be a very slow, if not quite +inconceivable, process. Evolution helped by intelligence +would still be slow, but not so desperately slow. One can +conceive that there has been sufficient time for the second, but +one cannot conceive it for the first.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p>I find from Mr. Mivart that objection has been taken to Mr. +Darwin’s views, on account of the great odds that exist +against the appearance of any given variation at one and the same +time, in a sufficient number of individuals, to prevent its being +obliterated almost as soon as produced by the admixture of +unvaried blood which would so greatly preponderate around it; and +indeed the necessity for a nearly simultaneous and similar +variation, or readiness so to vary on the part of many +individuals, seems almost a postulate for evolution at all. +On this subject Mr. Mivart writes:—</p> +<p>“The ‘North British Review’ (speaking of the +supposition that species is changed by the survival of a few +individuals in a century through a similar and favourable +variation) says—</p> +<p>“‘It is very difficult to see how this can be +accomplished, even when the variation is eminently favourable +indeed; and still more, when the advantage gained is very slight, +as must generally be the case. The advantage, whatever it +may be, is utterly outbalanced by numerical inferiority. A +million creatures are born; ten thousand survive to produce +offspring. One of the million has twice as good a chance as +any other of surviving, but the chances are fifty to one against +the gifted individuals being one of the hundred survivors. +No doubt the chances are twice as great against any other +individual, but this does not prevent their being enormously in +favour of <i>some</i> average individual. However slight +the advantage may be, if it is shared by half the individuals +produced, it will probably be present in at least fifty-one of +the survivors, and in a larger proportion of their offspring; but +the chances are against the preservation of any one +“sport” (<i>i.e.</i>, sudden marked variation) in a +numerous tribe. The vague use of an imperfectly-understood +doctrine of chance, has led Darwinian supporters, first, to +confuse the two cases above distinguished, and secondly, to +imagine that a very slight balance in favour of some individual +sport must lead to its perpetuation. All that can be said +is that in the above example the favoured sport would be +preserved once in fifty times. Let us consider what will be +its influence on the main stock when preserved. It will +breed and have a progeny of say 100; now this progeny will, on +the whole, be intermediate between the average individual and the +sport. The odds in favour of one of this generation of the +new breed will be, say one and a half to one, as compared with +the average individual; the odds in their favour will, therefore, +be less than that of their parents; but owing to their greater +number the chances are that about one and a half of them would +survive. Unless these breed together—a most +improbable event—their progeny would again approach the +average individual; there would be 150 of them, and their +superiority would be, say in the ratio of one and a quarter to +one; the probability would now be that nearly two of them would +survive, and have 200 children with an eighth superiority. +Rather more than two of these would survive; but the superiority +would again dwindle; until after a few generations it would no +longer be observed, and would count for no more in the struggle +for life than any of the hundred trifling advantages which occur +in the ordinary organs.</p> +<p>“‘An illustration will bring this conception +home. Suppose a white man to have been wrecked on an island +inhabited by negroes, and to have established himself in friendly +relations with a powerful tribe, whose customs he has +learnt. Suppose him to possess the physical strength, +energy, and ability of a dominant white race, and let the food of +the island suit his constitution; grant him every advantage which +we can conceive a white to possess over the native; concede that +in the struggle for existence, his chance of a long life will be +much superior to that of the native chiefs; yet from all these +admissions there does not follow the conclusion, that after a +limited or unlimited number of generations, the inhabitants of +the island will be white. Our shipwrecked hero would +probably become king; he would kill a great many blacks in the +struggle for existence; he would have a great many wives and +children . . . In the first generation there will be some dozens +of intelligent young mulattoes, much superior in average +intelligence to the negroes. We might expect the throne for +some generations to be occupied by a more or less yellow king; +but can any one believe that the whole island will gradually +acquire a white, or even a yellow population? . . . Darwin says, +that in the struggle for life a grain may turn the balance in +favour of a given structure, which will then be preserved. +But one of the weights in the scale of nature is due to the +number of a given tribe. Let there be 7000 A’s and +7000 B’s representing two varieties of a given animal, and +let all the B’s, in virtue of a slight difference of +structure, have the better chance by one-thousandth part. +We must allow that there is a slight probability that the +descendants of B will supplant the descendants of A; but let +there be 7001 A’s against 7000 B’s at first, and the +chances are once more equal, while if there be 7002 A’s to +start, the odds would be laid on the A’s. Thus they +stand a greater chance of being killed; but, then, they can +better afford to be killed. The grain will only turn the +scales when these are very nicely balanced, and an advantage in +numbers counts for weight, even as an advantage in +structure. As the numbers of the favoured variety diminish, +so must its relative advantages increase, if the chance of its +existence is to surpass the chance of its extinction, until +hardly any conceivable advantage would enable the descendants of +a single pair to exterminate the descendants of many thousands, +if they and their descendants are supposed to breed freely with +the inferior variety, and so gradually lose their +ascendancy,’” (“North British Review,” +June 1867, p. 286 “Genesis of Species,” p. 64, and +onwards).</p> +<p>Against this it should be remembered that there is always an +antecedent probability that several specimens of a given +variation would appear at one time and place. This would +probably be the case even on Mr. Darwin’s hypothesis, that +the variations are fortuitous; if they are mainly guided by sense +of need and intelligence, it would almost certainly be so, for +all would have much the same idea as to their well-being, and the +same cause which would lead one to vary in this direction would +lead not a few others to do so at the same time, or to follow +suit. Thus we see that many human ideas and inventions have +been conceived independently but simultaneously. The +chances, moreover, of specimens that have varied successfully, +intermarrying, are, I think, greater than the reviewer above +quoted from would admit. I believe that on the hypothesis +that the variations are fortuitous, and certainly on the +supposition that they are intelligent, they might be looked for +in members of the same family, who would hence have a better +chance of finding each other out. Serious as is the +difficulty advanced by the reviewer as against Mr. Darwin’s +theory, it may be in great measure parried without departing from +Mr. Darwin’s own position, but the “little dose of +judgement and reason” removes it, absolutely and +entirely. As for the reviewer’s shipwrecked hero, +surely the reviewer must know that Mr. Darwin would no more +expect an island of black men to be turned white, or even +perceptibly whitened after a few generations, than the reviewer +himself would do so. But if we turn from what +“might” or what “would” happen to what +“does” happen, we find that a few white families have +nearly driven the Indian from the United States, the Australian +natives from Australia, and the Maories from New Zealand. +True, these few families have been helped by immigration; but it +will be admitted that this has only accelerated a result which +would otherwise, none the less surely, have been effected.</p> +<p>There is all the difference between a sudden sport, or even a +variety introduced from a foreign source, and the gradual, +intelligent, and, in the main, steady, growth of a race towards +ends always a little, but not much, in advance of what it can at +present compass, until it has reached equilibrium with its +surroundings. So far as Mr. Darwin’s variations are +of the nature of “sport,” <i>i.e.</i>, rare, and +owing to nothing that we can in the least assign to any known +cause, the reviewer’s objections carry much weight. +Against the view here advocated, they are powerless.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p>I cannot here go into the difficulties of the geologic record, +but they too will, I believe, be felt to be almost infinitely +simplified by supposing the development of structure and instinct +to be guided by intelligence and memory, which, even under +unstable conditions, would be able to meet in some measure the +demands made upon them.</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p>When Mr. Mivart deals with evolution and ethics, I am afraid +that I differ from him even more widely than I have done from Mr. +Darwin. He writes (“Genesis of Species,” p. +234): “That ‘natural selection’ could not have +produced from the sensations of pleasure and pain experienced by +brutes a higher degree of morality than was useful; therefore it +could have produced any amount of ‘beneficial +habits,’ but not abhorrence of certain acts as impure and +sinful.”</p> +<p>Possibly “natural selection” may not be able to do +much in the way of accumulating variations that do not arise; but +that, according to the views supported in this volume, all that +is highest and most beautiful in the soul, as well as in the +body, could be, and has been, developed from beings lower than +man, I do not greatly doubt. Mr. Mivart and myself should +probably differ as to what is and what is not beautiful. +Thus he writes of “the noble virtue of a Marcus +Aurelius” (p. 235), than whom, for my own part, I know few +respectable figures in history to whom I am less attracted. +I cannot but think that Mr. Mivart has taken his estimate of this +emperor at second-hand, and without reference to the writings +which happily enable us to form a fair estimate of his real +character.</p> +<p>Take the opening paragraphs of the “Thoughts” of +Marcus Aurelius, as translated by Mr. Long:—</p> +<p>“From the reputation and remembrance of my father [I +learned] modesty and a manly character; from my mother, piety and +beneficence, abstinence not only from evil deeds, but even from +evil thoughts. . . . From my great-grandfather, not to have +frequented public schools, and to have had good teachers at home, +and to know that on such things a man should spend liberally . . +. From Diognetus . . . [I learned] to have become intimate with +philosophy, . . . and to have written dialogues in my youth, and +to have desired a plank bed and skin, and whatever else of the +kind belongs to the Greek discipline. . . . From Rusticus I +received the impression that my character required improvement +and discipline;” and so on to the end of the chapter, near +which, however, it is right to say that there appears a redeeming +touch, in so far as that he thanks the gods that he could not +write poetry, and that he had never occupied himself about the +appearance of things in the heavens.</p> +<p>Or, again, opening Mr. Long’s translation at random I +find (p. 37):—</p> +<p>“As physicians have always their instruments and knives +ready for cases which suddenly require their skill, so do thou +have principles ready for the understanding of things divine and +human, and for doing everything, even the smallest, with a +recollection of the bond that unites the divine and human to one +another. For neither wilt thou do anything well which +pertains to man without at the same time having a reference to +things divine; nor the contrary.”</p> +<p>Unhappy one! No wonder the Roman empire went to pieces +soon after him. If I remember rightly, he established and +subsidised professorships in all parts of his dominions. +Whereon the same befell the arts and literature of Rome as befell +Italian painting after the Academic system had taken root at +Bologna under the Caracci. Mr. Martin Tupper, again, is an +amiable and well-meaning man, but we should hardly like to see +him in Lord Beaconsfield’s place. The Athenians +poisoned Socrates; and Aristophanes—than whom few more +profoundly religious men have ever been born—did not, so +far as we can gather, think the worse of his countrymen on that +account. It is not improbable that if they had poisoned +Plato too, Aristophanes would have been well enough pleased; but +I think he would have preferred either of these two men to Marcus +Aurelius.</p> +<p>I know nothing about the loving but manly devotion of a St. +Lewis, but I strongly suspect that Mr. Mivart has taken him, too, +upon hearsay.</p> +<p>On the other hand, among dogs we find examples of every heroic +quality, and of all that is most perfectly charming to us in +man.</p> +<p>As for the possible development of the more brutal human +natures from the more brutal instincts of the lower animals, +those who read a horrible story told in a note, pp. 233, 234 of +Mr. Mivart’s “Genesis of Species,” will feel no +difficulty on that score. I must admit, however, that the +telling of that story seems to me to be a mistake in a +philosophical work, which should not, I think, unless under +compulsion, deal either with the horrors of the French +Revolution—or of the Spanish or Italian Inquisition.</p> +<p>For the rest of Mr. Mivart’s objections, I must refer +the reader to his own work. I have been unable to find a +single one, which I do not believe to be easily met by the +Lamarckian view, with the additions (if indeed they are +additions, for I must own to no very profound knowledge of what +Lamarck did or did not say), which I have in this volume proposed +to make to it. At the same time I admit, that as against +the Darwinian view, many of them seem quite unanswerable.</p> +<h2><a name="page294"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +294</span>CHAPTER XV.<br /> +<span class="GutSmall">CONCLUDING REMARKS.</span></h2> +<p><span class="smcap">Here</span>, then, I leave my case, though +well aware that I have crossed the threshold only of my +subject. My work is of a tentative character, put before +the public as a sketch or design for a, possibly, further +endeavour, in which I hope to derive assistance from the +criticisms which this present volume may elicit. Such as it +is, however, for the present I must leave it.</p> +<p>We have seen that we cannot do anything thoroughly till we can +do it unconsciously, and that we cannot do anything unconsciously +till we can do it thoroughly; this at first seems illogical; but +logic and consistency are luxuries for the gods, and the lower +animals, only. Thus a boy cannot really know how to swim +till he can swim, but he cannot swim till he knows how to +swim. Conscious effort is but the process of rubbing off +the rough corners from these two contradictory statements, till +they eventually fit into one another so closely that it is +impossible to disjoin them.</p> +<p>Whenever, therefore, we see any creature able to go through +any complicated and difficult process with little or no +effort—whether it be a bird building her nest, or a +hen’s egg making itself into a chicken, or an ovum turning +itself into a baby—we may conclude that the creature has +done the same thing on a very great number of past occasions.</p> +<p>We found the phenomena exhibited by heredity to be so like +those of memory, and to be so utterly inexplicable on any other +supposition, that it was easier to suppose them due to memory in +spite of the fact that we cannot remember having recollected, +than to believe that because we cannot so remember, therefore the +phenomena cannot be due to memory.</p> +<p>We were thus led to consider “personal identity,” +in order to see whether there was sufficient reason for denying +that the experience, which we must have clearly gained somewhere, +was gained by us when we were in the persons of our forefathers; +we found, not without surprise, that unless we admitted that it +might be so gained, in so far as that we once <i>actually +were</i> our remotest ancestor, we must change our ideas +concerning personality altogether.</p> +<p>We therefore assumed that the phenomena of heredity, whether +as regards instinct or structure were mainly due to memory of +past experiences, accumulated and fused till they had become +automatic, or quasi automatic, much in the same way as after a +long life—</p> +<p class="poetry">. . . “Old experience do attain<br /> +To something like prophetic strain.”</p> +<p>After dealing with certain phenomena of memory, but more +especially with its abeyance and revival, we inquired what the +principal corresponding phenomena of life and species should be, +on the hypothesis that they were mainly due to memory.</p> +<p>I think I may say that we found the hypothesis fit in with +actual facts in a sufficiently satisfactory manner. We +found not a few matters, as, for example, the sterility of +hybrids, the phenomena of old age, and puberty as generally near +the end of development, explain themselves with more completeness +than I have yet heard of their being explained on any other +hypothesis.</p> +<p>We considered the most important difficulty in the way of +instinct as hereditary habit, namely, the structure and instincts +of neuter insects; these are very unlike those of their parents, +and cannot apparently be transmitted to offspring by individuals +of the previous generation, in whom such structure and instincts +appeared, inasmuch as these creatures are sterile. I do not +say that the difficulty is wholly removed, inasmuch as some +obscurity must be admitted to remain as to the manner in which +the structure of the larva is aborted; this obscurity is likely +to remain till we know more of the early history of civilisation +among bees than I can find that we know at present; but I believe +the difficulty was reduced to such proportions as to make it +little likely to be felt in comparison with that of attributing +instinct to any other cause than inherited habit, or inherited +habit modified by changed conditions.</p> +<p>We then inquired what was the great principle underlying +variation, and answered, with Lamarck, that it must be +“sense of need;” and though not without being haunted +by suspicion of a vicious circle, and also well aware that we +were not much nearer the origin of life than when we started, we +still concluded that here was the truest origin of species, and +hence of genera; and that the accumulation of variations, which +in time amounted to specific and generic differences, was due to +intelligence and memory on the part of the creature varying, +rather than to the operation of what Mr. Darwin has called +“natural selection.” At the same time we +admitted that the course of nature is very much as Mr. Darwin has +represented it, in this respect, in so far as that there is a +struggle for existence, and that the weaker must go to the +wall. But we denied that this part of the course of nature +would lead to much, if any, accumulation of variation, unless the +variation was directed mainly by intelligent sense of need, with +continued personality and memory.</p> +<p>We conclude, therefore, that the small, structureless, +impregnate ovum from which we have each one of us sprung, has a +potential recollection of all that has happened to each one of +its ancestors prior to the period at which any such ancestor has +issued from the bodies of its progenitors—provided, that is +to say, a sufficiently deep, or sufficiently often-repeated, +impression has been made to admit of its being remembered at +all.</p> +<p>Each step of normal development will lead the impregnate ovum +up to, and remind it of, its next ordinary course of action, in +the same way as we, when we recite a well-known passage, are led +up to each successive sentence by the sentence which has +immediately preceded it.</p> +<p>And for this reason, namely, that as it takes two people +“to tell” a thing—a speaker and a comprehending +listener, without which last, though much may have been said, +there has been nothing told—so also it takes two people, as +it were, to “remember” a thing—the creature +remembering, and the surroundings of the creature at the time it +last remembered. Hence, though the ovum immediately after +impregnation is instinct with all the memories of both parents, +not one of these memories can normally become active till both +the ovum itself, and its surroundings, are sufficiently like what +they respectively were, when the occurrence now to be remembered +last took place. The memory will then immediately return, +and the creature will do as it did on the last occasion that it +was in like case as now. This ensures that similarity of +order shall be preserved in all the stages of development, in +successive generations.</p> +<p>Life, then, is faith founded upon experience, which experience +is in its turn founded upon faith—or more simply, it is +memory. Plants and animals only differ from one another +because they remember different things; plants and animals only +grow up in the shapes they assume because this shape is their +memory, their idea concerning their own past history.</p> +<p>Hence the term “Natural History,” as applied to +the different plants and animals around us. For surely the +study of natural history means only the study of plants and +animals themselves, which, at the moment of using the words +“Natural History,” we assume to be the most important +part of nature.</p> +<p>A living creature well supported by a mass of healthy +ancestral memory is a young and growing creature, free from ache +or pain, and thoroughly acquainted with its business so far, but +with much yet to be reminded of. A creature which finds +itself and its surroundings not so unlike those of its parents +about the time of their begetting it, as to be compelled to +recognise that it never yet was in any such position, is a +creature in the heyday of life. A creature which begins to +be aware of itself is one which is beginning to recognise that +the situation is a new one.</p> +<p>It is the young and fair, then, who are the truly old and the +truly experienced; it is they who alone have a trustworthy memory +to guide them; they alone know things as they are, and it is from +them that, as we grow older, we must study if we would still +cling to truth. The whole charm of youth lies in its +advantage over age in respect of experience, and where this has +for some reason failed, or been misapplied, the charm is +broken. When we say that we are getting old, we should say +rather that we are getting new or young, and are suffering from +inexperience, which drives us into doing things which we do not +understand, and lands us, eventually, in the utter impotence of +death. The kingdom of heaven is the kingdom of little +children.</p> +<p>A living creature bereft of all memory dies. If bereft +of a great part of memory, it swoons or sleeps; and when its +memory returns, we say it has returned to life.</p> +<p>Life and death, then, should be memory and forgetfulness, for +we are dead to all that we have forgotten.</p> +<p>Life is that property of matter whereby it can remember. +Matter which can remember is living; matter which cannot remember +is dead.</p> +<p><i>Life</i>, <i>then</i>, <i>is memory</i>. The life of +a creature is the memory of a creature. We are all the same +stuff to start with, but we remember different things, and if we +did not remember different things we should be absolutely like +each other. As for the stuff itself of which we are made, +we know nothing save only that it is “such as dreams are +made of.”</p> + +<div class="gapshortline"> </div> +<p>I am aware that there are many expressions throughout this +book, which are not scientifically accurate. Thus I imply +that we tend towards the centre of the earth, when, I believe, I +should say we tend towards to the centre of gravity of the +earth. I speak of “the primordial cell,” when I +mean only the earliest form of life, and I thus not only assume a +single origin of life when there is no necessity for doing so, +and perhaps no evidence to this effect, but I do so in spite of +the fact that the amœba, which seems to be “the +simplest form of life,” does not appear to be a cell at +all. I have used the word “beget,” of what, I +am told, is asexual generation, whereas the word should be +confined to sexual generation only. Many more such errors +have been pointed out to me, and I doubt not that a larger number +remain of which I know nothing now, but of which I may perhaps be +told presently.</p> +<p>I did not, however, think that in a work of this description +the additional words which would have been required for +scientific accuracy were worth the paper and ink and loss of +breadth which their introduction would entail. Besides, I +know nothing about science, and it is as well that there should +be no mistake on this head; I neither know, nor want to know, +more detail than is necessary to enable me to give a fairly broad +and comprehensive view of my subject. When for the purpose +of giving this, a matter importunately insisted on being made +out, I endeavoured to make it out as well as I could; +otherwise—that is to say, if it did not insist on being +looked into, in spite of a good deal of snubbing, I held that, as +it was blurred and indistinct in nature, I had better so render +it in my work.</p> +<p>Nevertheless, if one has gone for some time through a wood +full of burrs, some of them are bound to stick. I am afraid +that I have left more such burrs in one part and another of my +book, than the kind of reader whom I alone wish to please will +perhaps put up with. Fortunately, this kind of reader is +the best-natured critic in the world, and is long suffering of a +good deal that the more consciously scientific will not tolerate; +I wish, however, that I had not used such expressions as +“centres of thought and action” quite so often.</p> +<p>As for the kind of inaccuracy already alluded to, my reader +will not, I take it, as a general rule, know, or wish to know, +much more about science than I do, sometimes perhaps even less; +so that he and I shall commonly be wrong in the same places, and +our two wrongs will make a sufficiently satisfactory right for +practical purposes.</p> +<p>Of course, if I were a specialist writing a treatise or primer +on such and such a point of detail, I admit that scientific +accuracy would be <i>de rigueur</i>; but I have been trying to +paint a picture rather than to make a diagram, and I claim the +painter’s license “<i>quidlibet +audendi</i>.” I have done my utmost to give the +spirit of my subject, but if the letter interfered with the +spirit, I have sacrificed it without remorse.</p> +<p>May not what is commonly called a scientific subject have +artistic value which it is a pity to neglect? But if a +subject is to be treated artistically—that is to say, with +a desire to consider not only the facts, but the way in which the +reader will feel concerning those facts, and the way in which he +will wish to see them rendered, thus making his mind a factor of +the intention, over and above the subject itself—then the +writer must not be denied a painter’s license. If one +is painting a hillside at a sufficient distance, and cannot see +whether it is covered with chestnut-trees or walnuts, one is not +bound to go across the valley to see. If one is painting a +city, it is not necessary that one should know the names of the +streets. If a house or tree stands inconveniently for +one’s purpose, it must go without more ado; if two +important features, neither of which can be left out, want a +little bringing together or separating before the spirit of the +place can be well given, they must be brought together, or +separated. Which is a more truthful view, of Shrewsbury, +for example, from a spot where St. Alkmund’s spire is in +parallax with St. Mary’s—a view which should give +only the one spire which can be seen, or one which should give +them both, although the one is hidden? There would be, I +take it, more representation in the misrepresentation than in the +representation—“the half would be greater than the +whole,” unless, that is to say, one expressly told the +spectator that St. Alkmund’s spire was hidden behind St. +Mary’s—a sort of explanation which seldom adds to the +poetical value of any work of art. Do what one may, and no +matter how scientific one may be, one cannot attain absolute +truth. The question is rather, how do people like to have +their error? than, will they go without any error at all? +All truth and no error cannot be given by the scientist more than +by the artist; each has to sacrifice truth in one way or another; +and even if perfect truth could be given, it is doubtful whether +it would not resolve itself into unconsciousness pure and simple, +consciousness being, as it were, the clash of small conflicting +perceptions, without which there is neither intelligence nor +recollection possible. It is not, then, what a man has +said, nor what he has put down with actual paint upon his +canvass, which speaks to us with living language—<i>it is +what he has thought to us</i> (as is so well put in the letter +quoted on page 83), by which our opinion should be +guided;—what has he made us feel that he had it in him, and +wished to do? If he has said or painted enough to make us +feel that he meant and felt as we should wish him to have done, +he has done the utmost that man can hope to do.</p> +<p>I feel sure that no additional amount of technical accuracy +would make me more likely to succeed, in this respect, if I have +otherwise failed; and as this is the only success about which I +greatly care, I have left my scientific inaccuracies uncorrected, +even when aware of them. At the same time, I should say +that I have taken all possible pains as regards anything which I +thought could materially affect the argument one way or +another.</p> +<p>It may be said that I have fallen between two stools, and that +the subject is one which, in my hands, has shown neither artistic +nor scientific value. This would be serious. To fall +between two stools, and to be hanged for a lamb, are the two +crimes which—</p> +<blockquote><p>“Nor gods, nor men, nor any schools +allow.”</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Of the latter, I go in but little danger; about the former, I +shall know better when the public have enlightened me.</p> +<p>The practical value of the views here advanced (if they be +admitted as true at all) would appear to be not inconsiderable, +alike as regards politics or the well-being of the community, and +medicine which deals with that of the individual. In the +first case we see the rationale of compromise, and the equal +folly of making experiments upon too large a scale, and of not +making them at all. We see that new ideas cannot be fused +with old, save gradually and by patiently leading up to them in +such a way as to admit of a sense of continued identity between +the old and the new. This should teach us moderation. +For even though nature wishes to travel in a certain direction, +she insists on being allowed to take her own time; she will not +be hurried, and will cull a creature out even more surely for +forestalling her wishes too readily, than for lagging a little +behind them. So the greatest musicians, painters, and poets +owe their greatness rather to their fusion and assimilation of +all the good that has been done up to, and especially near about, +their own time, than to any very startling steps they have taken +in advance. Such men will be sure to take some, and +important, steps forward; for unless they have this power, they +will not be able to assimilate well what has been done already, +and if they have it, their study of older work will almost +indefinitely assist it; but, on the whole, they owe their +greatness to their completer fusion and assimilation of older +ideas; for nature is distinctly a fairly liberal conservative +rather than a conservative liberal. All which is well said +in the old couplet—</p> +<p class="poetry">“Be not the first by whom the new is +tried,<br /> +Nor yet the last to throw the old aside.”</p> +<p><i>Mutatis mutandis</i>, the above would seem to hold as truly +about medicine as about politics. We cannot reason with our +cells, for they know so much more than we do that they cannot +understand us;—but though we cannot reason with them, we +can find out what they have been most accustomed to, and what, +therefore, they are most likely to expect; we can see that they +get this, as far as it is in our power to give it them, and may +then generally leave the rest to them, only bearing in mind that +they will rebel equally against too sudden a change of treatment, +and no change at all.</p> +<p>Friends have complained to me that they can never tell whether +I am in jest or earnest. I think, however, it should be +sufficiently apparent that I am in very serious earnest, perhaps +too much so, from the first page of my book to the last. I +am not aware of a single argument put forward which is not a +<i>bonâ fide</i> argument, although, perhaps, sometimes +admitting of a humorous side. If a grain of corn looks like +a piece of chaff, I confess I prefer it occasionally to something +which looks like a grain, but which turns out to be a piece of +chaff only. There is no lack of matter of this description +going about in some very decorous volumes; I have, therefore, +endeavoured, for a third time, to furnish the public with a book +whose fault should lie rather in the direction of seeming less +serious than it is, than of being less so than it seems.</p> +<p>At the same time, I admit that when I began to write upon my +subject I did not seriously believe in it. I saw, as it +were, a pebble upon the ground, with a sheen that pleased me; +taking it up, I turned it over and over for my amusement, and +found it always grow brighter and brighter the more I examined +it. At length I became fascinated, and gave loose rein to +self-illusion. The aspect of the world seemed changed; the +trifle which I had picked up idly had proved to be a talisman of +inestimable value, and had opened a door through which I caught +glimpses of a strange and interesting transformation. Then +came one who told me that the stone was not mine, but that it had +been dropped by Lamarck, to whom it belonged rightfully, but who +had lost it; whereon I said I cared not who was the owner, if +only I might use it and enjoy it. Now, therefore, having +polished it with what art and care one who is no jeweller could +bestow upon it, I return it, as best I may, to its possessor.</p> +<p>What am I to think or say? That I tried to deceive +others till I have fallen a victim to my own falsehood? +Surely this is the most reasonable conclusion to arrive at. +Or that I have really found Lamarck’s talisman, which had +been for some time lost sight of?</p> +<p>Will the reader bid me wake with him to a world of chance and +blindness? Or can I persuade him to dream with me of a more +living faith than either he or I had as yet conceived as +possible? As I have said, reason points remorselessly to an +awakening, but faith and hope still beckon to the dream.</p> +<h2><a name="page308"></a><span class="pagenum">p. +308</span>APPENDIX<br /> +AUTHOR’S ADDENDA</h2> +<h3>I<br /> +<i>See Page</i> 13</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">But</span> I may say in passing that +though articulate speech and the power to maintain the upright +position come much about the same time, yet the power of making +gestures of more or less significance is prior to that of walking +uprightly, and therefore to that of speech. Not only is +gesticulation the earlier faculty in the individual, but it was +so also in the history of our race. Our semi-simious +ancestors could gesticulate long before they could talk +articulately. It is significant of this that gesture is +still found easier than speech even by adults, as may be observed +on our river steamers, where the captain moves his hand but does +not speak, a boy interpreting his gesture into language. To +develop this here would complicate the argument; let us be +content to note it and pass on.</p> +<h3>II<br /> +<i>See Page</i> 18</h3> +<p>Nevertheless, the smallness of the effort touches upon the +deepest mystery of organic life—the power to originate, to +err, to sport, the power which differentiates the living organism +from the machine, however complicated. The action and +working of this power is found to be like the action of any other +mental and, therefore, physical power (for all physical action of +living beings is but the expression of a mental action), but I +can throw no light upon its origin any more than upon the origin +of life. This, too, must be noted and passed over.</p> +<h3>III<br /> +<i>See Page</i> 25</h3> +<p>How different from the above uncertain sound is the full clear +note of one who truly believes:—</p> +<p>“The Church of England is commonly called a Lutheran +church, but whoever compares it with the Lutheran churches on the +Continent will have reason to congratulate himself on its +superiority. It is in fact a church <i>sui generis</i>, +yielding in point of dignity, purity and decency of its +doctrines, establishment and ceremonies, to no congregation of +christians in the world; modelled to a certain and considerable +extent, but not entirely, by our great and wise pious reformers +on the doctrines of Luther, so far as they are in conformity with +the sure and solid foundation on which it rests, and we trust for +ever will rest—the authority of the Holy Scriptures, Jesus +Christ himself being the chief corner stone.” +(“Sketch of Modern and Ancient Geography,” by Dr. +Samuel Butler, of Shrewsbury. Ed. 1813.)</p> +<p>This is the language of faith, compelled by the exigencies of +the occasion to be for a short time conscious of its own +existence, but surely very little likely to become so to the +extent of feeling the need of any assistance from reason. +It is the language of one whose convictions are securely founded +upon the current opinion of those among whom he has been born and +bred; and of all merely post-natal faiths a faith so founded is +the strongest. It is pleasing to see that the only +alterations in the edition of 1838 consist in spelling Christians +with a capital C and the omission of the epithet +“wise” as applied to the reformers, an omission more +probably suggested by a desire for euphony than by any nascent +doubts concerning the applicability of the epithet itself.</p> +<h3>IV.<br /> +<i>See Page</i> 239</h3> +<p><span class="smcap">Or</span> take, again, the constitution of +the Church of England. The bishops are the spiritual +queens, the clergy are the neuter workers. They differ +widely in structure (for dress must be considered as a part of +structure), in the delicacy of the food they eat and the kind of +house they inhabit, and also in many of their instincts, from the +bishops, who are their spiritual parents. Not only this, +but there are two distinct kinds of neuter workers—priests +and deacons; and of the former there are deans, archdeacons, +prebends, canons, rural deans, vicars, rectors, curates, yet all +spiritually sterile. In spite of this sterility, however, +is there anyone who will maintain that the widely differing +structures and instincts of these castes are not due to inherited +spiritual habit? Still less will he be inclined to do so +when he reflects that by such slight modification of treatment as +consecration and endowment any one of them can be rendered +spiritually fertile.</p> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnotevii"></a><a href="#citationvii" +class="footnote">[vii]</a> Although the original edition of +“Life and Habit” is dated 1878, the book was actually +published in December, 1877.</p> +<p><a name="footnote13"></a><a href="#citation13" +class="footnote">[13]</a> See Appendix (<i>note for +page</i> 13).</p> +<p><a name="footnote18"></a><a href="#citation18" +class="footnote">[18]</a> See Appendix (<i>note for +page</i> 18).</p> +<p><a name="footnote25"></a><a href="#citation25" +class="footnote">[25]</a> See Appendix (<i>note for +page</i> 25).</p> +<p><a name="footnote239"></a><a href="#citation239" +class="footnote">[239]</a> See Appendix (<i>note for +page</i> 239).</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND HABIT***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 6138-h.htm or 6138-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +http://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/6/1/3/6138 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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