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diff --git a/6138-0.txt b/6138-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..1c0c428 --- /dev/null +++ b/6138-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8384 @@ +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: UTF-8 + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND HABIT*** + + +Transcribed from the 1910 Jonathan Cape edition by David Price, email +ccx074@pglaf.lorg + + + + + + Life and Habit + + + _By_ + Samuel Butler + + [Picture: Decorative graphic] + + * * * * * + + Jonathan Cape + Eleven Gower Street, London + + * * * * * + + FIRST PUBLISHED 1878 + + SECOND EDITION 1878 + + NEW EDITION WITH ADDENDA AND + PREFACE BY R. A. STREATFEILD 1910 + + REPRINTED 1924 + + * * * * * + + PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY BUTLER AND TANNER LTD., FROME AND LONDON + + * * * * * + + THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED + TO + CHARLES PAINE PAULI, Esq. + BARRISTER-AT-LAW + IN ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF HIS INVALUABLE + CRITICISM OF THE PROOF-SHEETS OF THIS AND + OF MY PREVIOUS BOOKS + AND IN RECOGNITION OF AN OLD AND + WELL-TRIED-FRIENDSHIP + + + + +PREFACE. + + +SINCE Samuel Butler published “Life and Habit” thirty-three {vii} 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.” 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: + +“To me it seems that my contributions to the theory of evolution have +been mainly these: + +“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]. + +“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]. + +“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. + +“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, 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]. + +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. + +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. + + R. A. STREATFEILD. + +_November_, 1910. + + + + +AUTHOR’S PREFACE. + + +THE 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. + + S. BUTLER. + +_November_ 13, 1877. + + + + +CONTENTS. + + PAGE + PREFACE BY R. A. STREATFEILD vii + AUTHOR’S ORIGINAL PREFACE x + CHAPTER + I. ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED HABITS 1 + II. CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS—THE LAW AND 20 + GRACE + III. APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS TO CERTAIN 43 + HABITS ACQUIRED AFTER BIRTH WHICH ARE COMMONLY + CONSIDERED INSTINCTIVE + IV. APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES TO 59 + ACTIONS AND HABITS ACQUIRED BEFORE BIRTH + V. PERSONAL IDENTITY 78 + VI. PERSONAL IDENTITY—(_continued_) 91 + VII. OUR SUBORDINATE PERSONALITIES 104 + VIII. APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING CHAPTERS—THE 125 + ASSIMILATION OF OUTSIDE MATTER + IX. ON THE ABEYANCE OF MEMORY 150 + X. WHAT WE SHOULD EXPECT TO FIND IF 166 + DIFFERENTIATIONS OF STRUCTURE AND INSTINCT ARE + MAINLY DUE TO MEMORY + XI. INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY 198 + XII. INSTINCTS OF NEUTER INSECTS 220 + XIII. LAMARCK AND MR. DARWIN 252 + XIV. MR. MIVART AND MR. DARWIN 273 + XV. CONCLUDING REMARKS 294 + APPENDIX AUTHOR’S ADDENDA 308 + + + + +CHAPTER I. +ON CERTAIN ACQUIRED HABITS. + + +IT 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _de novo_ from an accustomed starting-point. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +An ascending scale may be perceived in the above instances. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_quasi_-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. {13} + +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. + +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. + +“He raised any number consisting of _one_ figure progressively to the +tenth power, giving the results (by actual multiplication and not by +memory) _faster than they could be set down in figures_ by the person +appointed to record them. He raised the number 8 progressively to the +_sixteenth_ power, and in naming the last result, which consisted of 15 +figures, he was right in every one. Some numbers consisting of _two_ +figures he raised as high as the eighth power, though he found a +difficulty in proceeding when the products became very large. + +“On being asked the _square root_ 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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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 232 + 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. + +“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. + +“On being interrogated as to the manner in which he obtained these +results, the boy constantly said he did not know _how_ 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 _some_ 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 _could_ take place, since +he gave answers _immediately_, 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. {18} + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER II. +CONSCIOUS AND UNCONSCIOUS KNOWERS—THE LAW AND GRACE. + + +IN 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. + +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? + +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. + +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 _good_ 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. + +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 “_cogito ergo +sum_,” 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. + +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. + +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 _demonstration_ 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. {25} + +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 _as soon as possible_.” There lurks a more profound distrust +of God’s power in these words than in almost any open denial of His +existence. + +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. + +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 “—.” + +The following extract, from a journal which I will not advertise, may +serve as an example: + +“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. + +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. + +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 (_pace_ 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. + +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. + +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 _à priori_ 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. _Qui s’excuse_, _s’accuse_; 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. + +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. + +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. + +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:— + +“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 _of +less scientific knowledge_, _but of considerable practical +experience_”—(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. + +“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 _observant_ workman, when _the +scientific reasoning_ of the mining engineer altogether fails.” + +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. + +“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 _an acquired intuition_—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. + +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 _raison d’être_ 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 _lâche_ +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. + +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. + +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 _sic vos non vobis_; 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, _mutatis mutandis_, 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. + +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 _summum bonum_, 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. + +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. + +Above all things, let no unwary reader do me the injustice of believing +in _me_. 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. +APPLICATION OF FOREGOING CHAPTERS TO CERTAIN HABITS ACQUIRED AFTER BIRTH +WHICH ARE COMMONLY CONSIDERED INSTINCTIVE. + + +WHAT 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. + +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? + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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 _bonâ +fide_ in the child’s own person. + +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. + +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 _bonâ fide_ +personal recollection and experience, with more effort and failure on the +part of the infant itself than meet the eye. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Is it possible that our unconsciousness concerning our own performance of +all these processes arises from over-experience? + +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. + +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? + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +What is this talk that is made about the experience _of the race_, as +though the experience of one man could profit another who knows nothing +about him? If a man eats his dinner, it nourishes _him_ and not his +neighbour; if he learns a different art, it is _he_ 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? + +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 _bonâ fide_ 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. + +Certainly it presents itself to us at once as a singular coincidence— + +I. That we are _most conscious of_, _and have most control over_, 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. + +II. That we are _less conscious of_, _and have less control over_, +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. + +III. That we are _most unconscious of_, _and have least control over_, +our digestion and circulation, which belonged even to our invertebrate +ancestry, and which are habits, geologically speaking, of extreme +antiquity. + +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. + +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. + +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 _internal tumult_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +Such an assertion would be a contradiction to the whole experience of +mankind. Surely the _onus probandi_ must rest with him who makes it. + +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? + +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 _is_ 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; _ipso +facto_, 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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. +APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING PRINCIPLES TO ACTIONS AND HABITS ACQUIRED +BEFORE BIRTH. + + +BUT 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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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? + +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 _does_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +That this is indeed so, the following passage from Dr. Carpenter’s +“Mental Physiology” may serve to show:— + +“The simplest type of an animal consists of a minute mass of +‘protoplasm,’ or living jelly, which is not yet _differentiated_ 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 +_consciousness_ of its needs” (why not?), “or that its actions should be +directed by any _intention_ 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.” + +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 _the same sandy bottom_ one +species picks up the _coarser_ quartz grains, cements them together with +_phosphate of iron_ 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 _finest_ 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 _minutest_ +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.” + +“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 _mechanism_ 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) + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _consciousness_ 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. + +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:— + +“The writer has often amused himself and others, when by the seaside, +with getting a _terebella_ (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 _un_intelligence, as instinctive.” + +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. + +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.e._, 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. + +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, _provided it were always the +same chicken which made itself over and over again_. So far we can see, +it always _is_ unconscious of the greater part of its own wonderful +performance. Surely then we have a presumption that _it is the same +chicken which makes itself over and over again_; 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. + +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 _born_. 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? + +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 “_real_ 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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER V. +PERSONAL IDENTITY. + + +“STRANGE 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _façons de parler_ 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. + +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. + +“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 _think_ to you without words you would +understand me better.” + +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. + +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. + +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, _with each of the +impregnate ova from which its parents were developed_. + +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 _it actually +is_ quite as truly as the octogenarian _is_ the same identity with the +ovum from which he has been developed. + +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 _be actually_ 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. + +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. + +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 _identity_ and _same person_. 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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. +PERSONAL IDENTITY—(_continued_). + + +HOW arbitrary current notions concerning identity really are, may perhaps +be perceived by reflecting upon some of the many different phases of +reproduction. + +Direct reproduction in which a creation reproduces another, the +_facsimile_, 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. + +A hen lays an egg, which egg becomes a chicken, which chicken, in the +course of time, becomes a hen. + +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. + +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. + +A frog lays an egg, which egg becomes a tadpole; the tadpole, after more +or fewer intermediate stages, becomes a frog. + +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. + +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 _de novo_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +Our present way of looking at these matters is perfectly right and +reasonable, so long as we bear in mind that it is a _façon de parler_, 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. + +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. + +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. _The outer case_, _and all that gave form +and character to the precedent individual_, _perish_, _and are cast off_; +_they are not changed_ 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. + +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). + +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 _sudden_ 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. + +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. + +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.e._, 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 _is_ +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. + +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. + +Finally, Mr. Darwin (“Plants and Animals under Domestication,” vol. ii. +p. 38, ed. 1875), writes— + +“Even with plants multiplied by bulbs, layers, &c., which may _in one +sense_ 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 _in one sense_ 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. + +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 _in one sense_ +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.” + +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? + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. +OUR SUBORDINATE PERSONALITIES. + + +WE 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _us_, 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. + +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:— + +“_The functional independence of the elements or units of the +body_.—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). + +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.” + +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 _consensus_ 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. + +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. + +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 _bonâ fide_ +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. + +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, _quâ_ me, more profitable +capacity. + +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 _fiat_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _after the brain of a frog has been removed_—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; _but if that foot be cut off_, _after some +ineffectual efforts and a short period of inaction_,” during which it is +hard not to surmise that the headless body is considering what it had +better do under the circumstances, “_the same movement will be made by +the foot of the opposite side_,” 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. + +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. + +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 _impressions_, and that the animal can not only _feel_, 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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +Dr. Carpenter continues: “Or if the spinal cord be cut across without the +removal of the brain, the lower limbs may be _excited_ 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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +In the face of the facts before us, it does not seen far-fetched to +suppose that there _are_ 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. + +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, _which is manifestly absurd_.” 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. + +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 _bonâ fide_ 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? + +M. Ribot would seem to take a juster view of the phenomenon when he says +(p. 222 of the English translation)— + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _the hind legs of an +animal_ could live a sufficient length of time without the brain), “there +would be found in it” (_them_) “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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +As these myriads of smaller organisms are parts and processes of us, so +are we but parts and processes of life at large. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. +APPLICATION OF THE FOREGOING CHAPTERS—THE ASSIMILATION OF OUTSIDE MATTER. + + +LET 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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, LIFE, 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. + +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, _mutatis +mutandis_, 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.e._, 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. + +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 LIFE, or as to what such faith is, except that it is the very essence +of all things, and that it has no foundation. + +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 _bonâ fide_ 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. + +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? + +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. + +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, _it acts +precisely as it would act if it were possessed of such memory_. + +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, _it acts precisely as a creature acts when its +recollection is disturbed_, _or when it is required to do something which +it has never done before_. + +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. + +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 _à priori_ 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. + +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. + +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 _is_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +A few remarks upon the assimilation of outside matter by living organisms +may perhaps be hazarded here. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +We cannot, perhaps, strictly say that the two fowls and the dozen new +eggs actually _are_ 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 _you_ into such a false position as to +have made you lose the memory of your antecedents.” + +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, _ad infinitum_, 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. + +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—_these consisting of cells separated from the body_” (_i.e._, +separated from the bodies of each parent) “_containing the germs of every +part_” (_i.e._, 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), +“_and capable of being fused completely together_” (_i.e._, 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. + +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. + +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 _are_ 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. + +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. + +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.e._, 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. + +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. + +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 _him_, there would seem but little use in +continuing the argument further. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + + + + +CHAPTER IX. +ON THE ABEYANCE OF MEMORY. + + +LET 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. + +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 _ad +infinitum_; so that, _ex hypothesi_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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:— + +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.e._, with the question, whether they +seem likely to compel us to change our habits, either for better or +worse. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +As regards this second class of impressions we may observe:— + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _do_ put in first; this is the rapid +fading away of any small individual impression. + +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. + +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. + +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 _sine quâ non_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER X. +WHAT WE SHOULD EXPECT TO FIND IF DIFFERENTIATIONS OF STRUCTURE AND +INSTINCT ARE MAINLY DUE TO MEMORY. + + +TO 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. + +We take our steps in the same order on each successive occasion, and are +for the most part incapable of changing that order. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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:— + +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 _opposite_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _great_ +“fluke.” And this is what we find. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Lateness of marriage, provided the constitution of the individuals +marrying is in no respect impaired, should also tend to longevity. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _locus +pœnitentiæ_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +I submit that what I have written above supplies a very fair _primâ +facie_ explanation. + +Mr. Darwin continues:— + +“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). + +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. + +As regards plants, we read:— + +“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” (_Ibid_). + +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 _any_ 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):— + +“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.” + +And again on the next page:— + +“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.” + +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:— + +“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. + +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:— + +“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. +_The acquisition of this lesson had_, _however_, _exhausted the whole of +the magpie’s stock of intellect_, _for it made it forget everything it +had learned before_” (“Percy Anecdotes,” Instinct, p. 166). + +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 _vast number_ 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 +_some_ conflict, it manages to get over the difficulty, _as on either +side it finds itself backed by a very long series of sufficiently steady +memory_. 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. + +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. + +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). + +On my third supposition, _i.e._, 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. + +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 “_on the +degraded state and savage condition of crossed races of man_.” 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 _is in part +due to reversion to a primitive and savage condition_, _induced by the +act of crossing_, 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. + +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. + +The instincts of certain neuter insects hardly bear upon reversion, but +will be dealt with at some length in Chapter XII. + +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. + +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:— + +“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). + +In another place Mr. Darwin writes:— + +“How again can we explain _the inherited effects_ 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). + +“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). + +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. + +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. + +The question should turn upon whether the disuse of an organ has arisen:— + +1. From an internal desire on the part of the creature disusing it, to +be quit of an organ which it finds troublesome. + +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. + +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. + +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 _be_ the memory which +“runs” the impregnate ovum, just as we _are_ 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. + +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. + +In the second it should go more slowly, and leave, it may be, a +rudimentary structure. + +In the third it should show little or no sign of natural decrease for a +very long time. + +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. + +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:— + +“ . . . 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 _which had gnawed off their own +toes_, 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 _all the different morbid states_ which have occurred in one of +its parents _from the time of division_ 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.’” + +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. + +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.” + +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, +_instinctively_. 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; _and no one I believe has +ever seen_ this moth learning to perform its difficult task, which +requires such unerring aim” (“Expression of the Emotions,” p. 30). + +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. + +The phenomena, then, which we observe are exactly those which we should +expect to find. + +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, _and that whether +we desire it or not_.” I would go one step further, and would say not +only whether we desire it or not, but _whether we are aware that the idea +has ever before been called up in our minds or not_. I should say that I +have quoted both the above passages from Mr. Darwin’s “Expression of the +Emotions” (p. 30, ed. 1872). + +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 “_whether they desire it or not_;” and, I would say also, +“whether they recognise the ideas as having ever before been present to +them or not.” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +This shows, at any rate, that there is a considerable opinion to this +effect among observers generally. + +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 _against_ 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. + +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 _is_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_after that offspring has been born_. 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. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. +INSTINCT AS INHERITED MEMORY. + + +I HAVE already alluded to M. Ribot’s work on “Heredity,” from which I +will now take the following passages. + +M. Ribot writes:— + +“Instinct is innate, _i.e._, _anterior to all individual experience_.” +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). + +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. + +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 _and mechanical inventions_ 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, _and machinery_ as his best instructors. Customs and machines +are instincts _and organs_ 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. + +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:— + + “Some breeds do, and some breeds don’t, + Some breeds will, but this breed won’t, + I tried very often to see if it would, + But it said it really couldn’t, and I don’t think it could.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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? + +“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.” + +If this is not due to memory, even an imperfect explanation of what else +it can be due to, “would be satisfactory.” + +“Intelligence gropes about, tries this way and that, misses its object, +commits mistakes, and corrects them.” + +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. + +“Instinct advances with a mechanical certainty.” + +Why mechanical? Should not “with apparent certainty” suffice? + +“Hence comes its unconscious character.” + +But for the word “mechanical” this is true, and is what we have been all +along insisting on. + +“It knows nothing either of ends, or of the means of attaining them; it +implies no comparison, judgment, or choice.” + +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. + +“All seems directed by thought.” + +Yes; because all _has been_ in earlier existences directed by thought. + +“Without ever arriving at thought.” + +Because it has _got past thought_, 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. + +“And if this phenomenon appear strange, it must be observed that +analogous states occur in ourselves. _All that we do from +habit—walking_, _writing_, _or practising a mechanical act_, _for +instance—all these and many other very complex acts are performed without +consciousness_. + +“Instinct appears stationary. It does not, like intelligence, seem to +grow and decay, to gain and to lose. It does not improve.” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Such,” continues M. Ribot, “are the admitted characters of instinct.” + +Yes; but are they not also the admitted characters of actions that are +due to memory? + +At the bottom of p. 15, M. Ribot quotes the following from Mr. Darwin:— + +“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.” + +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? + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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 _at the +partridges which their parents had been trained to point_. 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. + +“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. + +“Thus, then, heredity transmits modification no less than natural +instincts.” + +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”? + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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:— + +“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. _There can then be no ground for +making instinct a faculty apart_, _sui generis_, 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.” + +We are tempted to add—“and which also makes no account of the _bonâ fide_ +character of the continued personality of successive generations.” + +“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. + +“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), “_all instincts are only hereditary habits_” +(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 _tabula rasa_” (if there is no +_tabula rasa_, there is continued psychological personality, or words +have lost their meaning), “and to accept either latent ideas, or _à +priori_ forms of thought” (surely only a periphrasis for continued +personality and memory) “or pre-ordination of the nervous system and of +the organism; _it will be seen that this character of innateness does not +constitute an absolute distinction between instinct and intelligence_. + +“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. + +“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 _by at least a confused +consciousness_. 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. _As +instinct rises it approaches intelligence—as intelligence descends it +approaches instinct_.” + +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.e._, becomes +less and less certain of its ground, “it approaches intelligence; as +intelligence rises,” _i.e._, becomes more and more convinced of the truth +and expediency of its convictions—“it approaches instinct.” + +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. + +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:— + +“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). + +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. + +Again, a little further on in the same lecture, as that above quoted +from, we find:— + +“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.’” + +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. + +My last instance I take from M. Ribot, who writes:—“Gratiolet, in his +_Anatomie Comparèe du Système Nerveux_, 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). + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. +INSTINCTS OF NEUTER INSECTS. + + +IN 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. + +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:— + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“Frederick Cuvier and several of the older metaphysicians have compared +instinct with habit.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_the slightest conceivable variations should be referred to changed +conditions_, _external or internal_, _and to their disturbing effects +upon the memory_; 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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +The passage runs:— + +“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. . . . _But it would be a serious error to suppose that the +greater number of instincts have been acquired by habit in one +generation_, _and then transmitted by inheritance to succeeding +generations_. _It can be clearly shown that the most wonderful instincts +with which we are acquainted—namely_, _those of the hive-bee and of many +ants_, _could not possibly have been acquired by habit_.” (“Origin of +Species,” p. 206, ed. 1876.) The italics in this passage are mine. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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:— + + . . . “They now begun + To spur their living engines on. + For as whipped tops and bandy’d balls, + The learned hold are animals: + So horses they affirm to be + Mere engines made by geometry, + And were invented first from engines + As Indian Britons were from Penguins.” + + —_Hudibras_, Canto ii. line 53, &c. + +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 _statu quo_ 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. + +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? + +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, _quâ_ +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. + +Sydney Smith, indeed, writes:— + +“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 _do_ +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. + +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. + +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 _some_ 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. + +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? + +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 _abnormally_, 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. + +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 _is_ +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. {239} + +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 _can_ 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. + +Sydney Smith writes:— + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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). + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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—“_Salve umbistineum geminatum +Martia prolem_,” and interpreted to mean that Mars had two moons, whereas +Galileo had meant to say “_Altissimum planetam tergeminum observavi_,” +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. + +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. + +Further, Mr. Darwin himself says (“Plants and Animals under +Domestication,” ii. p. 237, ed. 1875):— + +“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: _the kind of variation which ensues depending in +most cases in a far higher degree on the nature or constitution of the +being_, _than on the nature of the changed conditions_.” 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. + +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:— + +“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). + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. +LAMARCK AND MR. DARWIN. + + +IT 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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):— + +“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, _for it must be admitted as a fundamental +law_, _that the production of a new organ in an animal body results from +any new want or desire it may experience_. 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.” + +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 _in statu +quo_, provided they were sufficiently gifted to escape extinction. + +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 _à priori_ 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _induce variability_, +but “implies only the preservation of _such variations as arise_, 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. + +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. + +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. + +What _is_ spontaneous variability? + +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. + +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 _cause of variation_. 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 _unknown causes_. + +“I can no more believe in _this_,” 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 _thus_ be explained” +(“Natural Selection,” p. 171, ed. 1876). + +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.” + +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. + +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 _are +accumulated_, 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. + +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 _which shall also have the power to +vary_; so that, given time and space enough, there is no knowing where +such a creature could or would stop. + +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. + +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 _with itself again_ 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. + +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 _at every step_ +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. + +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. _Undoubtedly the past decisions of such an arbiter would affect +the conduct of the creature_, 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. + +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 _create_ 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 +_development_ 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 _in some way_, 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. + +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 _accumulation_ of variations, +must also be allowed to be the nearest thing to the cause of Specific +differences, which we are able to arrive at.” + +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 _innate tendency to vary_ 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 _power to vary_ +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. + +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.e._, 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. + +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 _a priori_ 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. + +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). + +Mr. Mivart writes:— + +“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 (_ceroxylus laceratus_) 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.’” + +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. + +Again Mr. Mivart writes:— + +“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. + +“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 +(_coryanthes_) 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 +(_catasetum_), 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). + +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. + +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? + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. +MR. MIVART AND MR. DARWIN. + + +“A DISTINGUISHED 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. + +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. + +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). + +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 _did_ 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. + +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. + + * * * * * + +Mr. Mivart urges with much force the difficulty of _starting_ 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:— + +“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 _in all directions_, 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). + +To this Mr. Darwin rejoins:— + +“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). + +Mr. Mivart has just said: “It is difficult 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 work upon_.” + +The answer is, that “natural selection” did not begin to work _until_, +_from unknown causes_, _an appreciable resemblance had nevertheless been +presented_. 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.” + +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.” + +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 +_originally_ 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. + +“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.” + +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 _upon small fortuitous variations_ 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. + +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. + +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 _some_—and into a very +distant—harbour. + + * * * * * + +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:— + +“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). + +Mr. Mivart then quotes from Mr. Murphy—whose work I have not seen—the +following passage:— + +“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). + +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. + + * * * * * + +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:— + +“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— + +“‘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 _some_ 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.e._, 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. + +“‘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). + +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. + +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.e._, 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. + + * * * * * + +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. + + * * * * * + +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.” + +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. + +Take the opening paragraphs of the “Thoughts” of Marcus Aurelius, as +translated by Mr. Long:— + +“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. + +Or, again, opening Mr. Long’s translation at random I find (p. 37):— + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. +CONCLUDING REMARKS. + + +HERE, 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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 +_actually were_ our remotest ancestor, we must change our ideas +concerning personality altogether. + +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— + + . . . “Old experience do attain + To something like prophetic strain.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Life and death, then, should be memory and forgetfulness, for we are dead +to all that we have forgotten. + +Life is that property of matter whereby it can remember. Matter which +can remember is living; matter which cannot remember is dead. + +_Life_, _then_, _is memory_. 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.” + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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 _de +rigueur_; but I have been trying to paint a picture rather than to make a +diagram, and I claim the painter’s license “_quidlibet audendi_.” 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. + +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—_it is what he has +thought to us_ (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. + +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. + +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— + + “Nor gods, nor men, nor any schools allow.” + +Of the latter, I go in but little danger; about the former, I shall know +better when the public have enlightened me. + +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— + + “Be not the first by whom the new is tried, + Nor yet the last to throw the old aside.” + +_Mutatis mutandis_, 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. + +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 _bonâ fide_ 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. + +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. + +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? + +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. + + + + +APPENDIX +AUTHOR’S ADDENDA + + +I +_See Page_ 13 + + +BUT 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. + + + +II +_See Page_ 18 + + +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. + + + +III +_See Page_ 25 + + +How different from the above uncertain sound is the full clear note of +one who truly believes:— + +“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 _sui +generis_, 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.) + +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. + + + +IV. +_See Page_ 239 + + +OR 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. + + + + +FOOTNOTES + + +{vii} Although the original edition of “Life and Habit” is dated 1878, +the book was actually published in December, 1877. + +{13} See Appendix (_note for page_ 13). + +{18} See Appendix (_note for page_ 18). + +{25} See Appendix (_note for page_ 25). + +{239} See Appendix (_note for page_ 239). + + + + +***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LIFE AND HABIT*** + + +******* This file should be named 6138-0.txt or 6138-0.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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