  PART I. CHAPTER I.In Persia there was once a king. On one occasion when he was out hunting he came to the narrow entrance of a valley. It was shut in on either side by vast hills, seemingly the spurs from the distant mountains. These great spurs spread out including a wide tract of land. Towards the entrance where he stood they approached one another, and ended in abrupt cliffs. Across the mouth of the valley stretched a deep ravine. The king, followed by courtiers, galloped along, searching a spot where the deep fissure might be shallower, so that descending into it he might reach the valley by ascending on the opposite side. But at every point the ravine stretched downwards dark and deep, from cliff to cliff, shutting off all access to the valley. At one point only was there a means of crossing. There were two masses of rocks, jutting out one from either side like the abutments of a natural bridge, and they seemed to meet in mid air. The mass trembled and shook as the king spurred his horse over it, and the dislodged stones reverberated Before the first of his courtiers could follow him one of the great piers or abutments gave way—the whole mass fell crashing down. The king was alone in the valley. “So ho,” he cried, “the kingdom of Persia is shrunk to this narrow spot!” and without troubling himself for the moment how he should return, he sped onward. But when he had ridden far into the valley on his steed that could outnumber ten leagues in an hour, and had returned to the entrance of it, he saw no trace of a living soul on the opposite brink of the cleft. No sign was left, save a few reeds bent down by the passage of the mounted train, that any human being had stood on the opposite side for ages. The evening came on apace. Yet no one returned. Again he rode far into the valley. For the most part it was covered with long grass, but here and there a thick and tangled mass of vegetation attested to a great luxuriance of soil, while the surface was intersected here and there with rivulets of clear water, which finally lost their way in the dark gorge over which he had just so rashly adventured. But on no side did the steep cliffs offer any promise of escape. When the night came on he stretched himself beneath one of the few trees not far from the ravine, while his faithful horse stood tranquilly at his head. He did not awake till the moon had risen. But then suddenly he started to his feet, and walking to the edge of the cleft, peered over to the land from whence he had come. For he thought he heard sounds of some kind that were not the natural ones of the rustling wind or the falling water. Looking out he saw clearly opposite to him an old man in ragged clothing, leaning against “Oho, peasant!” cried the king. “Run and tell the head man of your village that the king bids him come directly, and will have him bring with him the longest ropes and the strongest throwers under him.” But the old man did not seem to give heed. Then the king cried, “Hearken, old man, run quickly and tell your master that the king is confined here, and will reward him beyond his dreams if he deliver him quickly.” Then the old man rose, and coming nearer to the edge of the ravine stood opposite, still playing at intervals some notes on his long pipe. And the king cried, “Canst thou hear? Dost thou dare to refuse to carry my commands? For I am the king of Persia. Who art thou?” Then the old man made answer, putting his pipe aside: “I am he who appears only when a man has passed for ever beyond the ken of all that have known him. I am Demiourgos, the maker of men.” Then the king cried, “Mock me not, but obey my commands.” The old man made answer, “I do not mock thee; and oh, my Lord, thou hast moved the puppets I have made, and driven them so to dance on the surface of the earth that I would willingly obey thee. But it is not permitted me to pass between thee and the world of men thou hast known.” Then the king was silent. At length he said, “If thou art really what thou sayest, show me what thou canst do; build me a palace.” The old man lifted his pipe in both his trembling hands, and began to blow. It was a strange instrument, for it not only produced And then the king was as one who enjoys the delights of thought. For in thought, delicate shades, impalpable nuances are ever passing. It is as the blended strains of an invisible orchestra, but more subtle far, that come and go in unexpected metres, and overwhelm you with their beauty when all seemed silent. And lo, as the strains sound, outside—palpable, large as the firmament, or real as the smallest thing you can take up and know it is there—outside stands some existence revealed—to be known and returned to for ever. So the king, listening to this music, felt that something was rising behind him. And turning, beheld course after course of a great building. Almost as soon as he had looked it had risen completed, finished to the last embossure on the windows, the tracery on the highest pinnacles. All had happened while the old man was blowing on his pipe, and when he ceased all was perfect. And yet the appearance was very strange, for a finished and seemingly habitable building rose out of waste unreclaimed soil, strewn with rocks and barren. No dwellings were near the palace to wait on it, no roads led to it or away from it. “There should be houses around it, and roadways,” said the king; “make them, and fields sown with corn, and all that is necessary for a state.” Blowing on his pipe in regular recurrent cadences, the old man called up houses close together, than scattered singly along roads which stretched away into the distance, to be seen every here and there perfectly clearly where they ascended a rising ground. And near at Yet as the king turned to walk towards the new scene, the old man laughed. “All this is a dream,” he cried; “so much I can do, but not at once.” And breathing peals of music from his pipe, he said, “This can be, but is not yet.” “What,” asked the king, “is all a delusion?” and as he asked everything sank down. There was no palace, no houses or fields, only the steep precipice-locked valley, whither the king had ridden; and his horse cowering behind him. Then the king cried, “Thou art some moonstruck hermit, leading out a life of folly alone. Get thee to the village thou knowest, and bring me help.” But the old man answered him saying, “Great king, I am bound to obey thee, and all the creative might of my being I lay at thy feet; and lo, in the midst of this valley I make for thee beings such as I can produce. And all that thou hast seen is as nothing to what I can do for thee. The depths of the starry heavens have no limit, nor what I do for thee. Hast thou ever in thy life looked into the deep still ocean, and lost thy sight in the unseen depths? Even so thou wilt find no end in what I will give thee. Hast thou ever in thy life sought the depths of thy love’s blue eyes, and found therein a world which stretched on endlessly? Even so I bring all to thy feet. Now that all the gladness of the world has departed from thee, behold, I am a more willing servant than ever thou hast had.” And again he played, and a hut rose up with a patch of cleared soil around it, and a spring near by. Then the king said, “Here will I dwell, and if I am to be cut off from the rest of the world, I will lead a peaceful life in this valley.” The sun was rising, the sounds had ceased, and the old man had disappeared. CHAPTER II.He made his way slowly to the patch of cultivated ground, he knocked at the door of the hut, and then he called out. No answer was made to the sound of his voice, he entered, and saw a rude, plain interior. There were two forms half lying, half propped up by the walls, and some domestic implements lay about. But when he spoke to the beings they did not answer, and when he touched their arms they fell powerless on the ground and remained there. A terrible fear came on the king lest he should become such as these. He left them and again sought a possible outlet, but fruitlessly. And that evening he sought the old man again and inquired what sort of beings these were. “For though in form and body like children outwardly,” said the king, “they do nothing and seem unable to move; are they in an enchanted slumber?” Then the old man came near to the edge of the ravine and, speaking solemnly and low, said: “O king, thou dost not yet know the nature of the place wherein thou art. For these children are like the children thou hast known always both in form and body. I have worked on them as far as is within my power. But here in this valley a law reigns which binds them in sleepfulness and powerlessness. For here in everything that is done there is as much pain as pleasure. If it is pleasant to tread a downward slope there is as much pain in ascending the upward slope. And in every action there is a pleasant part and a painful part, and in the “This is impossible,” said the king. “Nay,” said the old man, “that it is as I have said I will prove to thee.” And he explained to the king how it would be possible to stimulate the children to activity, for he showed him how he could divest anything that was done of part of its pain and render it more pleasurable than painful. “In this way thou canst lead the beings I have given thee to do anything,” said the old man, “but the condition is that thou must take the painful part that thou sparest them thyself.” And he bade the king cut himself of the reeds that grew by the side of the ravine, and told him that putting them between himself and any being would enable him to take a part of the pain and leave in their feeling the whole of the pleasure and the pain diminished by that part which he bore himself. Then the king cut of the reeds that grew by the side of the ravine. He went to the hut where these beings lay, and, taking the reeds in his hand, he placed one between the child’s frame and himself. And the child rose up and walked, while he himself felt a pain in his limbs. And he found that by taking a pain in each part of him the child would exercise that part; if he wished the child to look at anything he, by bearing a Then the king by using two reeds made both the children move, and they went together wheresoever he wished them. But they had not the slightest idea of the king’s action on them. They recognized each other, and played with each other. They saw the king and had a certain regard for him, but of his action on them they knew nothing. For they felt his bearing the pain as this thing or that being pleasurable. They felt his action as a motive in themselves. And all day long the king went with them, leading them through the valley, bearing the pain of each step, so that the children felt nothing but pleasure. But at nightfall he led them back to the rude dwelling where he had found them. He led them by taking the pain from their steps in that direction, and not taking any of the pain from steps in any other direction. And when they had entered the dwelling-place he removed his reeds from them. Immediately they sank down into the state of apathy in which he had found them. They did not move. And the king at nightfall sought again the side of the ravine. Gazing across it he saw the sandy waste of the land from which he had come, he saw the great stones which were scattered about, looking pale and grey in the moonlight. And presently in the shadow of a rock near the opposite brink he discerned the form of the old man. And he cried out to him, and bade him come near. And the old man took his staff in his hand, and he held it out towards the king, over the depth. “Behold, O king, thy secret,” he cried. And with his other hand he smote the staff which was pointing down into the depths. The staff swung to and fro many times, and at last it came to rest again. Then the king besought him to explain what this might signify. “Thou hast been,” replied the old man, “as one who, wishing to make a staff swing to and fro, has made every movement separately, raising it up by his hand each time that it falls down. But, behold, when I set it in movement it goes through many swings of itself, both downward and upward, until the movement I imparted to it is lost. Even so thou must make these beings go through both pleasure and pain, thyself bearing but the difference, not taking all the pain.” “Must I then,” asked the king, “by bearing pain give these beings a certain store of pleasure, and then let them go through their various actions until they have exhausted this store of pleasure?” Then the old man made answer. “Can I have any secrets from thee? Hearken, O king, and I will tell thee what lies behind the shows of the world. What I have shown thee is an outward sign and symbol of what thou shouldst do, but it lies far outside those recesses whither I shall lead thee. Thou couldst indeed give these beings a store of pleasure, and they would go through their actions until it was all spent; but then thou wouldst be as one of themselves. Thou wouldst have to perform the painful part of some action and let them perform “Where, then, does the movement go to when the staff ceases to swing,” asked the king. “It goes to the finer particles of the air, and passes on and on. There is an endless chain. It is as if there were numberless staffs, larger and smaller, and when one falls it either raises itself or passes on its rising to another or to others. There is an endless chain of movement to and fro, and as one ceases another comes. But, O king, I wish to take thee behind this long chain and to place thee where thou mayest not say, I will do this or that; but where thou canst say, This whole chain of movement shall be or shall not. For as thou regardest this staff swinging thou seest that it moves as much up as it does down, as much to right as to left. And if the movements which it goes through came together it would be at rest. Its motion is but stillness separated into equal and opposite motions. And in what thou callest rest there are vast movements. It shall be thine, O king, to strike nothingness asunder and make things be. Nay, O king, I have not given thee these beings in the valley for thee to move by outward deeds, but I have given them to thee such that thou canst strike their apathy asunder and let them live. And know, O king, that even as those beings are whom thou hast found, so are all things in the valley down to the smallest. The smallest particle there is in the valley lies, unless it were for me, without motion. Each particle has the “How then,” exclaimed the king, thinking of the pain he had felt in directing the movements of the children, “canst thou bear all this pain?” “It is not much,” answered the old man; “and were it more I would willingly bear it for thee. For think of a particle which has made the whole round of which I spoke to you—it will make this journey if on the whole there is the slightest gain of pleasure over pain; and thus, although for each particle in its movement at every moment I bear the difference of pain, the pain for each particle is so minute that the whole course of natural movements in the valley weighs upon me but little. And behold all lies ready for thee, O king. I have done all that I can do. I can perfect each natural process, each quality of the ground, each plant and herb I make, up to the beings whom thou hast found. They are my last work, and into your hands I give them.” And when he had said this, the old man let drop his staff, and placing both hands to his breast he seemed to draw something therefrom, and with both hands to fling it to the king. For some moments’ space the king could distinguish nothing, but soon he became aware of a luminousness over the mid ravine. Something palely bright was floating towards him. As the brightness came nearer he saw that it was a centre wherein innumerable bright rays met, and from which innumerable bright rays went forth in every direction. “Take that,” the old man cried. “The rays go forth unto everything in the valley. They pass through everything unto everything. Through them thou canst touch whatsoever thou wilt.” The king took the rays and placed them on his breast; thence they went forth, and through them he touched and knew every part of the valley. And thinking of the hut where the children lay, the king perceived through the rays that went thither that the walls were tottering, and like to fall on the children. And through his rays he knew that the children perceived this in a dull kind of way; but since in their life there was no more pleasure than pain, they did not feel it more pleasant to rise up and move than to be still and be buried. But the king through the rays, as before through the reeds, took the pain of moving, and the children rose and came out of the hut; and soon they were with the king, running and bounding as never children leapt and ran, with ecstasy of movement and unlimited exuberance of spirit. But as they leapt and ran the king felt an increasing pain in all his limbs. Still he liked to see them in their full and joyous activity, and he wished them to cast off that dull apathy in which they lay. So all through the night he roamed about with them thinking of all the wildest things for them to do, and leading them through dance and play, every movement and activity he could think of. At length the rising sun began to warm the air, and the king, exhausted with pain, left off bearing it for them. After a few languid movements the children sank down on a comfortable bank into a state of absolute torpor. The king looked at them; it seemed inconceivable that they could be the same children who had been running about so merrily a few moments ago. Thus far he had received no advantage from the rays the old man had given him, except that he could touch the children more easily. He turned wearily and looked around. His horse stood there. But instead of whinnying and running up to greet him, the faithful animal stood still, looking across the ravine. “Perchance without my burden, and with the strength these rays may impart,” thought the king, “he might manage the leap.” The horse was standing opposite the remains of the natural bridge over which the two had so rashly crossed the day before. The king touched the horse with his rays. As with a sudden thrust of the spur, the noble animal rushed forward and leapt madly from the fragments of the arch. His fore feet gained the opposite brink, and with a terrible struggle he raised himself on the firm ground. Then he stood still. With a crash the remaining fragments of the bridge fell into the gulf, leaving the vast gap unnarrowed at any part. The horse stood looking over the ravine. But though the king called him by name, the faithful creature who used to come to him at the slightest whisper paid no heed. In a few moments he galloped off along the track the courtiers had pursued. CHAPTER III.The king being left thus with the children, applied himself to thought. He directed his rays to one of the children and caused it to stand up, and, following the counsel of the old man, he thought of an action. The action he thought of was that of walking, and he separated it into two acts; the one act moving the right foot, the other act moving the left foot. And he separated the apathy in which the child was into pleasure and pain; pleasure connected with the act of moving the right foot, pain connected with the act of moving the left foot. Immediately the child moved forward its right foot, but the left foot remained motionless. The child had taken the pleasure, but the pain was left; or, since the king had connected the pleasure and pain with two acts, it may be said, had done the pleasant act and left the painful act undone. After waiting some time to see if the child would move, the king took the pain of moving the left foot; instantly the child moved it, and as soon as it had come to the ground again it moved the right foot, which was the pleasant act. But then it stopped. And by no amount of taking pains in the matter of the left foot could the king get the child into the routine of walking. As soon as he ceased to take the pain of moving the left foot, the child remained with the right foot forward. At last he removed his attention from the movement of the child, and it sunk back again torpor. The rest of the day the king spent in reflection, and in making experiments with the children. But he did not succeed any better. Whatever action he thought of they went through the pleasant act, but made no sign of going through the painful act. When darkness came the king perceived the faint luminousness of his rays: unless he had known of them he would hardly have perceived it. And now he tried a new experiment. He took one of the rays, and, detaching it from the rest, he put it upon the body of one of the children, going out from its body and returning again to its body, so that it went forth from the child and returned to the child again. He then caused the child to stand up, and again tried it with the action of walking. His idea was this: the child required a power of bearing its own pain in order to go through a painful act, and as the rays enabled him to bear their pain, the ray proceeding from the child and coming back to it might enable it to bear its own pain. And now he separated the apathy into pleasure and pain as before. The child moved the right foot, and then when it had moved it, he saw that it actually began to move the left foot. But it did not move it a complete step, and after the next movement of the right foot the left foot did not stir. Again and again the king tried the children, but his attempts came to nothing. One halting step of the left foot he could get them to go through, but no more. He spent many hours. Suddenly the cause of his failure flashed upon him. “Of course,” he said to himself, “they don’t move, for I have forgotten to take part of the pain. If they went on moving their left feet they would have no balance of pleasure.” And he tried one of them again. The child moved the right foot, then began to move the left foot. The king now by means of his rays took part of the pain of the movement of the left foot, and the child completed the step with it. Then of course it moved the right foot, for that was pleasant, and again the king took part The difficulty was surmounted. Soon both the children were moving hither and thither like shifting shadows in the night, and the king felt just a shade of pain. The children would come up to him and talk with him, if he took the difference of pain which made it pleasant for them to do so. But they had no idea of his action on them, for by his taking the difference of pain they found an action pleasant, and felt a motive in themselves to do it, which they did not in the least connect with the being outside themselves to whom they spoke. They looked on him as some one more powerful than themselves, and friendly to them. As soon as he was assured of the practical success of his plans, the king let the children relapse into their apathy while he thought. He conceived the design of forming with these children a state such as he had known on earth—a state with all the business and affairs of a kingdom, such as he had directed before. The vision of the palace which the old man had shown him rose up. He saw in imagination the fertile fields, with the roads stretching between them; he saw all the varied life of a great state. Accordingly from this time he was continually directing their existence, developing their powers, and learning how to guide them. And just as on first learning to read whole words are learnt which are afterwards split up into letters by the combinations of which other words are formed; so at first he thought of actions of a complicated nature, such as walking, and associated the moments of pleasure and pain with the acts of which such actions were composed. But afterwards he came to regard the simpler actions by the combination of many of which the beings were made And at first the beings were conscious of these simple acts and nothing else, but in order that they might carry out more complicated actions, he developed the dim apprehension which they had, and led it on to the consciousness of more complicated actions. The simplest actions became instinctive to these beings, and they went through them without knowing why. But if at any time the king ceased to take the difference of pain, these actions, seemingly automatic as they were, ceased. At certain intervals the king found his plans inconvenienced. Every now and then the beings went off into a state of apathy. Enough pain was borne for them to make it just worth their while to go through the actions of each routine. But any additional complication or hindrance unforeseen by the king was too much for them, and they sank under it. To remedy this he took in every action a slight portion of pain more than he had done at first. Thus he expended a certain portion of pain-bearing power to give stability to the routines. And the margin of pleasure over pain thus added was felt by the beings as a sort of diffused pleasure in existence, which made them cling to life. Now in guiding these beings towards the end he wished to obtain, the king had to deal with living moving beings, and beings whose state was continually changing. And this led him to adopt as the type of the activity of these beings not a single action, but a succession of actions of the same kind, coming the one after the other. Thus a being having been given a certain activity, it continued going on in a uniform manner until the king wished to alter it. Again it was important to keep the beings together, to prevent their being lost in the remote parts of the Of course, if there was any reason why he wanted them away from the centre, the king ceased his bearing of the pain of motion towards the centre, and then they were under the other tendency solely, which he imparted to them, in virtue of his bearing pain in another respect. And in everything that he did the king had regard to the circumstances in which the beings were placed, and the objects which he wanted to obtain. He did not spare any of his pain-bearing power to give them pleasure purely as a feeling, but always united the pleasure he obtained for them by his suffering with some external work. And as time went on and the number of the inhabitants increased, he introduced greater order and regularity into the numberless activities which he conceived for them. The activities formed regular routines, conditioned by the surroundings of the being and the routines of those around it. A routine did not suddenly cease without compensation; but if the king wished it to stop he let another activity spring up at once in place of it, so that there was no derangement. The beings gradually became more intelligent, so that they could be entrusted with more difficult routines, and carried them out successfully, the king, of course, always taking the difference of pain necessary to make it worth their while. And they even became able to carry out single activities on a large scale, involving the co-operation of many single routines. For they had a sense of There was one feature springing from the advanced intelligence of the inhabitants which it is worth while to mention. Many of the possible activities which the beings could go through, instead of consisting of a pleasurable part first and a less painful part afterwards, consisted of a painful part first and a pleasurable part afterwards. This might happen by the particular arrangement of the acts of which the compounded activity consisted, the acts having already moments of pain or pleasure affixed to them, and happening to occur in such dispositions that the first part of the activity was painful, the next part pleasurable. Now when the intelligence of the inhabitants was developed, the king, by leading them to think of such an activity, could induce them to go through with it. For the idea of the pleasure which would accompany the second part of the activity lightened the pain of the first. And this, combined with the portion of the pain which the king bore, almost counterbalanced the pain connected with the first part of the activity. Thus the beings were enabled to go through the painful part of the activity. But when they came to the second part of the activity the creatures were much disappointed. For by the law of the valley pleasure and pain were equal (except for the small part which the king bore). Now the pleasures of expectation had been so great that when the time came for the act usually associated in their minds with pleasure, the pleasure due had most of it been used up. From this circumstance a saying arose amongst the inhabitants which was somewhat exaggerated, but which had a kernel of truth in what has just been described. All this which has been so briefly described had in reality taken a long time. And now fields were cultivated, better houses were built. The inhabitants of the valley had increased greatly in number, and were divided up into several tribes, inhabiting different parts of the valley. But the most favoured position was the centre, and for the possession of the centre there were contentions and struggles. There the king’s activity in bearing was greatest, and the life was most developed. All around the outskirts of the valley dwelt the ruder and less advanced people, who were called barbarians and savages by those nearer the centre. CHAPTER IV.Now when the king saw the inhabitants becoming more like the human beings he had known, he felt that he was solitary, and he desired to have some intercourse with them. But when he appeared amongst them they recognized him at once as some one more powerful than themselves, and were afraid of him. In their alarm they tried to lay hands on him. When he, to prevent their attacks, withdrew his continued bearing the difference of pain in their actions, those who were attacking him sank into apathy and became as the children whom he had first found. And a horrible report sprang up amongst the inhabitants of a terrible being who came amongst them, and And the old man appeared. “Art thou weary, O king, of thy task?” “Nay,” replied the king; “but I wish to make myself known to the inhabitants that I may speak with them and they with me.” And the old man counselled him to give some of his rays to one amongst the beings, for then this being having these rays and the power of bearing pain for another other than himself, would be like the king, and being like him would understand him. Now the king sought over the whole of the valley, and of all the inhabitants he found one most perfect in form and in mind. He was the son of a king, and destined to reign in his turn over a numerous people. And the king gave him some of his rays, straight rays going forth from the prince to others. And immediately the prince awoke as it were from a dream. And he comprehended existence, and saw that in reality the pain and the pleasure were equal. And when he had seen this, and knew the power of the rays, and how by bearing pain he could make others pass through pleasure and pain, and call those sleeping into activity; when the prince knew this, he cried out: “One thing succeeds another in the valley; pain follows pleasure, and pleasure follows pain. But the cause of all being is in bearing pain. Wherefore,” he cried, “let us seek an end to this show. Let us pray to be delivered, that at last, pain ceasing, we may pass into nothingness.” Thus the prince, apprehending the cause of existence, felt that it was pain, and dimly comprehending how the king was bearing pain, and himself feeling the strenuousness of the effort of using the rays for which the frame of the inhabitants was unstrung, longed that existence itself might cease. Yet all his life his deeds were noble, and he passed from tribe to tribe, bearing the burdens and calling forth the sleeping to activity. CHAPTER V.It is now the place in which to give a clear account of the king’s activity, and explain how he maintained the varied life of the valley. And the best plan is to take a typical instance, and to adopt the Arabic method of description. By the Arabic method of description is meant the same method which the Arabs used for the description of numerical quantities. For instance, in the Arabic notation, if we are asked the number of days in the year, we answer first 300, which is a false answer, but gives the nearest approximation in hundreds; then we say sixty, which is a correction; last of all we say five, which makes the answer a correct one, namely, 365. In this simple case the description is given so quickly that we are hardly conscious of the nature of the system employed. But the same method when applied to more difficult subjects presents the following characteristics. Firstly, a certain statement is made about the subject to be described, and is impressed upon the reader as if it were true. Then, when that has been grasped, another statement is made, generally somewhat contradictory, and the first notion formed Thus the activity of the king will be here described by a series of statements, and the truth will be obtained by the whole of the statements and the corrections which they successively bring in. When the king wished to start a being on the train of activity he divided its apathy into pleasure and pain. The pleasure he connected with one act which we will call A. The pain he associated with another act which we will call B. These two “acts,” A and B, which together form what we call an “action,” were of such a nature that the doing of A first and then of B was a process used in the organization of the life in the valley. Thus the act A may be represented by moving the right foot, B by moving the left foot, then AB will be the action of taking a step. This however is but a superficial illustration, for the acts which we represent by A and B were fundamental acts, of which great numbers were combined together in any single outward act which could be observed or described. Suppose for the present that there is only one creature in the valley. The king separates his apathy with regard to the action AB. Let us say he separates his apathy into 1000 pleasure and 1000 pain. Of the pleasure he lets the being experience the whole, of the pain he bears an amount which we will represent by 2. Thus the being has 1000 pleasure and 998 of pain, and the action is completed. His sensation is measured by But the king did not choose to make the fundamental actions of this limited and finishing kind. As the type of the fundamental activity, he chose an action, and made the being go through it again and again. Thus the being would go through the act A, then the act B. When the action AB was complete it would go through an act of the kind A again, then through an act of the kind B. Thus the creature would be engaged in a routine of this kind, AB, AB, AB, and so on. And if the creature had been alone, and this had been the sole activity in which it was concerned, the king would have gone on bearing 2 of pain in each of these actions. The king would have kept the routine going on steadily, the creature bearing 1000 of pleasure in each A, and 998 of pain in each B. At this point it may be asked that an example should be given of one of these elementary routines which the king set going. And this seems a reasonable request, and yet it is somewhat too peremptory. For in the world we may know of what nature the movements of the atoms are without being able to say exactly what the motion of any one is. In such a case a type is the only possible presentation. Again, take the example of a crystal. We know that a crystal has a definite law of shape, and however much we divide it we find that its parts present the same conformation. We cannot isolate the ultimate crystalline elements, but we infer that they must be such as to produce the crystal by their combination. Now life on the valley was such in its main features as would be produced by a combination of routines of the kind explained. There were changes and abrupt transitions, but the general and prevailing plan of life Firstly, there was not one being only but many. Secondly, the king wished to have some of his pain-bearing power set free from time to time. He did not wish to have to be continually spending it all in maintaining the routines he had started at first, and those immediately connected with them. When he first began to organize the life of the beings he did not consciously keep back any of his pain-bearing power, but threw it all in the activities which he started. Still from time to time he wished to start new activities quite unconnected with the old, and for this reason he withdrew some of his pain-bearing power, as will be shown afterwards. There were many beings. The king chose that the type of activity in each should be a routine. In that way he could calculate on the activity, and hold it in his mind as a settled process on whose operation he could count. But as the routines of the beings proceeded they came into contact with one another, and made, even by their simple co-existence, something different from what a routine by itself was. They interwove in various In order to be able to originate these connected routines the king adopted the following plan. In the first action AB he separated the creatures’ apathy into 1000 pleasure and 1000 pain, bearing 2 of the pain himself. The creature thus went through 1000 of pleasure and 998 of pain. In the next action AB he did not separate the beings’ apathy up into so much pleasure and pain. He separated it up into 980 pleasure and 980 pain, that is, each moment of feeling was 20 less in sensation than the moments of feeling were in the first action. Now it is obvious that if the bearing 2 of pain will make it worth while for a being to go through 1000 pleasure and 998 pain, then the bearing on the king’s part of 1 of pain would make it worth while for the being to go through 500 pleasure and 499 of pain. And a similar relation would hold for different amounts of pleasure and pain. Thus clearly for the being to go through 980 of pleasure and the corresponding amount of pain, it would not be necessary for the king to bear so much as when the being went through 1000 of pleasure and the corresponding amount of pain. Consequently when the king divided the beings’ apathy into 980 pleasure and 980 pain, it would not be necessary for him to bear 2 of pain to make it worth the beings’ while to go through the action. The king would not bear so much as 2 of pain, and thus he would have some of his pain-bearing power set free. He would have exactly as much as would enable him to make it worth a being’s while to go through an action with the moments of 20 of pleasure and 20 of pain. And this—with a correction which will come later—is what the king did. He employed the pain-bearing The amount of the moments of pleasure in the routine CD, was (with a slight correction explained below) measured in sensation, equal to 20. Thus the moment of pleasure in the first A being 1000, the moment of pleasure in the second A was 980, the moment of pleasure in the first C was 20 (subject to the correction spoken of). Thus the total amount of sensation in the second A and the associated act C, taken together (but for a small correction) was equal to the sensation in the first A. Hence the three points which were characteristic of the activity of the beings in the valley are obvious enough. 1. There is as fundamental type a routine AB, AB, AB, the sensation involved in which goes on diminishing. 2. There are routines CD, CD, &c., connected with AB, AB, in which the sensation which disappears in the routine AB, AB seems to reappear. 3. In the action AB itself there is a disappearance of sensation. The sensation connected with A is 1000, that connected with B is 998. Thus 2 of sensation seems to have disappeared. This 2 of sensation is of course the pain which the king bore, and which was the means whereby the creature was induced to go through the action at all. But looked at from the point of view of sensation, it seems like a diminution of amount. This diminution of amount, owing to the correction spoken of above, was to be found regularly all through the routine. And now, with the exception of the final correction, the theory of the king’s activity is complete. There are certain mathematical difficulties which render an exhaustive account somewhat obscure in expression. When we take a general survey of a theory we want to see roughly how it all hangs together; but if we mean to adopt it, the exactitude of the numerical relations becomes a matter of vital importance. It must be added that the numbers taken above were taken simply for purposes of illustration. In reality the pain born by the king was less in proportion. The exhaustive account which follows deals with small numerical quantities. It had better be omitted for the present, and turned to later on for reference. EXHAUSTIVE ACCOUNT.We keep for the time being to the numbers used above. When the king had enough pain-bearing power set free in the second action of the routine AB, AB to start another routine CD, of 20 pleasure 20 pain, he did not use it all. He only used enough of it to set a routine going the moments of pleasure and pain in which were 16 in sensation. The routine CD was made up of acts with 16 of pleasure and 16 of pain. The sensation in the first A was 1000, in the first B it was 998, giving a disappearance of 2. In the second A it was 980, and in C, which starts concurrently with the second A, it was not 20 as might have been expected, but 16, giving a loss of 4. The second A is less than the first A by 20. Searching for that 20 we find 16 in C. But there has been a disappearance of 4. Looking now at the successive acts in the series we have in A 1000 sensation, in B 998 sensation, in A and C together 996 sensation. The cause of the loss between A and B has already been explained. That between B and the second A with C remains to be accounted for. It has been already said that the king withdrew some of his pain-bearing power from the routine AB and all routines connected with it, thus he was enabled to start activities altogether unconnected with those which he had originated, and was with regard to the products of his own activity as he had been at first, with regard to the beings in the valley before he started them on the path of life. And it was in consequence of his withdrawal of his pain-bearing power that the amount of sensation in C was not 20 but was less. This loss of 4 of sensation to the being corresponded to a setting free of a certain portion of pain-bearing power on the part of the king. And thus as the process went on, a portion of his power was continually being returned to him. In the table below the first line of figures contains the amount of sensation in the actions AB, AB. The second line of figures contains the amount of sensation in the actions CD, CD. The third line of figures relates to another connected routine EF, EF, which originates in a manner similar to CD. The fourth line of figures represents the amount of pain borne by the king, the fifth line represents his pain-bearing power set free.
If the total amount of sensation which is experienced by the being in the original routine and the connected routines in the consecutive stages be summed up, it will be found to be
and so on. Finally, the proportion of pain borne by the king was so small compared with the sensation experienced by the being, that A and B were apparently equal in sensation. Thus the sensation in the second A and in C together becomes apparently equal to that in B. And instead of the sensation diminishing quickly as shown above, it was only after a great many acts of the primary and connected routines had been gone through that any diminution of sensation in the form which the being could experience it was to be detected. Thus, as before stated, there was: 1. A routine of continually diminishing sensation. 2. Connected routines the sensation in which was apparently equal to that lost in A. 3. There was a continuous disappearance of sensation from the experience of the beings accompanying every step of the routine. The sensation which they could experience was less in every subsequent step and connected steps than in any one in which it was measured. CHAPTER VI.The history of the events which took place in the valley in their due order and importance must be sought elsewhere. But let us return and look at the condition of the valley and its inhabitants. Let us see what has become of them after a great lapse of time. It is a fair, a beautiful land. The greater part of it is cultivated. There is no war—even to the extremest confines of the valley there is peace. Passing from the remote confines where still dwell a barbarous race, we come, as we approach the metropolis, amongst a more and more polite and refined people. In the metropolis itself the buildings are numerous and of great size. The palace which the king saw rise under the old man’s music is there, but another ruler dwells in it. Near the palace are two vast buildings standing on each side of a wide open court. There is no other building near save one between them, a comparatively small edifice of brick. These buildings are the assembly halls of the two most important councils in the valley. In the one on the left-hand side of the palace met the most distinguished of the inhabitants who from a special inclination or fitness were entrusted with the regulations about the pleasure and pain of the inhabitants. They framed the rules according to which each inhabitant must conform in his pursuit of pleasure, and they made the regulations whereby the whole body of inhabitants were supposed to gain an increase in pleasure and to avoid pain. In the building on the right hand of the palace met those of the inhabitants who had studied the nature of feeling most deeply, and who from temperament or for other reasons had in their course of study not paid so much attention to whether feelings were painful or pleasurable, but who had studied their amount and regularity of their recurrence. They were the thinkers from whom all the practical inhabitants derived their rules of business. They devised the means and manner of putting into execution what was decided on in the other assembly. They did not often propose any positive enactment themselves, but were always able to show Their power was derived in this manner. The king had connected the feelings of pleasure and pain with certain acts, and had given each being a routine. Now as he himself made use of this routine and combined the routines of different individuals to bring about the results he desired, so also did the rulers of the valley. The routines of the individuals were studied and classified, and if any work was required to be done, those individuals whose routines were appropriate were selected and brought to the required spot. Now to effect this a careful study of the different routines was necessary, and also a knowledge of what stage they were at. For it would be no use bringing an individual whose routine was almost at an end to a work which was just beginning. Hence the most delicate instruments and processes had been devised for measuring the amount of feeling experienced by any individual, whether of pleasure or of pain, and a careful classification had been made of all routines. But it is best to study the constitution of the state in a regular order, and the questions of pleasure and pain considered as such were esteemed the most important. The inhabitants knew that they sought pleasure and avoided pain, and the great object was to make their life more pleasurable. Two means were adopted, the banishing of the causes of pain, and the obtaining causes of pleasure. By causes of pain and pleasure they meant those objects with which the king had associated the feelings of pleasure and pain in the equal and opposite moments into which he had divided their apathy. But in this respect they were in error to a certain extent, for it was not so much in respect to things as in Now in the earlier ages those who deciphered the shells, or did work of a similar kind, had been forced to do it; they were a kind of slaves dependent on the will of their masters, who took away all the pleasures of their life. But in these earlier ages a great danger arose, for when all the pleasure was taken away by their masters, great masses of these slaves sank into apathy, and it seemed as if the valley was sinking into deadness. Now this was a great terror with the inhabitants whose life was pleasurable, and at length they determined that there should not be any more of these slaves. But each of the inhabitants when he worked for another had to have it made worth his while. In this way a great diminution took place in the pleasure-giving power of the so-called pleasurable things. For if a man had had it made worth his while to decipher one of these shells, he had had a great deal or nearly all of the pain he spent in doing it counterbalanced by the pleasure given him to induce him to do it. Hence when the shell was handed over there was not much to enjoy In fact, at this time the fashion of filling the houses of the more powerful of the inhabitants with the so-called pleasurable things had somewhat gone out, and it had passed into a proverb, “It is better to decipher your own shells.” Now it may be considered strange how it was that some of the inhabitants could get other of the inhabitants to decipher the shells for them at all, or, at any rate, to decipher them so that there was any balance of pleasure left with the shells at all. But this power on the part of some of the inhabitants depended on the general action of the king. For by bearing the difference of pain in innumerable respects in the life of each he made life a pleasure (on the whole) to each, and they strove each to preserve their own life which was a source of pleasure. And some of the more powerful inhabitants had the power of denying to the rest, unless they laboured for them, the means of continuing to exist. Consequently it was possible for things to be obtained by the more powerful which had a balance of pleasure in them. But the authorities who had studied the life of the valley in relation to pleasure and pain, saw that there was a danger in this relation of the more powerful to the less powerful. For as the numbers of the inhabitants increased the power grew more and more concentrated in the hands of a few, and there was a tendency for the inhabitants in general to be compelled more and more to go through the painful part of actions, leaving the pleasurable parts for the more powerful. And every now and then, before the council of wise men regulated the matter, great masses But not only in this respect, but also in every other, the wise men regulated the affairs of the valley so as to make life more pleasurable. They had severe laws against any one who deprived another of pleasure without his consent, by violence or deceit. They did all they could to ward off a state of apathy. But in one respect beyond all others they were full of care and precaution. And this was in guarding against such sources of trouble, anxiety, and pain which could be removed from the community as a whole. Anything tending to lower the standard of comfort as a whole was carefully removed. Irregularities were reduced as much as possible; and, in one respect, a great step had been taken. It had not been carried in the council of wise men without great opposition, but it had at length been passed into law. Any child born in the valley which had any incurable disease, or any gross deformity, or which by its delicacy seemed likely to cause more pain than pleasure in the valley, was at once put out of existence. The gain to the inhabitants of the valley of this was in their eyes immense; for their sight was offended by no deformities, and the painful offices of attending to the sick had undergone a considerable diminution since this edict had been passed into law. The important duty of deciding on the claims of every infant that was born to a painless extinction was confined to a band of inspectors, who stayed for a short CHAPTER VII.Passing on to the other great building, where the other wise men meet, it is right to describe what may be called the intellectual development—as the foregoing was the moral development of the valley. The course which the opinions of the thinkers in the valley had gone through was the following. At first they had no clear ideas, but all manner of mere opinions and fancies. At last they apprehended certain general tendencies—such as that towards the centre of the valley, and they explained many inclinations which had before been puzzling to them by this. And stimulated by this great discovery they examined more and more closely. And they found many special tendencies like that towards the centre of the valley, which the king had called into existence, and which he let go on as a general rule, unless he wished the contrary. And they also succeeded in nearly isolating the simplest routines, and so practically could observe the type of the king’s plan. They saw that one act A was succeeded by another act B. And not taking into account that one was pleasant the other painful, they measured the amount of sensation present in the two acts. And then they took the next pair of acts, namely, A and B over again, and measured the amount of sensation present in them; and they found that the amount of sensation gradually diminished. And at first they thought that sensation Now, of course, these other actions were started by the king with the pain-bearing power set free from the routine A B, as above described. But not knowing anything about this action on the part of the king, or about the king at all, the conclusion arrived at was this: That sensation transmits itself. If it does not continue in the routine A B, that part which does not continue passes on to the other routines, C D, E F, &c. Then they measured very carefully; and they found, as nearly as they could measure, the routines which sprang up as the routine A B died away were equal in sensation to the loss in the routine A B, A B. And from this they concluded that the amount of sensation or feeling was constant. They called it living force, and said that it must transmit itself and, wherever it appeared, be equal in its total amount to what it was at first. But after a time, with more delicate measurements and more patient thought, they found that some of the sensation was still unaccounted for. For consider any routine consisting of the acts A, B; A, B; A, B. In order to make any pair of acts A, B worth while, the king bore a certain amount of pain. Referring to the numbers which we took before, if there were 1000 of pleasure in A there would only be 998 of pain in B. Thus the sensation was not equal in the two acts A and B. Some of the sensations had gone, and the portion of sensation we are now considering—the portion by which B was less than A—had not gone in starting other routines. This loss could not be accounted for as they accounted for the difference in sensation between the first action A B and the second action, consisting of the acts A and B in the routine. But besides this there was a further loss. Some sensation went off, not to be recovered in any routine they knew. Now it was the bearing on the part of the king which produced the appearance of the passing away of sensation altogether, so that the act B was less in amount of sensation than the act A. But the inhabitants—at least the wise ones—were firmly convinced that sensation could not be annihilated or lessened. So they came to the conclusion that sensation was passing off into a form from which it never reappeared, so that it could affect them. They conceived it still to exist, but to be irrecoverably gone from the life of the inhabitants of the valley. Taking the numbers we have taken, and the simple instances we have supposed, this course of reasoning appears straightforward enough. But in reality so complicated was the state of things in the valley, and the proportion of pain which the king bore in each single action so minute, that to have arrived at this result implied powers of investigation of no mean order. It is interesting to mention the names which these investigators gave in the valley. In the performance of the pleasant act A, they said that the being acquired greater animation. In going through the painful act B, they said that he passed into a position of advantage. They used the term advantage because, having completed the painful act B, he was ready to begin the pleasant part of the action A over again. And in this part he manifested more animation. And now although acts of greater animation and greater advantage succeeded one another, and although the new total of the sensation in the act of a being was We see that this sensation which was gone was in reality the pain-bearing of the king, which set all their life going. But they knew nothing of this, and formed a very different conclusion. They said: “If some of the sensation is continually going and disappearing from the life of the inhabitants of the valley—if this is the case, although the sensation may not be destroyed, it is certainly lost to us.” And then they thought: “Surely the amount of sensation must be always the same; if some of it continually goes off into a form in which we cannot feel it, that portion which is left behind, and which we feel, must be continually growing less.” Hence they concluded that the sensation in the valley was gradually running down. Less and less was being felt. After a time, which they calculated with some show of precision, all feeling will have left the inhabitants and gone off in some irrecoverable form. All the beings of the valley will sink into apathy. Thus coming in the course of their investigations upon the action of the king, which was the continual cause of all life, they apprehended it as the gradual annihilation of life. The small building between the two council halls remains to be noticed. Now when the king had connected pleasure and pain with different acts to be performed by the inhabitants of the valley, he had of necessity to let the pleasant one be the one that came first in the order of its possible performance. Now in things which necessarily concerned their life, the king would, by repeatedly bearing the pain of the painful act, continually set the beings going again; for when they had performed the pleasant act they were landed in a state of torpor, until the pain of the painful act had been borne by them or for them. Now if this act of which they took the pleasant and left the painful part undone was in the main current of their lives, the king would over and over again, by bearing the pain, bring those who had shirked the painful part into a position of advantage again, so that they could begin the routine afresh with another pleasant act. And often when thus started again they would take to the routine, and bear the pain in the painful act themselves. But many, after assisting them again and again, the king was obliged to let sink into apathy, such namely as always left the painful part of the action undone. Now the little building was the council hall or investigation chamber of the searchers out of new pleasures. And by new pleasures they meant something of the following kind. With the pleasant and painful acts which made up the main routines of their life, it was not safe to take the pleasant and leave the painful acts, for that gradually led to their sinking into apathy. But there were many routines which the king had instituted besides the main ones. And if the pleasant part of the action constituting these secondary routines were taken, then there followed no tendency to lethargy in the main Long ago, through one of the inhabitants of the valley with whom he had communicated, the king had sent a message, asking the inhabitants not to take the pleasant part of an action without the connected painful part. But now all memory of this message was lost, and the little building had been built, as a council hall or investigation chamber for the searching out of pleasurable acts. In it all possible novelties of action were discussed. And the pleasant parts of them being described, exactly how far they were pleasurable, and in what degree they were pleasurable, the information was made public throughout the land. CHAPTER VIII.Besides these two principal buildings in the metropolis, there were other public buildings devoted to various purposes. And some of the most important were colleges devoted to the education of the young inhabitants. Now there was in the college of applied sensations a student who, though outwardly as proficient as the average of his companions, was in reality the most backward of all. He learned by a kind of rote all the doctrines they understood, and he could explain apparently how one feeling caused another. But in himself he had no particle of understanding. He seemed deficient in the sense of cause and effect which the others had. Of this the following instance will suffice to show the nature. The king had, in order to prevent the inhabitants from straying too far from the metropolis, kept a constant watchfulness over their movements, and had uniformly taken somewhat of the pain from any effort which they made to move towards the metropolis, and had not taken any of the pain in efforts whose tendency was to remove them to a distance from the metropolis. If there was any purpose to be served in going away from the metropolis, he took enough pain from these movements to make it worth the beings’ while to go away from the metropolis. But when other things were equal, it was a pleasurable thing to go towards the metropolis. The king made this general inclination, because if it had not been so, beings lying out of the way of his immediate attention might have drifted away and gone to the confines of the valley, away from where the busy life he was calling out was manifested, and so have been lost to others and themselves. As it was by imparting this general pleasurableness of moving towards the metropolis he held all the inhabitants together, and knew the direction in which each would tend, unless for any special reason he had made it more pleasurable for the person to move away from the metropolis. Now, as has been mentioned above, this general tendency had been observed by the inhabitants; and they knew quite well that every individual tended towards the metropolis, and was only prevented from coming into it by strong local interests, or by all available positions in it or near it being already occupied. If any situation was vacant in the metropolis, it was easily filled up by those from the surrounding country, for they all felt this tendency to press in. Now, the learned men in the valley had long recognized this as one of the most important laws of the One day the head of the college was talking to the foremost students—those who had nearly finished their course and who would take their places in the valley shortly—and he said incidentally in the course of his remarks, that those who were moving away from the metropolis were as much attracted to it as those who were moving towards it. “Why do they move away, then?” asked the backward student, who had by great diligence, after a long time, plodded his way by force of remembering by heart into the top class. He forgot his usual caution and his acquired habit of only asking questions he had heard asked before in order to refresh his memory with the answers he had heard given before. The professor frowned at the stupid question. “The supposed being,” he answered, “while he is attracted to the metropolis in accordance with the general law, may yet have some stronger inducement at the time to move away from the metropolis. That he does move away shows of course that his temporary inducement to move away is stronger than his permanent attraction towards the metropolis.” The student said that he was obliged for the explanation. “But——” “Well?” said the professor. “The only reason you have for supposing that the being is attracted towards the metropolis is that he does move towards the metropolis. I don’t see why you should say it was pleasant for him to move towards the metropolis when he does not do so.” “But we know,” said the professor. “No,” said the student, “you only suppose; because you find it so on a great many occasions, you suppose it is so always. You are like a savage who attacks the house of a civilized man. And he tries the window, the civilized man meets him there; so he tries the door, the civilized man meets him there; so he goes back to the window, and is met there again. And he concludes there are two men in the house; and after a time he concludes there are as many men in the house as there are ways by which he tries to get in.” The student had forgotten himself in speaking like this; and the comparison to a savage, though made in haste and in good part as an illustration, offended the professor, so he said: “You do not believe that the law of attraction towards the metropolis is universal, and affects all the inhabitants?” “I cannot,” said the student. “Then you shall go to a place where you will feel it,” said the professor. “You will go to-morrow to the extreme confines of the valley, and stop there until you are of a different mind.” He said this in a superior and gentle manner. But it was a terrible blow to the prospects of any student to be thus exiled. And yet the professor was within his strict legal right, and the student knew it. He had avoided this danger all through his college course, and now it came with crushing effect on him. For just as long ago in the valley they had had doctrines about the king, and had punished any one who did not feel them as true, and who was found out, so now when all the ideas about the king had been disproved, they had severe regulations about the belief in the laws. The learned class was a sect of priests, and whoever threatened to Now the student, when he was sent away, tried earnestly to see wherein he had been wrong. The place where he was exiled was on the confines of the valley, where a peaceable race of savages lived, engaged in agriculture. In the quiet, monotonous life of the place he thought over his whole course of life, but could not obtain any different feeling. And while thus buried in thought, he fell into the way of going about with the savages and doing as they did. Much to his surprise, when his preoccupation of mind passed away, he found himself singularly at home with them. Their tastes seemed to agree with his. And he came to the conclusion that he was in reality a savage who by some mistake had been admitted to the college. Having formed Many curious traditions were handed down amongst them. There were some which proceeded from the time when the king had walked and talked with the children he called into activity. There were others proceeding from times when there had appeared amongst them one to whom the king had given some of his rays, so that that person had the power of making the pain less in actions for others, and of giving them motives to act, and of rousing them thus to an active state. And all these traditions they told to the exiled student. Now their own belief was this. They thought that there was a power over them, and in this they recognized the king; but how it was that this power prompted them they did not know. Yet they connected him in some way with pleasure and pain. They thought it pained him when they had pleasure, but not in the way in which was really the case. They thought simply that it was pain to him to see them taking pleasure. They thought, moreover, that he would, if they displeased him much, take away all their pleasure and leave them nothing but pain. Now the student saw clearly some errors, some contradictions in their belief. For instance, he knew that beings only followed pleasure, and directly pleasure was equalled by pain, sank into apathy, and then gradually vanished away. Hence he knew there need be no apprehension of the power’s acting as they thought. But the thing they said, that their taking pleasure pained this power, struck him. He did not approve the results in their life, for it was in consequence very gloomily framed, though with a good deal of unconscious cheeriness. When he had thought thus far he remembered one of his books in which the ancient beliefs of the valley were discussed. It happened to be one of the books which he had brought into his exile with him. He took it down, and in the evening set himself to search through it. And in a footnote towards the end of the book he read: “The existence of a power shaping the valley for the good of the beings in it is clearly disproved. First, by the amount of suffering there is in the valley. Secondly, by the fewness of the types of life, and the constant modification of one plan to secure different results—which would be much better achieved by the use of radically different types and means. Thirdly, by the absence of any indication of such a power, except in the traditions of uncultivated tribes.” When the student had read this he rose up and paced his chamber. For he saw clearly that if it was in bearing Reflecting thus he went out. Now it may be considered surprising that the king did not communicate in some way with the student, for by means of his rays he was in possession of all that had gone on in his mind. But the king had found over and over again that if he manifested himself to any one of the inhabitants of the valley, the effect, though good at the immediate time, was most disastrous for the following time. For the ends he was working towards, and leading the inhabitants towards, were much greater than any one of them could grasp or conceive. And the inhabitants, as soon as they had communication with him, at once thought they knew his final will. And they were a set most peculiarly stiff in their notions, and with the kind of sanction which communication with him gave them, even the most absurd ideas if once conceived took a very long time to eradicate. So when the student went out into the open air he saw nothing except the stars, and heard nothing except the wind. The way was so well known to him, however, that he walked on quickly without stumbling in the darkness. He had not gone far when he saw a kind of luminousness. Is it the moon beginning to rise? he thought. But he found he had passed the light and was leaving it behind. He could not have passed the moon thus. He went towards the light, and when he had reached it, it seemed like a slender staff of light. He He had not gone very far when in his walk he touched on something lying in the path. Bending down and touching it with his hand he found that it was the form of a fellow creature. “He is overcome with fatigue; can I help him along?” he thought. He rose up to look round, and let the beam of light which he held in his hand touch the prostrate form. “I wish he could get up by himself,” he thought. No sooner had he felt this wish than he had a sensation of pain in his limbs, and the figure rose up. “I could not move,” it said, “until you came, with all my reasons to get along; the pain was as much as the pleasure.” “Who are you?” “I am a wanderer, and am trying to reach the place where I was born; they will help me there.” Now in the valley there was a certain set of people called wanderers, who had proved themselves unfit for any real work. These, if inoffensive, were allowed to roam about subsisting on charity. The student walked alongside this wanderer; and every step the wanderer made he felt a sensation of pain in his limbs. But the two walked quickly on till they came to the dwelling he had left so shortly before. The student led him in and let him rest in his chamber. And then he himself left the dwelling again, taking with him a few necessaries. CHAPTER IX.When he had seen the wanderer safely housed he determined to go and visit a friend who had lived in a town not very far from the metropolis. This friend had been his most intimate companion when he first became a student, but being older had finished his studies sooner, and had left the metropolis before the student’s misfortune. In leaving his place of exile the student rendered himself liable to punishment, and he gave up the means of subsistence which had been provided for him there. He was obliged to go as a wanderer, and trust to the liberality of the people on the way. He was hospitably received as a rule. The region was remote from the metropolis, the inhabitants were glad to talk with a stranger—and the wanderers were, in general, held to have a stock of exchangeable talk and news. But he did not speak with any one of what lay present to his mind, till one occasion. As he was walking along early in the day, he was hailed by an inhabitant who looked like a well-to-do farmer. Something in the student’s appearance attracted him, for, learning that he was on his way to a distant town, he asked him to stay and take the first meal of the day with him. This inhabitant had been a clerk employed in the council of pleasure and pain. But the sedentary life had been too trying for him; he had come to live in the country on a small possession of his till he had overcome the strain. “Did you not find it very dull in the part you come from?” “No; I found that the people had much of interest to tell me.” “They have singular traditions. I remember when “I have talked a good deal with them since I have lived amongst them, and have come to the conclusion that in what they believe a great deal is true.” “Indeed! you cannot surely believe that our pleasure is distasteful to any being outside us.” “No; but I go back to the old notion of which you have heard, that there is a being who calls us into being, and who is over us; and I believe that this being takes pain, and so makes life pleasurable to us. You know that some sensation is passing away, and you know that there must be more pain that passes away than pleasure.” “How can I know that?” “We know that there is not such a very great excess of pleasure over pain. Now if in all the course of time that has been, the sensation that has been passing away was pleasure, there would by this time have been left an excess of pain, and before now we should all have sunk into apathy. So it is either pleasure and pain mixed which passes away, or pain alone. I conceive that it is pain alone. These strange doctrines are true, only curiously expressed. The being over us is continually bearing pain and so making existence pleasant to us, thus causing us to move and live. So the pain of our life is that remaining pain which he does not take.” “This seems to me a very dismal doctrine. I can imagine some poetry in the idea of a being of infinite power, strong and glorious, but none in the idea of a suffering being.” “When you were a child you thought your father could do everything; but as you grew up and found that he too had his difficulties, was your regard for him lessened, or your thankfulness for that which he did for you?” “No. And you mean that if we do not regard this “Certainly we should feel gratitude to him; and, considering the attitude we have taken towards him, this feeling of gratitude comes over us with a kind of revulsion. But besides gratitude I do not see why we must lose any other feeling such as you seem to miss. Do you not remember how, in the course of the studies we have all been through, we were told that there were two parts in knowledge—one corresponding to reality, one introduced by the action of our own minds—so that certain characteristics which we at first think to be due to the nature of things in themselves we find out on reflection are only our apprehension of our own mental action?” “Yes; we do not perceive the reality absolutely, we apprehend it subject to the mind’s mode of perceiving.” “And of course the mode of the mind’s action makes it perceive certain qualities as parts of the real existence, which do not belong to real existence at all. These qualities spring from our mind’s own action. In old times these qualities were considered to be qualities of the reality instead of introduced there. And much of the impressiveness of the idea formed of the being of whom we speak was due to a mere magnification and extension of these qualities—qualities which do not correspond to anything in reality. So the impressiveness of the idea of this being was due to the magnification of qualities which originate solely in our minds.” “This accounts for the idea having faded away. But tell me definitely in an instance. Explain by taking some particular quality what you mean.” “I cannot do that, the thought but floats in my mind; still it is always good to embody. Something of this sort. When we observe any object we always attribute to it “Surely you would say that this being was powerful.” “Of course, if we think of him at all, we must conceive of him as powerful; the nature of our mental action demands this. But to dwell on the notion of his powerfulness is quite barren, the only subject of thought which has content is to inquire what kind of power he has. There has been a tendency on the part of those who have thought about this being to represent his greatness in every respect. But they have not always been judicious in so doing, because being unable to separate his real qualities from those which they attribute to him in virtue of their own mode of perception, they have come to lay stress on descriptions which on the one hand correspond to nothing in reality, and on the other hand fail to move those whom they are intended to impress. A cloak has been woven. The nature of this being is hidden. His nature has been connected with introspective questions about the origin—of, of all things, the way in which we perceive. All this must be dashed aside. This being is the cause of all our life, and yet he needs your help as you understand help.” “I should like to accompany you to your friend and hear what he has to say.” “Come, certainly.” So they went together to the town. On the way the clerk felt a brightness of existence such as he had not enjoyed for a long time. They talked together, and confided in one another. At length they came near the town where the student’s friend lived. They separated, the clerk going into the town, the student to the house of his friend. On his way there the path led through a small wood of very thick growth. Passing along, he found that he had left the path. Pausing to reflect in which direction he ought to go, he thought he heard a sound. It was repeated. Penetrating deep into the obscurest part of the wood, he searched till at length he found—carefully concealed—a child, a mere infant. The child was nearly perished with exposure. He took it up and warmed it. When the child was a little better the cause of its having been hidden away was apparent. Its breathing was distressed and laboured. It suffered under some affection of the lungs, which made it gasp at every breath. Still in other respects the child was well developed and seemed strongly made. It seemed to have been left too long without care to recover. The pain of exhaustion from the neglect, and added to this the pain of its breathing, was too much for it, it was sinking. “If I could bear the pain of its breathing,” thought the student, “it might not sink till I could get some nourishment for it.” He looked up, for it seemed to him as if some one struck him in the chest. There was no one there. The pain continued. He did not drop the child but continued on his way to the house of his friend. When he got there he noticed a stillness unusual in the houses “He has been suffering great pain for long,” she said; “it was hoped that if he could bear up the pain would have run its course and he would not sink. But all we could do was no use.” The room was full of all things accounted pleasurable, and she looked round as she spoke. “It was no good.” Taking the child from his arms she left him with the form of her brother. Sitting down by his side the student felt the strange oppression on his chest continue. He went out and found that the child had completely revived. It had still the appearance of being agonized in its breathing, but its eyes were bright, and it laughed. “It will be all right soon,” said his friend’s sister. “Tell me what was the matter with your brother.” When he had heard about his malady he returned to the room. After he had sat there for some time he felt more and more the sorrow for the loss of his friend, and the need of his counsel. This aimless, inert form, this lifeless mass, was that which he had come to seek—was the being with whom he had longed to confer. He bent over him. “Could I but snatch him back into life; could I but have one hour’s intercourse with him. If I had been with him I might have borne some of the pain of his complaint before he was overpowered with it.” He touched the lifeless hands, they were cold and damp. He gazed into the expressionless face. He seemed to feel the pain of the inner struggle his friend had waged against the disease. The quiet of that still chamber was gone for him; in his own person he felt the pangs of the struggle for life. A mist came over his “I have been very ill,” were the words he caught. “I am so glad you have come; I was thinking of you in my worst moments. You have come just as I am getting better.” Indeed the features were regaining expression, the hands were warm. It was his living friend again. After a few hours he was sufficiently recovered to hear about all that had happened. They talked together long and earnestly. His friend was convinced. “Let us go to your companion,” he said. They went into the town together. They found that the clerk had gone to the magistrates’ hall where a trial was being held. They did not see the clerk at first, so they listened to the proceedings. A woman was brought in who had been kept in prison for some days, accused of concealing her child. The case was clearly proved. The woman received her sentence with an appearance of apathy. “She will not come out of prison alive,” said the student’s friend, noting her expression. But he called out to her from where they stood in the body of the court, “Do not fear, your child is safe.” The woman’s face brightened, and she went with her jailers buoyantly. The magistrate had remarked who it was that had spoken, and was about to give orders for the disturber of order to be brought up for punishment. But the clerk, who was sitting near to the magistrate with whom he was acquainted, said: “This is the one I have told you about; pray do not punish him.” The magistrate accordingly contented himself with warning the audience in general terms. But he said to the clerk, “Something about him is very repulsive to me, do not tell me anything more about him.” The three returned together, and together they deliberated as to how the new idea about the king could be made known. It seemed best to go to the metropolis and talk with the wisest and most learned there. The student asked about the child. His friend’s sister came and told him that its breathing was not any better, but that the child itself was strong and playful. “It belongs to the woman who was tried to day,” said the student, “and must be kept safely till she is out of prison.” His friend after some deliberation gave it in charge to a faithful servant to take to the metropolis. A suffering child there would be much more likely to be overlooked, “and you,” he said, “will be able to look after it.” As the student and the clerk were about to set out on their way to the metropolis his friend took him apart. “My sister tells me that I had sunk into apathy when you came.” “Yes.” “And that you called me back?” “Yes.” “How can I thank you! had it not been for you I should never have enjoyed life again. I am grateful to you.” “Do not say grateful to me, but rather to that power which does for you all your life that which I do for you momentarily now. And even now it is not to me that you should be grateful, but to him, for it is only because he has enabled me to do so that I have taken of your pain.” With this he took farewell of his friend, and with the clerk proceeded on their way. They had not got very far when a train of servants came up behind them. They stood by on one side, but from the midst of his attendants a youth stepped forward. “I have learned what you have done, and I have overtaken you with great haste.” “What is your wish?” “I want to come with you. I know that you have restored your friend from apathy to life. No power is so great as that. I have riches in abundance. All that I have is at your service; teach me your power.” Now in the valley riches meant abundance of pleasant things. At the time the student was bearing the constant pain which he took of the child’s breathing, and the pain also of his friend’s illness. He felt that before beginning to take pleasure—which was the meaning of having pleasant things—it would be necessary to give up the power which he was exercising, so he said to the youth somewhat harshly: “You cannot compare riches and that which I do, nor can you exchange the one for the other. First give up all your riches, then you can begin to learn what I do.” The youth turned back, but once again spoke, saying: “I will give up a great part of my riches if you will teach me.” “If you want to keep any, however small a portion, you cannot do what I do.” Then the youth with all his attendants passed away. CHAPTER X.When they came to the metropolis the clerk brought many of his acquaintances to see the student. From his position in the council chamber, he was able to address and induce many of the ablest of the councillors to come and inquire. But as soon as they came into the presence of the student a sort of constraint sprang up between them. They did not take his words as having any real meaning. They were occupied all the time on speculating what motive it was that made him say these things, and as to what kind of difference it was which they felt existing between him and them. In fact, as time passed on, no one of any position or power would be brought into any sort of approximation to him. On the other hand he used to speak continually with the poorer people. Those that were sick especially delighted in his presence. There seemed to be in him a power of stimulating those that were sinking into apathy back again into life. Those who were worst off in the city seemed to feel when he spoke to them a promise of an alleviation of their sufferings. One day the clerk asked him “How is the child?” “It is well.” “But it still seems to breathe with as much difficulty.” “Yes, but see how happily it runs about.” “How do you manage to preserve it? Any child which I have seen would be pining miserably with such an affliction. What is the power which the being you tell of has given you?” “It is no power in the sense you mean.” “Surely it must be. Have I not followed you faithfully “You do not know what you ask.” “Tell me, I pray.” “It is simply this, when I became aware through thought of the being that is over us I had no message or command from him. But I found that I could when I stood by any suffering being take some of the suffering and bear it myself. So as he of whom I tell does with us each moment of our lives I do occasionally and in a little manner.” “But what pleasure do you get that makes all this worth your while?” “There is no pleasure. I am glad to see the being freed from suffering, and living instead of sinking.” “Do you mean to say that there is nothing to hope for?” “I hope the time will come when I shall have a fuller knowledge of the being I know.” The clerk was silent. He went out. While he was still thinking over what he had heard in answer to his inquiries, a messenger came to him from the chief of the councillors of pleasure and pain, asking him to an interview. When the clerk had been ushered into the presence of the chief councillor, and was alone with him, the latter said: “I should like a little quiet conversation with you about your companion.” “I shall be glad.” “When you gave up your office and retired you had no expectation of being concerned in affairs of state again so soon.” “I did not expect, certainly, and I do not know what your meaning may be about my being concerned in affairs of state.” “What I mean is very simple. The continued deliberations, generation after generation, of the wise men who assemble in the council chamber have been the cause of the continued progress of the inhabitants. Nothing is done by them hurriedly or violently, but gradually improvement after improvement is worked out. But besides this, there have always been at every age certain disturbances in the state; certain doctrines are brought forward, and sometimes these tend to good, and should be encouraged; sometimes they are of unknown import, and must be studied; sometimes they are against the happiness of the state, and then the grave responsibility rests upon us of checking them. Now from your position you have more opportunity of knowing than any one else in what direction your companion’s doctrines tend. I have sent for you to ask you to share with me this grave responsibility.” “I do not think I can help you. I am sure he does not wish to do any harm. What harm can there be in his doctrines?” “It is not so much about his doctrines which I want to speak to you as about another subject. Many of those who have talked with him have agreed with one another in ascribing a singular oppressiveness to his presence. The expression was even used by a very worthy friend of mine, ‘He made me feel like a puppet.’ Now what right had he to inflict such a sensation on a very worthy individual? I want to ask you yourself if you have ever felt this?” The clerk hesitated. “At least, tell me, have you ever found it easy to influence him?” “No; I do not feel as if I could influence him in the least. He seems to lack the ordinary springs of motive.” “Now, should you say that it would be a gain to the community if many should become like him? Would not they be difficult to govern?” “Certainly they would be difficult to govern.” “Would it be a gain in pleasure to the rest of the inhabitants or to themselves?” “It would not be a gain to themselves,” said the clerk, recalling the pain which his companion bore, “but it might be good for the rest of the inhabitants.” “Yes,” said the chief councillor, “that is where his strength lies; he is a very skilful physician or an impostor, and he has the people on his side from the cures he has effected. Can you tell me anything about his life?” “I have heard from him that he was a student, and was exiled; and that in his place of exile he found out the new doctrines, and he left the place he was sentenced to. On his way I joined him.” “So much we know, and it is within our power, according to the regulations, to compel him to go back, and to punish him for having left the region he was banished to.” “If you have that power, why do you not send him back if you think it would be best for the state for him to disappear?” “Ah, my good friend, you have heard a great deal of our public deliberations from your place in the council; but now that we are consulting together, I must tell you that there are deeper secrets in the art of government, which you will readily apprehend. Suppose we arrested this individual and sent him away, the people would not see the justice of it. They want him now, and they would say that the forms of law were being used to get rid of him. Of course if his partizans became violent The clerk said nothing. The chief councillor went on: “I am sorry that our conference has come to so little. I was hoping that I might have found in you a successor to the vacant seat in the chamber. I know you have the ability to fill it well. But before the advancements are made some proof of the wisdom of the successor is required. Hitherto you have not had the chance, but I thought that in this difficult case, where you have so much better opportunities of observation than any one else has, you might have shown your mental power and confirmed my opinion of you. Still, no doubt, on some future occasion you will have another opportunity when this affair, difficult as it is, is forgotten.” The chief councillor made a sign that the interview was at an end, but the clerk remained. “All that we want,” the chief councillor resumed, “is to form an opinion from inside knowledge of whether this innovator is likely to cause more pain or more pleasure if he gains a hearing. Can you advise us? any particle of knowledge of his inner life, apart from his public professions, is valuable.” “There is a singular fact which I should like to tell you of, as it has been somewhat of a burden to me.” The chief councillor made a sign of assent, and the clerk told him about the child, and how it had been preserved. “And with this child,” he said, “he and I sit when the day’s work is done.” “It is indeed a strange story,” said the chief councillor; That evening, as the clerk entered the room where they lived, the student was leaning over the child with a wearied expression. He went up to him and laid his hand on his shoulder. The child looked up at them and laughed. It was quite happy despite the apparent struggles of its breathing. The student looked at his companion’s face. His weariness vanished at once, and a strong warm light came into his eyes. “You seem oppressed, my friend. I know you regret the way in which all the wise and important people you have brought here look on me, and you must feel some sorrow for the partial loss of esteem they have showed you in consequence. Can I help you to bear it?” At that moment the door opened, and a messenger came in and gave the clerk a sealed packet. He opened it and saw that it was his appointment to the vacant seat in the council chamber. But his face did not brighten. He answered his companion moodily, and thus the day ended. CHAPTER XI.On the next day the student rose early and went forth alone. He did not, as was his wont, go amongst the people, but he passed through the streets towards the open country. On his way he was stopped by an old woman, bent with age and many infirmities. She had no place amongst the people, and had so many pains She stopped him and said, “Master, I have heard that you can take my pain. Help me.” But he answered, looking at her, “No, I cannot, but I have a message for you.” And she said, “A message for me? I do not know any one who would send me a message.” But he answered, “Nevertheless, I have a message to you from my lord, and he bids me thank you.” She answered, “It cannot be. You must have made a mistake.” But he said, “I have made no mistake; he thanks you.” He could not explain to her how by her bearing pain, according to the law of the valley, she took it from that which the king bore. Instead of saying that, he gave her the message, and somehow the old woman believed it. The rest of the day he spent in the open country. When he returned it was getting towards dusk. There was an unusual movement in the streets. On passing into the public market-place he saw a crowd collected; and when he had penetrated to their midst, he saw lying on the ground the child he had kept so long. It had been lying uncared for and exposed for many hours; and the want of food, the fright, and its gasping breathing made it the most pitiable object. He at once stepped towards it and took it up in his arms. “Is that your child?” said one of the crowd. “It is not my own,” he answered, “but I take care of it.” “Then it is you that are bringing pain upon us all,” shouted several voices from the back of the crowd. And some one shouted out: “I know you. You pretend to take pain away and you really bring much more in secret.” And moved with a feeling of indignation against the one who had caused such a painful object to exist as the child was, the crowd closed on him, and barred his way to his own place. But they did not lay hands on him. As he stood with the child it gradually began to regain its composure. But with a sudden movement the crowd swept towards the council chamber. And when they had come there they demanded that this cruel and wicked act of keeping pain in existence should be punished. There happened to be several of the chief magistrates on the spot, and in obedience to the voices of the crowd they proceeded to sit in judgment at once. It was not known how the child had come into the streets; but it was admitted by the prisoner to be his doing that it had been kept alive. The doctors unanimously said that it ought to have been put out of existence directly it was born. There was practically no defence. The charge of subverting the laws was established. The people clamoured for the extreme penalty. The judges passed sentence on the student. Before morning he was put to death. He met his fate without sorrow, even with gladness. The pain in his life had for long been as much as he could bear. He did not, like the prince of long ago, look upon nothingness as the desired end of existence. He felt the presence of the one whom he had discerned through thought, and this seemed more real to him than life or death. On the following day, whether in reaction from the excitement of the previous evening, or from some other cause, an unusual quiet pervaded the streets of the city. There was not much discussion as to the event which That day some most unexpected news went through the town. The chief of the council of sensation had sunk into apathy. He was in the prime of his life. It was most unexpected. Every one was astonished at the news, but were still more astonished at how little they felt concerned. Following on these tidings came others. Many of the inhabitants of the metropolis whose lives were most strenuous suddenly succumbed. The clerk had made up his mind to go into the country. But tidings came from there also that the poorer labourers, and those who were exposed to the fatigue of long journeys or exposure were in many cases sinking. The wave of torpor seemed passing over the whole valley and not to be confined to the metropolis. The rich and unoccupied classes only were comparatively unaffected. They betook themselves to the store of enjoyable things at their service, and so replaced the natural spring of life which seemed tending to fail in every one. On the confines of the valley, where the ravine struck its vast depth between this land and that, vast and endless as the sea stretched the plain whence the king had come. It was struck silvery grey by the light of the Over the great gulf floated the sounds of a pipe, the strains were low, winning the soul with the sweetness of an unearthly melody, throbbing as with a call to a distant land away and beyond. And when the eye found the source of the sounds, there stood, once more, solitary in the untenanted vast, the king’s devoted friend, the same old man who before had hailed him. Gradually the music sank lower and lower, till at length silence spread in folds unruffled. Then on the edge of the valley a form appeared. It came and seemed to gaze across the gulf, standing motionless and intent. At length a voice came. “Art thou there?” “Yea, O king, what wouldst thou? Art weary?” No answer came. Then the old man spoke. “Behold the roads where they stretch gleaming white in the moonlight; behold the fields, the villages; see in the distance the great walls of the palace. Have not these risen up for thee, O king?” Then the king made answer: “I am weary.” Suddenly the old man raised his pipe with both his hands to his lips. Wave after wave of triumphant sound pealed forth. Great harmonies such as marching nations might hear and rejoice, noble notes of unbounded gladness. Then, crossing by an unknown way, he came and stood by the king’s side. After a while the two moved on together, and by a secret path passed away from the valley—whither I know not. As soon as the king had departed from the valley the PART II. CHAPTER I.There are certain respects in which our world resembles the valley. Instead of regarding pleasure, pain, and feeling, let us examine the world we live in with regard to motion in one direction and another, and in respect of energy. If we observe the movements which go on in the world, we find that in great measure they consist of movements which if put together would neutralize each other. A pendulum swings to and fro. If the two movements took place at the same time the pendulum would be still. Taking a more ample motion—that of the earth round the sun. The earth moves in the course of its orbit as much towards the sun as away from it, and as much towards the east as towards the west. If all the motion were to be gone through at one and the same time the earth would not move with regard to the sun. Again, if we notice what goes on on the surface of the earth, we see that there is a motion of rising up and of sinking down. There is an approximation of the chemical elements into some compounds, and a separation of them again. Of all the myriad processes which And what we notice in our world is similar to what the inhabitants of the valley noticed about pleasure and pain—that they do not neutralize one another as a matter of fact. The contrary motions on the earth which, if they were put together, would neutralize one another, do not as a matter of fact neutralize one another. We call motion in one direction positive—in the opposite direction negative. But in the world as a matter of fact positive and negative motion do not together come to nothing. As in the valley the states of pleasure and of pain did not coalesce into a state of apathy, but always succeeded one another, in simple or complicated fashion, so on the earth it is impossible from two opposite moving bodies to get stillness. If the two come into contact in opposite directions the movement does not stop, but makes its appearance in an alteration of the shape of the bodies, in a disturbance of their particles, or in some such fashion. Again in the valley, by measuring the pleasure and pain simply as feeling, and not taking into account whether it was pleasure or pain, the inhabitants found that the feeling was always the same in amount. So we on the earth, measuring the amount of movement, and leaving out of account whether it is positive or negative, come to the conclusion that the quantity of But besides the discovery that the amount of sensation as such was always constant, the inhabitants of the valley discovered that a portion of the sensation was passing away from a form in which they could feel it. And there is an analogous discovery in science. We know that a portion of the energy of our system is passing away. It is not being annihilated, but is disappearing. With the energy which can be collected from the falling of a stone, the same stone cannot be raised to its former level again. Some of the energy has disappeared from the form in which it can be known as the energy of moving masses. The energy has in some measure irrecoverably passed off in the form of heat. Hence, just as the inhabitants of the valley came to the conclusion that in point of sensation they were “running down,” and that after a time all sensation would have passed away from the form in which they could feel it, so we have come to the conclusion that the energy of the system in which we live is running down, that the energy is passing out of the form in which it can be manifested as moving masses, that finally all movement of masses will come to a standstill, and there be nothing left save motionless matter, with warmth equally diffused through it. Now in coming to the conclusion about the valley, that the amount of sensation was gradually passing away, the inhabitants, as we have seen, had come upon the very secret and cause of all the life in the valley. But coming upon it from the outside they had not recognized the significance of what they had found. The cause and prime mover of all their existence indicated itself to Now, is this process of the passing of mechanical energy into the form of heat to be interpreted by us in a way analogous to that in which the inhabitants of the valley could have interpreted the process they found? In this cessation of sensation in the form in which they could experience it lay the central fact of the life of the valley. Has this passing away of energy from the form in which we can experience it an analogous significance to us? In order to examine into the possibility thus suggested there are four convergent lines of thought which it will be well to follow up separately. Each of these lines of thought bears in an independent manner on the central question—the significance of the passing away of energy. These lines of thought may be connected with the following words, which indicate their significance: (1) Permission; (2) Causation; (3) Conservation of Energy; (4) Level. CHAPTER II.When we observe any movement taking place we ask what is the cause of it? what is the force which produces it? But surely, if we confine our inquiry to this point, we have made an omission. That we are not conscious of having made an omission may perhaps come from our living in the air which yields so easily to any moving body. If we lived in a rigid medium we should, when we became aware of any moving body, ask two questions. First, what urges it along? secondly, what prepared the channel for its motion? But seriously, without laying any stress on the above Now since every motion requires a permission, we are led to ask the question, What is the ultimate permission? What again is that which by yielding allows motion at all to take place? If we trace any movement scientifically we find an indication of what the ultimate permission is. A body swings through the air. Currents in the air are set up. These currents impinge on the objects with which the air is in contact, and in them produce heat—producing heat also by friction with other portions of the same air. Every motion thus passes off finally, at however long an interval, in the form of heat. Motion may reappear as motion through myriads of phases, but at each change of form some of it passes off into the form of heat, and finally all passes off into the form of heat. Thus, unless matter admitted of being warmed, there would be no ultimate permission. A motion once started would never come to rest. Or, rather, no motion could take place at all. The tendency of the above remarks is to avoid the conception of there being absolute laws of motion, true of bodies when surrounded by no medium, modified when a medium is present. Surely such a conception is an instrument of the mind for exploring nature, not an absolute fact in nature. The abstract laws of motion are mental aids in creating knowledge; like scaffolding for the builder, even from their very usefulness they have probably but little to do with the permanent edifice. This passing into the form of heat supplies a place analogous to that of the “void” in the speculations of the Epicurean philosophers. They argued that motion was not possible without a void. Given a void, somewhere into which matter could move, then any amount of motion could be accounted for. But without a void into which a portion of matter could move, how was it possible for motion to begin? Thus repeating their inquiry with our altered conceptions, we ask this question about motion, or energy (which is a particular way of reckoning motion). Unless motion can in some way pass off, how can there be all these transformations of energy? Now the ultimate transformation of all energy of motion is into the form of heat. In this change into the form of heat is to be sought the ultimate permission which makes all transformations of energy, all motions, possible. It is this being acted on of the finer particles of matter which permits the movements of the larger masses. This passing of energy into the form of heat must not be regarded as a side circumstance, as less essential to the laws of nature than that law which we call the conservation of energy. It is at the same time the end of every motion, and that which makes every motion possible. The passing of energy into the form of heat takes place in that which we call friction, and in all those modes in which any movement is brought to a standstill. But so far from these being simply “hindrances” to motion, it is through them that we learn that which makes motion possible. It is with us as with the inhabitants of the valley, the gradual cessation of feeling from their life and the modes in which it ceased were the way in which they regarded the action of the king who was The passing of the motion of masses into the form of heat is the ultimate permission. CHAPTER III.If we reflect cautiously on the history of our opinions, we find that we often fall into error in respect to our freedom in attributing causes. If we are unfortunate we are apt to look on our neighbours, or the world, or, if we are of a self-depreciatory turn of mind, ourselves as the cause. Again in past times people really felt sure about certain things being causes which we now know had a very slight connection with the result. Incantations have been supposed to have an effect on physical phenomena, such as eclipses. Numbers and their properties have really been conceived as the causes of the modes of existence. Ideas have been supposed to have causative power over the order of the world. We should be very careful in attributing the notion of causation. If we see a stone lying on the ground, and proceed to pick it up by the strength of the arm, we say that the exertion of the arm is the cause of the stone being lifted. But in this respect even we are too hasty. The arm may exert itself and yet the stone not be lifted up—if it is too heavy. All that we can say about it is that It does not seem advisable that the notion of cause should be brought in to denote the relation of the movement of the arm and the movement of the stone. These are two sets of actions between which the regular relations which hold good between the consecutive states of moving systems hold good. The notion of “cause” should rather be applied to that act of the will whereby the movements of the arm are connected with the movement of that particular stone rather than the movement of any other object. We are the cause of the actions we will. The notion of cause is derived from our “will” action, and the notion of cause ought to be kept to this connection. All that goes on outside us can only be apprehended as consecutive states following on one another. Between certain sets of consecutive events we notice that the same relation holds good which we have observed in other consecutive states. If some water is heated in England it passes off into steam; if water is heated in another part of the world it also passes off into steam. There is To cause a motion is the name for the action of our soul on matter—a thing shrouded in mystery. To be the antecedent in a chain of movements is the fact which we can observe about any movement in the external world. We cannot strictly say what movements of gases, water, &c., cause this volcano. We can only say what movements of gases, water, &c., precede this volcanic eruption analogous to movements which have preceded other volcanoes. There are invariable sequences in the external world to which we do not affix the notion of cause and effect—day and night, summer and winter. Why we should do so in any case is not clear, except that by familiarity and mystery the sequences have become to us something like our own will action. Indeed, is it not the case that when we can trace intermediate links we say so and so comes from so and so in such a manner. But when no intermediate links can be traced we say one event causes another. If, however, we omit the feeling of causation from the external chain of events, it does not follow that there is no causation to be apprehended in the external world. Let us not introduce the notion of causation at haphazard. But if we find in the external world signs of The inhabitants of the valley would not have been right in saying that one act of a routine caused another: But they were right in saying that the amount of sensation was constant, and that some of it passed off in a form in which they could not feel it. And so let us not say that one action causes another. Let us not say, for example, that the downward swing of a pendulum is the cause of its upward swing. But let us simply say that the one follows the other; that the amount of energy present is the same except for the small portion that passes off into the form of heat. Suppose certain sets of numbers were being presented to us one after the other, and amongst these three consecutive sets were the following. First set: 3, 5, 6. Second set: 8, -2, -1, 1. Third set: 7, 4, 2, -1. A little consideration will show us that there is a certain uniformity in these sets. Take the square of each of the numbers in the first set and add them together, the result is 70. Thus 3² + 5² + 6² = 9 + 25 + 36 = 70. The sums of the squares of the numbers in the second set come to the same. 8² + (-2)² + (-1)² + 1² = 64 + 4 + 1 + 1 = 70. Also in the third, 7² + 4² + 2² + (-1)² = 49 + 16 + 4 + 1 = 70, and so on. Having noticed this we should regard it as a purely formal law, having nothing to do with why the numbers were presented to us. But we should consider it likely that it would characterize all the numbers that When, however, we talk about the conservation of energy we are apt to think of it as more than a merely formal law, more than a statement about numbers which has been found to hold true. Yet it is no more. The law of the conservation of energy asserts that in any system in motion the sum of the squares of the velocities of the particles at any one moment is equal to the sum of the squares of the velocities of the particles at the next moment. The conservation of energy is but a mode of reckoning motion, by which it is found to be constant in all changes of a system. The system must embrace all the particles concerned in the motion. It may be made as large as we like. The principle of the conservation of energy as here stated is confined to the case of moving bodies. Sometimes the energy is said to disappear from the form of motion and become potential energy. That case will be treated under the fourth consideration of level, but it introduces no alteration in what has been said. As to the practical truth of the law of conservation of energy there can be no doubt; nor as to the value of the results obtained from tracing its validity in obscure actions. But there is nothing final about it. It is a There is a possible objection to the law of conservation of energy. It is no less a law in nature that in every one of a series of changes some of the energy passes off into the form of heat. Now heat is reckoned as a mode of energy. And there is in science a method of calculating how much energy any given quantity of heat is the equivalent of. And this equivalence is calculated on the supposition that no energy is lost. When heat is produced and motion passes away, the proportion between the motion that disappears and the heat that appears is represented by a number calculated on the assumption that no energy is lost. Thus whenever any quantity of energy takes the form of heat, the quantity of heat which is produced is exactly given by the calculation. But the reverse process is not possible. It is not possible to turn back all the energy in the form of heat into the form of motion. Consequently it cannot be proved that the energy in the form of heat would, if all turned into motion, produce as much motion as that from which it was produced. There may be an absolute loss of energy—only a very small one. The law of the conservation of energy may be the expression that this loss is a minimum. This objection is not essential to the line of argument pursued above with regard to the conservation of energy. It forms no necessary part of the line of thought we are pursuing. It merely tends to show that the law of the conservation of energy is no axiom which we cannot suppose not true. The real conclusion to which this part of our line of thought tends is that the conservation of energy is a purely formal law. CHAPTER V.The most apparently simple movements are those which we see taking place on the surface of the earth, connected with the agency which we call gravitation. We see the rivers flowing from a higher to a lower level, rocks when loosened from a mountain side rolling down, rain falling, and many minor changes of this sort. But there are many actions besides these. For instance, suppose before us a spring coiled up. When it unwinds it “exerts force,” it transmits movement. In its first state it is like a stone at the top of a mountain. In its second state it is like a stone which has fallen to the bottom of the mountain. It had a power of movement and of communicating movement, now it has lost that power. Again, the powder in a gun when it explodes expands and imparts movement to the shot. When the gun has been fired off the powder enters a different state. Before, the chemical affinities of its constituents were in a state of tension, now that it is fired off, they have formed fresh combinations. The power of transmitting movement has been lost by that which was the powder. It is like a portion of water at the top of a fall of water. If it remains at the top it has at any time the power of producing a shock, and of effecting, say, the movement of a water-wheel under it. But if it falls it has exerted and lost that power. The difference of level associated with gravity is familiar to us. But we have no right, other than our own familiarity with it, to look on gravity as less in need of explanation than any other phenomenon of the external world. Newton did not suppose that there was any force inherent in matter which attracted other But gravitation affords us a useful term—“Level.” Let us agree to call the following on a high level—a stone at the top of a precipice, a wound-up spring, oxygen and hydrogen mixed in the proportion to form water. Let us call the following at a low level—the stone at the foot of the precipice, a spring straightened so far as it tends to straighten, oxygen and hydrogen united in the form of water. In passing from their first state to their last all these have manifested a power of movement and of communicating movement. They have now relatively to their former state lost that power. Difference of level in this general sense is the most universal distinction of matter. No motion takes place unless matter passes from a higher to a lower level. The universal cause of motion is that which produces this difference of “level” in the general sense. If there were no difference of level the state of things in nature would be as if one spring in order to unwind had to wind up an exactly equal spring of the same amount; as if a stone falling from a height had to raise an exactly equal stone to the same height from which it fell. Under such conditions of things no motion would begin. In such a state of things all nature would be like the inhabitants of the valley when the king bore no pain, for no course would be preferable to any other course. What is the cause of the “Difference of Level?” In the valley the king by bearing some pain made action worth while. Is there any indication in nature of the production of a lower level which makes the course of things run on? It is certain that energy in every action passes off into the form of heat, and unless it is through the power of the finer particles of matter to absorb the energy, it is difficult to see how any action can take place. As with the other lines of thought, this line also terminates with a possibility. Nothing has been proved, but a place has been provided. In the first part of this paper a possible mode of action was exhibited in the imaginary relations of a world subject to certain laws of pleasure and pain. In the second part it has been shown that something is wanting in our conception of the natural processes. There is room for a central idea. No scientific doctrines properly understood would clash with one properly located. Can the mode of action exhibited in terms of sensation in the fictitious world be applied to the case of the world of force and matter? Before passing on, however, it is worth while to examine a little more closely into what is meant by the expression so often used: “Passing off into the form of heat.” The modes in which energy passes off into the form of heat are in general those modes by which movement is brought to a standstill such as friction. And we are apt But what is this passing off of energy into the form of heat? The phrase is unsatisfactory, for we are told by science almost in the same breath that heat is the motion, the mechanical motion, of the particles of matter. So the statement resolves itself into this. Only when some of the motion passes off into the form of motion of the smaller particles of matter does motion take place in larger masses. As a corollary it follows that at some date, however distant, all the motion of masses will have passed away into the form of motion of smaller masses. It may be urged that when the larger masses move, the smaller particles also move. This is true; but motion in this sense is used to denote change of position amongst the smaller particles with regard to one another. The particles in a flying cannon-ball are relatively still with regard to one another as far as the motion of the cannon-ball as a whole is concerned. We thus arrive at the following principle: The condition of the motion of masses taking place is that some of the motion passes off into the motion of the smaller particles. But if the motion of the smaller particles is just the same as that of the larger portions, we are obviously not at the end. The very same principle just applied must be applied again. These motions of the small particles of matter cannot take place unless some of their movement is transmitted and passed on, and transformed into the motion of still finer particles of matter. But here obviously we are brought to the beginning of The assumption by which we are led to this endless series of transmissions must be clearly apprehended. We take the law—that the motion of masses only takes place when some of the motion passes off into the motion of the finer particles of matter, and we assume that it holds always. In a lever there is a fixed point, the fulcrum, which supports it, and the power raises the weight; but the weight may be fixed, and then the fulcrum can be lifted by the power. So we obtained this law from the consideration of material relations; and now we suppose this law to be the fixed point, and shift our notions of material relations. Thus we are landed on an endless series. Before proceeding, however, to inquire what the significance of this endless series may be, let us assume an end to it. Let us assume that we come at last to a final transmission. Let us assume that the energy is transmitted to the ultimate particles of matter. Or, if we have gone beyond matter, let us suppose an ultimate medium which by its modifications builds up matter, and which is the last and ultimate substance. Let us suppose this ultimate medium absolutely to receive some of the energy. Let it absolutely receive and absorb some of the energy, and thereby give rise to the difference of level, to give the ultimate permission which sets all things going. What are the properties of this medium? We obtain an indication of what they are when we examine the properties of the finer kinds of matter. Compared with the motions of masses, motions which affect the smaller particles of bodies are infinitely quick. Light and electricity are actions affecting the smaller particles of Now in point of speed of transmission the properties of this ultimate medium must be infinitely beyond those of luminiferous ether. To this ultimate medium all movements at any distance from each other must be almost equally present at every part. At whatever distance from one another two affections of this ultimate medium be supposed to take place, the effect of the one will travel to the place of action of the other instantaneously. Such a medium is a kind of visible symbol of the universe, being one system in which all motions should be co-determined. To make this clear, suppose a transformation of energy was produced in one part of space of an absorption of energy on the part of this ultimate medium, this transformation of energy would be produced by a medium in instantaneous contact with every other part of space, and the transformation of energy thus originated would harmonize with, and have reference to, the transformations of energy in every other part of space. There are two infinities—the infinite of space extending out each way, the infinite of the smaller and smaller divisions of matter. The ultimate medium we have supposed partakes of both infinities. It is infinite in extent, and infinitely fine in its particles. Now this medium by absorbing energy sets movements going. And that movements do not neutralize one another—i.e., that movements in opposite directions do not mutually destroy one another—has this result, that a given amount of this absorption produces the greatest possible amount of motion. If motion came to a rest in any other way, more of this absorption by the ultimate medium would be needed. Hence, by a given amount But here again a further remark is called for. We start by assuming energy to be an absolute existence. But why not assume this action on the part of the ultimate medium to be the real action, and consider the phenomena of motion and energy as the mode of its action. What this action of the ultimate medium may be needs examination. All that we can say at present is that relatively to that which we call energy, the action of this medium is that of being acted on. CHAPTER VI.In the preceding, however, it must be remembered that this conception of an ultimate medium was merely a supposition to enable us to see and roughly map out the relations of the things we are investigating. Where we were really landed was in an infinite series—we were brought logically to the conception of an infinite series of media, one behind the other. What does an infinite series indicate? Let us turn to a region of thought where infinite series are familiar objects, and we can learn about them. In algebra infinite series are common. Thus take series 1 - x²/2 + x4/4 and so on for ever. This is the attempt in algebra to represent a trigonometrical idea. In trigonometry it is expressed as cos. x. But in algebra it needs this infinite series. In algebra infinite series occur when the object which it is wanted to represent in algebraical terms cannot be grasped by algebra. When there is no single term or set of them in algebra which will serve, the object is represented by means of an infinite series. Thus we may say that in any calculus, when the object to be treated of cannot be expressed in the terms of the calculus, it is represented by means of an infinite series. Now, dealing with material considerations, going on in the calculus of matter, we have come to an infinite series. This indicates that we have gone as far as the material calculus will carry us. We have now to bring in an idea from a different quarter if we will simplify our expression. It may well be that within our experience there is nothing which will serve. But let us suppose that that which in material terms we represent as an infinite series is a will—a will in contact with all existence, as shown by the properties it had when we conceived it as an ultimate medium. For, regarding it as an ultimate substance, we found that it would be affected by pulsations infinitely quicker than light and electricity; considered as a substance, it was such that distance to it tended to be annihilated. Hence as a will we must say of it that to it all that is is present—a will which by a fiat that to our notions is being acted on rather than acting, accepting pain rather than taking pleasure, sets the course of the world in motion, which holds all in one system, which creates all activities. For although we apprehend this will relatively to the appearances which we suppose we know, mechanical energy and feeling, still we see that both are caused by it, and that the sum of both is nothing, save for that which this will is in them. Is there any other way of apprehending this will than through the external world? We have two apprehensions of nature—one of external things, the other of our own wills. Does this will not exist in those who are true personalities, and not mere pleasure-led creatures?—have they not some of this power, the power of accepting, suffering, of determining absolutely what shall be?—a creative power which, given to each who possesses it, makes him a true personality, distinct, and not to be merged in any other—a power which determines the chain of mechanical actions, of material sequences—which creates it in the very same way in which it seems to be coming to an end—by that which, represented in material terms, is the absorption of energy into an ultimate medium; which, represented in terms of sensation, is suffering; but which in itself is absolute being, though only to be known by us as a negation of negations. CHAPTER VII.In conclusion let us remark that we have supposed two different worlds—one of sensation in the first part, one of motion in the second part. And these have been treated as distinct from one another. And especially in the first part, by this avoidance of questions of movement, an appearance of artificiality was produced, and occasionally inconsistencies, for sometimes sensations were treated as independent of actions, sometimes as connected with them. But it remains to be decided if these inconsistencies are in themselves permanent, or whether, when we remove the artificial separation, and let the world of sensation and the world of motion coalesce, the inconsistencies will not disappear, thereby showing that their origin was merely in the treatment, The king in the first part was supposed to have all the material problems of existence solved. There was a complete mechanism of nature. He took up the problem of the sentient life. But this problem can only artificially be separated from that of the material world. The gap between our sensations and matter can never be bridged, because they are really identical. Let us then allow this separation to fall aside. Let us suppose the king to have all the reins of power in his own hands. Let us moreover suppose that he imparts his rays to the inhabitants so that they have each a portion of his power. And let us suppose that the inhabitants have arrived at a state of knowledge about their external world corresponding to that which we have about the world which we know. Let us listen to a conversation between two of them. A. The energy of the whole state of things is running down. B. How do you prove that? A. Whenever any motion of masses takes place a certain portion of the energy passes irrecoverably into the form of heat, and it is not possible to make so large a movement with those same masses as before, do all that is possible to obtain the energy back again from the heat into which it has passed. B. Well, what about the heat? Energy in the form of the motions of the masses passes off into the energy of heat. But what is heat? A. It is the motion of the finer particles of matter. B. Well, I would put forward this proposal. We have by observation got hold of a certain principle that where any movement takes place some of the energy A. Then you would have to go on to still finer matter. B. Yes, and so on and on; but to fix our thoughts, suppose there is an ultimate fine matter which is the last worked on. Now I say that we may either suppose that this is being gradually worked on and all the energy is dissipating, or else we may put it in this way. When we regard so much energy we are apt to think that it is the cause of the next manifestation in which it shows itself. But this is really an assumption. Energy is a purely formal conception, and all that we do is to trace in the actions that go on a certain formal correspondence, which we express by saying that the energy is constant. A. But I feel my own energy. B. Allow me to put your feeling to one side. If we take then the conservation of energy to be merely a formal principle, may we not look for the cause of the movements in the invariable accompaniment of them, namely, in the fact that a certain portion of the energy is expended irrevocably on the finer portions of matter. If now we take this ultimate medium which suffers the expenditure of energy on it, may we not look on it as the cause, and the setter in action of all the movements that there are. By its submitting to be acted on in the way in which it does submit, it determines all the actions that go on. For what is all else than a great vibration, a swinging to and fro. When we count it as energy, we by reckoning it in a particular manner make it seem to A. But what do you suppose this ultimate medium would be? B. That I cannot tell, but we seem to have indications. For the more fine the matter which we investigate, the more its actions seem to annihilate distance: light and electricity produce their effects with far greater rapidity than do the movements of masses. We might suppose that to this ultimate matter all parts were present in their effects, so that anything emanating from the ultimate matter would have the appearance of a system comprehending everything. A. But you have not got any evidence of an ultimate matter. B. No, all that we can think of is an endless series of finer and finer matter. But is that not an indication rather, not that the direction of our thoughts is false, but that there are other characteristics of this ultimate, so that when looked at under the form of matter it can only be expressed as an infinite series. Let us omit the considerations brought forward in the preceding conversation and examine more closely the philosophy of the inhabitants of the valley in so far as it corresponds with ours. They laid great stress on a notion of vis viva, or what we should term energy, but said it was gradually passing away from the form of movements of large bodies to that of movements of small bodies. So that in the They might have reasoned. This universal condition of anything happening must be the cause. Energy goes from a higher to a lower level. That which causes the difference of level is the cause, and the cause of the difference of level must be that which invariably accompanies such a transference of energy from a higher to a lower level. Now this invariable condition is the passing of a portion of the energy into the form of motions of the finer parts of matter. Hence there is an apparently endless series. But to realize the matter, suppose an ultimate medium, suppose there is a kind of matter of But of truth they would have had another and perhaps a truer apprehension of the king in a different way. For when he acted on them so that they took one course rather than another, it was his action in themselves that they felt. If they were mere pleasure-led creatures then they were shaped outwardly, but if in their inner souls he acted and through them suffered, then they were true Thus they had two modes of access to the king, one through their own selves where he had made them exist, one through the outer world. And in the outer world it was but a direction in which they could look. They could never behold the personality of the king, but only an infinite series of different kinds of matter, one supporting the other as it were and underlying it, but doing more also than this, for in proportion as they considered the kinds of matter that lay deeper they found that distant became near, absent, present, that time gave no longer such distinctions, but from the phenomenal side they seemed by a gradual diminution of the limitations of experience to arrive at an external presentation of that absolute which exists in the fulness of things, which they knew more immediately in themselves when they truly were. THE END. | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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