CHAPTER I.
LAWS IN GENERAL.

§ 35. We have seen that intellectual advance has been dual—has been towards the establishment of both a positively unknown and a positively known. In making ever more certain the inaccessibility of one kind of truth, experience has made ever more certain the accessibility of another kind. The differentiation of the knowable from the unknowable, is shown as much in the reduction of the one to perfect clearness, as in the reduction of the other to impenetrable mystery. Progressing enlightenment discloses a definite limit to human intelligence; and while all which lies on the other side of the limit, is, with increasing distinctness, seen to transcend our finite faculties, it grows more and more obvious that all which lies on this side of the limit may become an indisputable possession.

To speak specifically—it has been shown that though we can never learn the nature of that which is manifested to us, we are daily learning more completely the order of its manifestations. We are conscious of effects produced in us by something separate from ourselves. The effects of which we are conscious—the changes of consciousness which make up our mental life, we ascribe to the forces of an external world. The intrinsic character of these forces—of this external world—of that which underlies all appearances, we find inscrutable; as is also the internal something whose changes constitute consciousness, but at the same time we find that among the changes of consciousness thus produced, there exist various constant relations; and we have no choice but to ascribe constancy to the relations which subsist among the inscrutable causes of these changes. Observation early discloses certain invariable connexions of coexistence and sequence among phenomena. Accumulating experiences tend continually to augment the number of invariable connexions recognized. When, as in the later stages of civilization, there arises not only a diligent gathering together of experiences but a critical comparison of them, more remote and complex connexions are added to the list. And gradually there grows up the habit of regarding these uniformities of relation as characterizing all manifestations of the Unknowable. Under the endless variety and seeming irregularity, there is ever more clearly discerned that “constant course of procedure” which we call Law.

The growing belief in the universality of Law, is so conspicuous to all cultivated minds as scarcely to need illustration. None who read these pages will ask for proof that this has been the central element of intellectual progress. But though the fact is sufficiently familiar, the philosophy of the fact is not so; and it will be desirable now to consider it. Partly because the development of our conception of Law will so be rendered more comprehensible; but chiefly because our subsequent course will thus be facilitated; I propose here to enumerate the several conditions that determine the order in which the various relations among phenomena are discovered. Seeing, as we shall, the consequent necessity of this order; and enabled, as we shall also be, to estimate the future by inference from the past; we shall perceive how inevitable is our advance towards the ultimatum that has been indicated.

§ 36. The recognition of Law, being the recognition of uniformity of relations among phenomena, it follows that the order in which different groups of phenomena are reduced to law, must depend on the frequency and distinctness with which the uniform relations they severally present, are experienced. At any given stage of progress, those uniformities will be most recognized with which men’s minds have been oftenest and most strongly impressed. In proportion partly to the number of times a relation has been presented to consciousness (not merely to the senses); and in proportion partly to the vividness with which the terms of the relation have been cognized; will be the degree in which the constancy of connexion is perceived.

The frequency and impressiveness with which different classes of relations are repeated in conscious experience, thus primarily determining the succession in which they are generalized, there result certain derivative principles to which this succession must more immediately and obviously conform. First in importance comes the directness with which personal welfare is affected. While, among surrounding things, many do not appreciably influence the body in any way, some act detrimentally and some beneficially, in various degrees; and manifestly, those things whose actions on the organism are most influential, will, cÆteris paribus, be those whose laws of action are earliest observed. Second in order, is the conspicuousness of one or both the phenomena between which a relation is to be perceived. On every side are countless phenomena so concealed as to be detected only by close observation; others not obtrusive enough to attract notice; others which moderately solicit the attention; others so imposing or vivid as to force themselves upon consciousness; and supposing incidental conditions to be the same, these last will of course be among the first to have their relations generalized. In the third place, we have the absolute frequency with which the relations occur. There are coexistences and sequences of all degrees of commonness, from those which are ever present to those which are extremely rare; and it is clear that the rare coexistences and sequences, as well as the sequences which are very long in taking place, will not be reduced to law so soon as those which are familiar and rapid. Fourthly has to be added the relative frequency of occurrence. Many events and appearances are more or less limited to times and places; and as a relation which does not exist within the environment of an observer, cannot be cognized by him, however common it may be elsewhere or in another age, we have to take account of the surrounding physical circumstances, as well as the state of society, of the arts, and of the sciences—all of which affect the frequency with which certain groups of facts are exposed to observation. The fifth corollary to be noticed, is, that the succession in which different classes of phenomena are reduced to law, depends in part on their simplicity. Phenomena presenting great composition of causes or conditions, have their essential relations so masked, that it requires accumulated experiences to impress upon consciousness the true connexion of antecedents and consequents they involve. Hence, other things equal, the progress of generalization will be from the simple to the complex; and this it is which M. Comte has wrongly asserted to be the sole regulative principle of the progress. Sixth, and last, comes the degree of abstractness. Concrete relations are the earliest acquisitions. The colligation of any group of these into a general relation, which is the first step in abstraction, necessarily comes later than the discovery of the relations colligated. The union of a number of these lowest generalizations into a higher and more abstract generalization, is necessarily subsequent to the formation of such lowest generalizations. And so on continually, until the highest and most abstract generalizations have been reached.

These then are the several derivative principles. The frequency and vividness with which uniform relations are repeated in conscious experience, determining the recognition of their uniformity; and this frequency and vividness depending on the above conditions; it follows that the order in which different classes of facts are generalized, must depend on the extent to which the above conditions are fulfilled in each class. Let us mark how the facts harmonize with this conclusion: taking first a few that elucidate the general truth, and afterwards some that are illustrative of the several special truths which we here see follow from it.

§ 37. The relations earliest known as uniformities, are those subsisting between the common physical properties of matter—tangibility, visibility, cohesion, weight &c. We have no trace of an era in human history when the resistance offered by every visible object, was regarded as caused by the will of the object; or when the pressure of a body on the hand supporting it, was ascribed to the direct agency of a living being. And accordingly, we see that these are the relations oftenest repeated in consciousness; being as they are, objectively frequent, conspicuous, simple, concrete, and of immediate personal concern.

Similarly with respect to the ordinary phenomena of motion. The fall of a mass on the withdrawal of its support, is a sequence which directly affects bodily welfare, is conspicuous, simple, concrete, and very often repeated. Hence it is one of the uniformities recognized before the dawn of tradition. We know of no time when movements due to terrestrial gravitation were attributed to volition. Only when the relation is obscured—only, as in the case of an aerolite, where the antecedent of the descent is unperceived, do we find the fetishistic conception persistent. On the other hand, motions of intrinsically the same order as that of a falling stone—those of the heavenly bodies—long remain ungeneralized; and until their uniformity is seen, are construed as results of will. This difference is clearly not dependent on comparative complexity or abstractness; since the motion of a planet in an ellipse, is as simple and concrete a phenomenon as the motion of a projected arrow in a parabola. But the antecedents are not conspicuous; the sequences are of long duration; and they are infrequently repeated. Hence in a given period, there cannot be the same multiplied experiences of them. And that this is the chief cause of their slow reduction to law, we see in the fact that they are severally generalized in the order of their frequency and conspicuousness—the moon’s monthly cycle, the sun’s annual change, the periods of the inferior planets, the periods of the superior planets.

While astronomical sequences were still ascribed to volition, certain terrestrial sequences of a different kind, but some of them equally without complication, were interpreted in like manner. The solidification of water at a low temperature, is a phenomenon that is simple, concrete, and of much personal concern. But it is neither so frequent as those which we saw are earliest generalized, nor is the presence of the antecedent so uniformly conspicuous. Though in all but tropical climates, mid-winter displays the relation between cold and freezing with tolerable constancy; yet, during the spring and autumn, the occasional appearance of ice in the mornings has no very manifest connexion with coldness of the weather. Sensation being so inaccurate a measure, it is not possible for the savage to experience the definite relation between a temperature of 32° and the congealing of water; and hence the long-continued conception of personal agency. Similarly, but still more clearly, with the winds. The absence of regularity and the inconspicuousness of the antecedents, allowed the mythological explanation to survive for a great period.

During the era in which the uniformity of many quite simple inorganic relations was still unrecognized, certain classes of organic relations, intrinsically very complex and special, were generalized. The constant coexistence of feathers and a beak, of four legs with a bony internal framework, of a particular leaf with poisonous berries, are facts which were, and are, familiar to every savage. Did a savage find a bird with teeth, or a mammal clothed with feathers, he would be as much surprised as an instructed naturalist; and would probably make a fetish of the anomalous form: so showing that while the exceptional relation suggested the notion of a personal cause, the habitual relation did not. Now these uniformities of organic structure which are so early perceived, are of exactly the same class as those more numerous ones later established by biology. The constant coexistence of mammary glands with two occipital condyles in the skull, of vertebrÆ with teeth lodged in sockets, of frontal horns with the habit of rumination, are generalizations as purely empirical as those known to the aboriginal hunter. The vegetal physiologist cannot in the least understand the complex relation between the kind of leaf and the kind of fruit borne by a particular plant: he knows these and like connexions simply in the same manner that the barbarian knows them. But the fact that sundry of the uniform relations which chiefly make up the organic sciences, were very early recognized, is due to the high degree of vividness and frequency with which they were presented to consciousness. Though the connexion between the form of a given creature and the sound it makes, or the quality of its fur, or the nature of its flesh, is extremely involved; yet the two terms of the relation are conspicuous; are usually observed in close juxtaposition in time and space; are so observed perhaps daily, or many times a day; and above all a knowledge of their connexion has a direct and obvious bearing on personal welfare. Meanwhile, we see that innumerable other relations of exactly the same order, which are displayed with even greater frequency by surrounding plants and animals, remain for thousands of years unrecognized, if they are unobtrusive or of no apparent moment.

When, passing from this primitive stage to a more advanced stage, we trace the discovery of those less familiar uniformities which constitute what is technically distinguished as Science, we find the order of discovery to be still determined in the same manner. We shall most clearly see this in contemplating separately the influence of each derivative condition; as was proposed in the last section.

§ 38. How relations that have an immediate bearing on the maintenance of life, are, other things equal, necessarily fixed in the mind before those which have no such immediate bearing, is abundantly illustrated in the history of Science. The habits of existing uncivilized races, who fix times by moons and barter so many of one article for so many of another, show us that numeration, which is the germ of mathematical science, commenced under the immediate pressure of personal wants; and it can scarcely be doubted that those laws of numerical relations which are embodied in the rules of arithmetic, were first brought to light through the practice of mercantile exchange. Similarly with Geometry. The derivation shows us that it originally included only certain methods of partitioning ground and laying out buildings. The properties of the scales and the lever, involving the first principle in mechanics, were early generalized under the stimulus of commercial and architectural needs. To fix the times of religious festivals and agricultural operations, were the motives which led to the establishment of the simpler astronomic periods. Such small knowledge of chemical relations as was involved in ancient metallurgy, was manifestly obtained in seeking how to improve tools and weapons. In the alchemy of later times, we see how greatly an intense hope of private benefit contributed to the disclosure of a certain class of uniformities. Nor is our own age barren of illustrations. “Here,” says Humboldt when in Guiana, “as in many parts of Europe, the sciences are thought worthy to occupy the mind, only so far as they confer some immediate and practical benefit on society.” “How is it possible to believe,” said a missionary to him, “that you have left your country to come and be devoured by mosquitoes on this river, and to measure lands that are not your own.” Our coasts furnish like instances. Every sea-side naturalist knows how great is the contempt with which fishermen regard the collection of objects for the microscope or aquarium: their incredulity as to the possible value of such things, being so great, that they can scarcely be induced even by bribes to preserve the refuse of their nets. Nay, we need not go for evidence beyond daily table-talk. The demand for “practical science”—for a knowledge that can be brought to bear on the business of life; joined to the ridicule commonly vented on pursuits that have no obvious use; suffice to show that the order in which different coexistences and sequences are discovered, greatly depends on the directness with which they affect our welfare.

That, when all other conditions are the same, obtrusive relations will be generalized before unobtrusive ones, is so nearly a truism that examples appear almost superfluous. If it be admitted that by the aboriginal man, as by the child, the co-existent properties of large surrounding objects are noticed before those of minute objects; and that the external relations which bodies present are generalized before their internal ones; it must be admitted that in all subsequent stages of progress, the comparative conspicuousness of relations has greatly affected the order in which they were recognized as uniform. Hence it happened that after the establishment of those very manifest sequences constituting a lunation, and those less manifest ones marking a year, and those still less manifest ones marking the planetary periods, Astronomy occupied itself with such inconspicuous sequences as those displayed in the repeating cycle of lunar eclipses, and those which suggested the theory of epicycles and eccentrics; while modern Astronomy deals with still more inconspicuous sequences: some of which, as the planetary rotations, are nevertheless the simplest which the heavens present. In Physics, the early use of canoes implied an empirical knowledge of certain hydrostatic relations that are intrinsically more complex than sundry static relations then unknown; but these hydrostatic relations were thrust upon observation. Or if we compare the solution of the problem of specific gravity by Archimedes, with the discovery of atmospheric pressure by Torricelli, (the two involving mechanical relations of exactly the same kind,) we perceive that the much earlier occurrence of the first than the last, was determined neither by a difference in their bearings on personal welfare, nor by a difference in the frequency with which illustrations of them come under observation, nor by relative simplicity; but solely by the greater obtrusiveness of the connexion between antecedent and consequent in the one case than in the other. Similarly with Chemistry. The burning of wood, the rusting of iron, the putrefaction of dead bodies, were early known as consequents uniformly related to certain antecedents; but not until long after was there reached a like empirical knowledge of the effect produced by air in the decomposition of soil: a phenomenon of equal simplicity, equal or greater importance, and greater frequency; but one that is extremely unobtrusive. Among miscellaneous illustrations, it may be pointed out that the connexions between lightning and thunder and between rain and clouds, were established long before others of the same order; simply because they thrust themselves on the attention. Or the long-delayed discovery of the microscopic forms of life, with all the phenomena they present, may be named as very clearly showing how certain groups of relations that are not ordinarily perceptible, though in all other respects like long-familiar relations, have to wait until changed conditions render them perceptible. But, without further details, it needs only to consider the inquiries which now occupy the electrician, the chemist, the physiologist, to see that Science has advanced and is advancing from the more conspicuous phenomena to the less conspicuous ones.

How the degree of absolute frequency of a relation affects the recognition of its uniformity, we see in contrasting certain biological facts. Death and disease are near akin in most of their relations to us; while in respect of complexity, conspicuousness, and the directness with which they personally concern us, diseases in general may be put pretty nearly on a level with each other. But there are great differences in the times at which the natural sequences they severally exhibit are recognized as such. The connexion between death and bodily injury, constantly displayed not only in men but in all inferior creatures, was known as an established uniformity while yet diseases were thought supernatural. Among diseases themselves, it is observable that comparatively unusual ones were regarded as of demoniacal origin during ages when the more frequent were ascribed to ordinary causes: a truth paralleled indeed among our own peasantry, who by the use of charms show a lingering superstition with respect to rare disorders, which they do not show with respect to common ones, such as colds. Passing to physical illustrations, we may note that within the historic period, whirlpools were accounted for by the agency of water-spirits; but we do not find that within the same period the disappearance of water on exposure either to the sun or to artificial heat was interpreted in an analogous way: though a much more marvellous occurrence, and a much more complex one, its great frequency led to the early establishment of it as a natural uniformity. Rainbows and comets do not differ greatly in conspicuousness, and a rainbow is intrinsically the more involved phenomenon; but chiefly because of their far greater commonness, rainbows were perceived to have a direct dependence on sun and rain while yet comets were regarded as supernatural appearances.

That races living inland must long have remained ignorant of the daily and monthly sequences of the tides, and that intertropical races could not early have comprehended the phenomena of northern winters, are extreme illustrations of the influence which relative frequency has on the recognition of uniformities. Animals which, where they are indigenous, call forth no surprise by their structure or habits, because these are so familiar, when taken to a part of the earth where they have never been seen, are looked at with an astonishment approaching to awe—are even thought supernatural: a fact which will suggest numerous others that show how the localization of phenomena, in part controls the order in which they are reduced to law. Not only however does their localization in space affect the progression, but also their localization in time. Facts which are rarely if ever manifested during one era, are rendered very frequent in another, simply through the changes wrought by civilization. The lever, of which the properties are illustrated in the use of sticks and weapons, is vaguely understood by every savage—on applying it in a certain way he rightly anticipates certain effects; but the action of the equally simple wedge, which is not commonly displayed till tool-making has made some progress, is less early generalized; while the wheel and axle, pulley, and screw, cannot have their powers either empirically or rationally known till the advance of the arts has more or less familiarized them. Through those various means of exploration which we have inherited and are ever increasing, we have become acquainted with a vast range of chemical relations that were relatively non-existent to the primitive man: to highly developed industries we owe both the substances and the apparatus that have disclosed to us countless uniformities which our ancestors had no opportunity of seeing, and therefore could not recognize. These and sundry like instances that will occur to the reader, show that the accumulated materials, and processes, and appliances, and products, which characterize the environments of complex societies, greatly increase the accessibility of various classes of relations; and by so multiplying the experiences of them, or making them relatively frequent, facilitate their generalization. To which add, that various classes of phenomena presented by society itself, as for instance those which political economy formulates, become relatively frequent and therefore recognizable in advanced social states; while in less advanced ones they are too rarely displayed to have their relations perceived, or, as in the least advanced ones, are not displayed at all.

That, where no other circumstances interfere, the order in which different uniformities are established varies as their complexity, is manifest. The geometry of straight lines was understood before the geometry of curved lines; the properties of the circle before the properties of the ellipse, parabola and hyperbola; and the equations of curves of single curvature were ascertained before those of curves of double curvature. Plane trigonometry comes in order of time and simplicity before spherical trigonometry; and the mensuration of plane surfaces and solids before the mensuration of curved surfaces and solids. Similarly with mechanics: the laws of simple motion were generalized before those of compound motion; and those of rectilinear motion before those of curvilinear motion. The properties of equal-armed levers, or scales, were understood before those of the lever with unequal arms; and the law of the inclined plane was formulated earlier than that of the screw, which involves it. In chemistry, the progress has been from the simple inorganic compounds, to the more involved organic ones. And where, as in most of the other sciences, the conditions of the exploration are more complicated, we still may clearly trace relative complexity as one of the determining circumstances.

The progression from concrete relations to abstract ones, and from the less abstract to the more abstract, is equally obvious. Numeration, which in its primary form concerned itself only with groups of actual objects, came earlier than simple arithmetic: the rules of which deal with numbers apart from objects. Arithmetic, limited in its sphere to concrete numerical relations, is alike earlier and less abstract than Algebra, which deals with the relations of these relations. And in like manner, the Infinitesimal Calculus comes after Algebra, both in order of evolution and in order of abstractness. In Astronomy, the progress has been from special generalizations, each expressing the motions of a particular planet, to the generalizations of Kepler, expressing the motions of the planets at large; and then to Newton’s generalization, expressing the motions of all heavenly bodies whatever. Similarly with Physics, Chemistry and Biology, there has ever been an advance from the relations of particular facts and particular classes of facts, to the relations presented by still wider classes—to truths of a high generality or greater abstractness.

Brief and rude as is this sketch of a mental development that has been long and complicated, it fulfils its end if it displays the several conditions that have regulated the course of the development. I venture to think it shows inductively, what was deductively inferred, that the order in which separate groups of uniformities are recognized, depends not on one circumstance but on several circumstances. A survey of the facts makes it manifest that the various classes of relations are generalized in a certain succession, not solely because of one particular kind of difference in their natures; but also because they are variously placed with respect to time, space, other relations, and our own constitutions: our perception of them being influenced by all these conditions in endless combinations. The comparative degrees of importance, of obtrusiveness, of absolute frequency, of relative frequency, of simplicity, of concreteness, are every one of them factors; and from their union in proportions that are more or less different in every case, there results a highly complex process of mental evolution. But while it thus becomes manifest that the proximate causes of the succession in which relations are reduced to law, are numerous and involved; it also becomes manifest that there is one ultimate cause to which these proximate ones are subordinate. As the several circumstances that determine the early or late recognition of uniformities, are circumstances that determine the number and strength of the impressions which these uniformities make on the mind; it follows that the progression conforms to a certain fundamental principle of psychology. We see À posteriori, what we concluded À priori, that the order in which relations are generalized, depends on the frequency and impressiveness with which they are repeated in conscious experience.

§ 39. And now to observe the bearings of these truths on our general argument. Having roughly analyzed the progress of the past, let us take advantage of the light thus thrown on the present, and consider what is implied respecting the future.

Note first that the likelihood of the universality of Law, has been ever growing greater. Out of the countless coexistences and sequences with which mankind are environed, they have been continually transferring some from the group whose order was supposed to be arbitrary, to the group whose order is known to be uniform. Age by age, the number of recognized connexions of phenomena has been increasing; and that of unrecognized connexions decreasing. And manifestly, as fast as the class of ungeneralized relations becomes smaller, the probability that among them there may be some that do not conform to law, becomes less. To put the argument numerically—It is clear that when out of surrounding phenomena a hundred of several kinds have been found to occur in constant connexions, there arises a slight presumption that all phenomena occur in constant connexions. When uniformity has been established in a thousand cases, more varied in their kinds, the presumption gains strength. And when the established cases of uniformity mount to myriads, including many of each variety, it becomes an ordinary induction that uniformity exists everywhere. Just as from the numerous observed cases in which heavenly bodies have been found to move in harmony with the law of gravitation, it is inferred that all heavenly bodies move in harmony with the law of gravitation; so, from the innumerable observed cases in which phenomena are found to stand in invariable connexions, it is inferred that in all cases phenomena stand in invariable connexions.

Silently and insensibly their experiences have been pressing men on towards the conclusion thus drawn. Not out of a conscious regard for these abstract reasons, but from a habit of thought which these abstract reasons formulate and justify, all minds have been advancing towards a belief in the constancy of surrounding coexistences and sequences. Familiarity with special uniformities, has generated the abstract conception of uniformity—the idea of Law; and this idea has been in successive generations slowly gaining fixity and clearness. Especially has it been thus among those whose knowledge of natural phenomena is the most extensive—men of science. The Mathematician, the Physicist, the Astronomer, the Chemist, severally acquainted with the vast accumulations of uniformities established by their predecessors, and themselves daily adding new ones as well as verifying the old, acquire a far stronger faith in Law than is ordinarily possessed. With them this faith, ceasing to be merely passive, becomes an active stimulus to inquiry. Wherever there exist phenomena of which the dependence is not yet ascertained, these most cultivated intellects, impelled by the conviction that here too there is some invariable connexion, proceed to observe, compare, and experiment; and when they discover the law to which the phenomena conform, as they eventually do, their general belief in the universality of law is further strengthened. So overwhelming is the evidence, and such the effect of this discipline, that to the advanced student of nature, the proposition that there are lawless phenomena, has become not only incredible but almost inconceivable.

Hence we may see how inevitably there must spread among mankind at large, this habitual recognition of law which already distinguishes modern thought from ancient thought. Not only is it that each conquest of generalization over a region of fact hitherto ungeneralized, and each merging of lower generalizations in a higher one, adds to the distinctness of this recognition among those immediately concerned—not only is it that the fulfilment of the predictions made possible by every new step, and the further command so gained of nature’s forces, prove to the uninitiated the validity of these generalizations and the doctrine they illustrate; but it is that widening education is daily diffusing among the mass of men, that knowledge of generalizations which has been hitherto confined to the few. And as fast as this diffusion goes on, must the belief of the scientific become the belief of the world at large. The simple accumulation of instances, must inevitably establish in the general mind, a conviction of the universality of law; even were the influence of this accumulation to be aided by no other.

§ 40. But it will be aided by another. From the evidence above set forth, it may be inferred that a secondary influence will by and by enforce this primary one. That law is universal, will become an irresistible conclusion when it is perceived that the progress in the discovery of laws itself conforms to law; and when it is hence understood why certain groups of phenomena have been reduced to law, while other groups are still unreduced. When it is seen that the order in which uniformities are recognized, must depend upon the frequency and vividness with which they are repeated in conscious experience; when it is seen that, as a matter of fact, the most common, important, conspicuous, concrete and simple uniformities were the earliest recognized, because they were experienced oftenest and most distinctly; when it is further seen that from the beginning the advance has been to the recognition of uniformities which, from one or other circumstance, were less often experienced; it will by implication be seen that long after the great mass of phenomena have been generalized, there must remain phenomena which, from their rareness, or unobtrusiveness, or seeming unimportance, or complexity, or abstractness, are still ungeneralized. Thus will be furnished a solution to a difficulty sometimes raised. When it is asked why the universality of law is not already fully established, there will be the answer that the directions in which it is not yet established are those in which its establishment must necessarily be latest. That state of things which is inferable beforehand, is just the state which we find to exist. If such coexistences and sequences as those of Biology and Sociology are not yet reduced to law, the presumption is not that they are irreducible to law, but that their laws elude our present means of analysis. Having long ago proved uniformity throughout all the lower classes of relations; and having been step by step proving uniformity throughout classes of relations successively higher and higher; if we have not at present succeeded with the highest classes, it may be fairly concluded that our powers are at fault, rather than that the uniformity does not exist. And unless we make the absurd assumption that the process of generalization, now going on with unexampled rapidity, has reached its limit, and will suddenly cease, we must infer that ultimately mankind will discover a constant order of manifestation even in the most involved, obscure, and abstract phenomena.

§ 41. Not even yet, however, have we exhausted the evidence. The foregoing arguments have to be merged in another, still more cogent, which fuses all fragmentary proofs into one general proof.

Thus far we have spoken of laws that are more or less special; and from the still-continuing disclosure of special laws, each formulating some new class of phenomena, have inferred that eventually all classes of phenomena will be formulated. If, now, we find that there are laws of far higher generality, to which those constituting the body of Science are subordinate; the fact must greatly strengthen the proof that Law is universal. If, underneath different groups of concrete phenomena, Mechanical, Chemical, Thermal, Electric, &c., we discern certain uniformities of action common to them all; we have a new and weighty reason for believing that uniformity of action pervades the whole of nature. And if we also see that these most general laws hold not only of the inorganic but of the organic worlds—if we see that the phenomena of Life, of Mind, of Society, whose special laws are yet unestablished, nevertheless conform to these most general laws; the proof of the universality of Law amounts to demonstration.

That there are laws of this transcendant generality, has now to be shown. To specify and illustrate them, will be the purpose of the succeeding chapters. And while, in contemplating them, we shall perceive how irresistible is the conclusion that the workings of the Unknowable are distinguished from those of finite agents by their absolute uniformity; we shall at the same time familiarize ourselves with those primary facts through which all other facts are to be interpreted.

§ 42. The class of phenomena to be considered under the title of Evolution, is in a great measure co-extensive with the class commonly indicated by the word Progress. But the word Progress is here inappropriate, for several reasons. To specify these reasons will perhaps be the best way of showing what is to be understood by Evolution.

In the first place, the current conception of Progress is shifting and indefinite. Sometimes it comprehends little more than simple growth—as of a nation in the number of its members and the extent of territory over which it has spread. At other times it has reference to quantity of material products—as when the advance of agriculture and manufactures is the topic. Now the superior quality of these products is contemplated; and then the new or improved appliances by which they are produced. When, again, we speak of moral or intellectual progress, we refer to the state of the individual or people exhibiting it; while, when the progress of Knowledge, of Science, of Art, is commented upon, we have in view certain abstract results of human thought and action. In the second place, besides being more or less vague, the ordinary idea of Progress is in great measure erroneous. It takes in not so much the reality as its accompaniments—not so much the substance as the shadow. That progress in intelligence seen during the growth of the child into the man, or the savage into the philosopher, is commonly regarded as consisting in the greater number of facts known and laws understood; whereas the actual progress consists in those internal modifications of which this increased knowledge is the expression. Social progress is supposed to consist in the produce of a greater quantity and variety of the articles required for satisfying men’s wants—in the increasing security of person and property—in widening freedom of action; whereas, rightly understood, social progress consists in those changes of structure in the social organism which have entailed these consequences. The interpretation is a teleological one. The phenomena are contemplated solely as bearing on human happiness. Only those changes are held to constitute progress, which directly or indirectly tend to heighten human happiness. And they are thought to constitute progress simply because they tend to heighten human happiness. In the third place, in consequence of its teleological implications, the term Progress is rendered scarcely applicable to a wide range of phenomena which are intrinsically of the same nature as those included under it. The metamorphoses of an insect are only by analogy admitted within the scope of the word, as popularly accepted; though, considered in themselves, they have as much right there as the changes which constitute civilization. Having no apparent bearing on human interests, an increasing complication in the arrangement of ocean-currents, would not ordinarily be regarded as progress; though really of the same character as phenomena which are so regarded.

Hence the need for another word. Our purpose here is to analyze the various class of changes usually considered as Progress, together with others like them which are not so considered; and to see what is their intrinsic peculiarity—what is their essential nature apart from their bearings on our welfare. And that we may avoid the confusion of thought likely to result from pre-established associations, it will be best to substitute for the term Progress, the term Evolution. Our question is then—what is Evolution?

§ 43. In respect to that evolution which individual organisms display, this question has been answered. Pursuing an idea which Harvey set afloat, Wolff, Goethe, and Von Baer, have established the truth that the series of changes gone through during the development of a seed into a tree, or an ovum into an animal, constitute an advance from homogeneity of structure to heterogeneity of structure. In its primary stage, every germ consists of a substance that is uniform throughout, both in texture and chemical composition. The first step is the appearance of a difference between two parts of this substance; or, as the phenomenon is called in physiological language, a differentiation. Each of these differentiated divisions presently begins itself to exhibit some contrast of parts; and by and by these secondary differentiations become as definite as the original one. This process is continuously repeated—is simultaneously going on in all parts of the growing embryo; and by endless such differentiations there is finally produced that complex combination of tissues and organs, constituting the adult animal or plant. This is the history of all organisms whatever. It is settled beyond dispute that organic evolution consists in a change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous.

Now I propose in the first place to show, that this law of organic evolution is the law of all evolution. Whether it be in the development of the Earth, in the development of Life upon its surface, in the development of Society, of Government, of Manufactures, of Commerce, of Language, Literature, Science, Art, this same advance from the simple to the complex, through successive differentiations, holds uniformly. From the earliest traceable cosmical changes down to the latest results of civilization, we shall find that the transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous, is that in which Evolution essentially consists.

§ 44. With the view of showing that if the Nebular Hypothesis be true, the genesis of the solar system supplies one illustration of this law, let us assume that the matter of which the sun and planets consist was once in a diffused form; and that from the gravitation of its atoms there resulted a gradual concentration. By the hypothesis, the solar system in its nascent state existed as an indefinitely extended and nearly homogeneous medium—a medium almost homogeneous in density, in temperature, and in other physical attributes. The first advance towards consolidation resulted in a differentiation between the occupied space which the nebulous mass still filled, and the unoccupied space which it previously filled. There simultaneously resulted a contrast in density and a contrast in temperature, between the interior and the exterior of this mass. And at the same time there arose throughout it, rotatory movements, whose velocities varied according to their distances from its centre. These differentiations increased in number and degree until there was evolved the organized group of sun, planets, and satellites, which we now know—a group which presents numerous contrasts of structure and action among its members. There are the immense contrasts between the sun and the planets, in bulk and in weight; as well as the subordinate contrasts between one planet and another, and between the planets and their satellites. There is the similarly marked contrast between the sun as almost stationary, and the planets as moving round him with great velocity; while there are the secondary contrasts between the velocities and periods of the several planets, and between their simple revolutions and the double ones of their satellites, which have to move round their primaries while moving round the sun. There is the yet further strong contrast between the sun and the planets in respect of temperature; and there is reason to suppose that the planets and satellites differ from each other in their proper heat, as well as in the heat they receive from the sun. When we bear in mind that, in addition to these various contrasts, the planets and satellites also differ in respect to their distances from each other and their primary; in respect to the inclinations of their orbits, the inclinations of their axes, their times of rotation on their axes, their specific gravities, and their physical constitutions; we see what a high degree of heterogeneity the solar system exhibits, when compared with the almost complete homogeneity of the nebulous mass out of which it is supposed to have originated.

§ 45. Passing from this hypothetical illustration, which must be taken for what it is worth, without prejudice to the general argument, let us descend to a more certain order of evidence.

It is now generally agreed among geologists that the Earth was at first a mass of molten matter; and that it is still fluid and incandescent at the distance of a few miles beneath its surface. Originally, then, it was homogeneous in consistence, and, because of the circulation that takes place in heated fluids, must have been comparatively homogeneous in temperature; and it must have been surrounded by an atmosphere consisting partly of the elements of air and water, and partly of those various other elements which assume a gaseous form at high temperatures. That slow cooling by radiation which is still going on at an inappreciable rate, and which, though originally far more rapid than now, necessarily required an immense time to produce any decided change, must ultimately have resulted in the solidification of the portion most able to part with its heat; namely, the surface. In the thin crust thus formed, we have the first marked differentiation. A still further cooling, a consequent thickening of this crust, and an accompanying deposition of all solidifiable elements contained in the atmosphere, must finally have been followed by the condensation of the water previously existing as vapour. A second marked differentiation must thus have arisen; and as the condensation must have taken place on the coolest parts of the surface—namely, about the poles—there must thus have resulted the first geographical distinction of parts.

To these illustrations of growing heterogeneity, which, though deduced from the known laws of matter, may be regarded as more or less hypothetical, Geology adds an extensive series that have been inductively established. Its investigations show that the Earth has been continually becoming more heterogeneous through the multiplication of the strata which form its crust; further, that it has been becoming more heterogeneous in respect of the composition of these strata, the latter of which, being made from the detritus of the older ones, are many of them rendered highly complex by the mixture of materials they contain; and that this heterogeneity has been vastly increased by the action of the Earth’s still molten nucleus upon its envelope: whence have resulted not only a great variety of igneous rocks, but the tilting up of sedimentary strata at all angles, the formation of faults and metallic veins, the production of endless dislocations and irregularities. Yet again, geologists teach us that the Earth’s surface has been growing more varied in elevation—that the most ancient mountain systems are the smallest, and the Andes and Himalayas the most modern; while, in all probability, there have been corresponding changes in the bed of the ocean. As a consequence of these ceaseless differentiations, we now find that no considerable portion of the Earth’s exposed surface is like any other portion, either in contour, in geologic structure, or in chemical composition; and that in most parts it changes from mile to mile in all these characteristics.

Moreover, it must not be forgotten that there has been simultaneously going on a gradual differentiation of climates. As fast as the Earth cooled and its crust solidified, there arose appreciable differences in temperature between those parts of its surface most exposed to the sun and those less exposed. Gradually, as the cooling progressed, these differences became more pronounced; until there finally resulted the marked contrasts between regions of perpetual ice and snow, regions where winter and summer alternately reign for periods varying according to the latitude, and regions where summer follows summer with scarcely an appreciable variation. At the same time, the successive elevations and subsidences of different portions of the Earth’s crust, tending as they have done to the present irregular distribution of land and sea, have entailed various modifications of climate beyond those dependent on latitude; while a yet further series of such modifications have been produced by increasing differences of elevation in the land, which have in sundry places brought arctic, temperate, and tropical climates to within a few miles of each other. And the general result of these changes is, that not only has every extensive region its own meteorologic conditions, but that every locality in each region differs more or less from others in those conditions: as in its structure, its contour, its soil.

Thus, between our existing Earth, the phenomena of whose varied crust neither geographers, geologists, mineralogists nor meteorologists have yet enumerated, and the molten globe out of which it was evolved, the contrast in heterogeneity is sufficiently striking.

§ 46. When from the Earth itself we turn to the plants and animals that have lived, or still live, upon its surface, we find ourselves in some difficulty from lack of facts. That every existing organism has been developed out of the simple into the complex, is indeed the first established truth of all; and that every organism which has existed was similarly developed, is an inference that no physiologist will hesitate to draw. But when we pass from individual forms of life to Life in general, and inquire whether the same law is seen in the ensemble of its manifestations,—whether modern plants and animals are of more heterogeneous structure than ancient ones, and whether the Earth’s present Flora and Fauna are more heterogeneous than the Flora and Fauna of the past,—we find the evidence so fragmentary, that every conclusion is open to dispute. Two-thirds of the Earth’s surface being covered by water; a great part of the exposed land being inaccessible to, or untravelled by, the geologist; the greater part of the remainder having been scarcely more than glanced at; and even the most familiar portions, as England, having been so imperfectly explored, that a new series of strata has been added within these few years,—it is manifestly impossible for us to say with any certainty what creatures have, and what have not, existed at any particular period. Considering the perishable nature of many of the lower organic forms, the metamorphosis of many sedimentary strata, and the gaps that occur among the rest, we shall see further reason for distrusting our deductions. On the one hand, the repeated discovery of vertebrate remains in strata previously supposed to contain none,—of reptiles where only fish were thought to exist,—of mammals where it was believed there were no creatures higher than reptiles; renders it daily more manifest how small is the value of negative evidence. On the other hand, the worthlessness of the assumption that we have discovered the earliest, or anything like the earliest, organic remains, is becoming equally clear. That the oldest known aqueous formations have been greatly changed by igneous action, and that still older ones have been totally transformed by it, is becoming undeniable. And the fact that sedimentary strata earlier than any we know, have been melted up, being admitted, it must also be admitted that we cannot say how far back in time this destruction of sedimentary strata has been going on. Thus it is manifest that the title PalÆozoic, as applied to the earliest known fossiliferous strata, involves a petitio principii; and that, for aught we know to the contrary, only the last few chapters of the Earth’s biological history may have come down to us.

All inferences drawn from such scattered facts as we find, must thus be extremely questionable. If, looking at the general aspect of evidence, a progressionist argues that the earliest known vertebrate remains are those of Fishes, which are the most homogeneous of the vertebrata; that Reptiles, which are more heterogeneous, are later; and that later still, and more heterogeneous still, are Mammals and Birds; it may be replied that the PalÆozoic deposits, not being estuary deposits, are not likely to contain the remains of terrestrial vertebrata, which may nevertheless have existed at that era. The same answer may be made to the argument that the vertebrate fauna of the PalÆozoic period, consisting so far as we know, entirely of Fishes, was less heterogeneous than the modern vertebrate fauna, which includes Reptiles, Birds and Mammals, of multitudinous genera; or the uniformitarian may contend with great show of truth, that this appearance of higher and more varied forms in later geologic eras, was due to progressive immigration—that a continent slowly upheaved from the ocean at a point remote from pre-existing continents, would necessarily be peopled from them in a succession like that which our strata display. At the same time the counter-arguments may be proved equally inconclusive. When, to show that there cannot have been a continuous evolution of the more homogeneous organic forms into the more heterogeneous ones, the uniformitarian points to the breaks that occur in the succession of these forms; there is the sufficient answer that current geological changes show us why such breaks must occur, and why, by subsidences and elevations of large area, there must be produced such marked breaks as those which divide the three great geologic epochs. Or again, if the opponent of the development hypothesis cites the facts set forth by Professor Huxley in his lecture on “Persistent Types”—if he points out that “of some two hundred known orders of plants, not one is exclusively fossil,” while “among animals, there is not a single totally extinct class; and of the orders, at the outside not more than seven per cent. are unrepresented in the existing creation”—if he urges that among these some have continued from the Silurian epoch to our own day with scarcely any change—and if he infers that there is evidently a much greater average resemblance between the living forms of the past and those of the present, than consists with this hypothesis; there is still a satisfactory reply, on which in fact Prof. Huxley insists; namely, that we have evidence of a “pre-geologic era” of unknown duration. And indeed, when it is remembered, that the enormous subsidences of the Silurian period show the Earth’s crust to have been approximately as thick then as it is now—when it is concluded that the time taken to form so thick a crust, must have been immense as compared with the time which has since elapsed—when it is assumed, as it must be, that during this comparatively immense time the geologic and biologic changes went on at their usual rates; it becomes manifest, not only that the palÆontological records which we find, do not negative the theory of evolution, but that they are such as might rationally be looked for.

Moreover, it must not be forgotten that though the evidence suffices neither for proof nor disproof, yet some of its most conspicuous facts support the belief, that the more heterogeneous organisms and groups of organisms, have been evolved from the less heterogeneous ones. The average community of type between the fossils of adjacent strata, and still more the community that is found between the latest tertiary fossils and creatures now existing, is one of these facts. The discovery in some modern deposits of such forms as the PalÆotherium and Anaplotherium, which, if we may rely on Prof. Owen, had a type of structure intermediate between some of the types now existing, is another of these facts. And the comparatively recent appearance of Man, is a third fact of this kind, which possesses still greater significance. Hence we may say, that though our knowledge of past life upon the Earth, is too scanty to justify us in asserting an evolution of the simple into the complex, either in individual forms or in the aggregate of forms; yet the knowledge we have, not only consists with the belief that there has been such an evolution, but rather supports it than otherwise.

§ 47. Whether an advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous is or is not displayed in the biological history of the globe, it is clearly enough displayed in the progress of the latest and most heterogeneous creature—Man. It is alike true that, during the period in which the Earth has been peopled, the human organism has grown more heterogeneous among the civilized divisions of the species; and that the species, as a whole, has been made more heterogeneous by the multiplication of races and the differentiation of these races from each other. In proof of the first of these positions, we may cite the fact that, in the relative development of the limbs, the civilized man departs more widely from the general type of the placental mammalia, than do the lower human races. Though often possessing well-developed body and arms, the Papuan has extremely small legs: thus reminding us of the quadrumana, in which there is no great contrast in size between the hind and fore limbs. But in the European, the greater length and massiveness of the legs has become very marked—the fore and hind limbs are relatively more heterogeneous. Again, the greater ratio which the cranial bones bear to the facial bones, illustrates the same truth. Among the vertebrata in general, evolution is marked by an increasing heterogeneity in the vertebral column, and more especially in the segments constituting the skull: the higher forms being distinguished by the relatively larger size of the bones which cover the brain, and the relatively smaller size of those which form the jaws, &c. Now, this characteristic, which is stronger in Man than in any other creature, is stronger in the European than in the savage. Moreover, judging from the greater extent and variety of faculty he exhibits, we may infer that the civilized man has also a more complex or heterogeneous nervous system than the uncivilized man; and indeed the fact is in part visible in the increased ratio which his cerebrum bears to the subjacent ganglia. If further elucidation be needed, we may find it in every nursery. The infant European has sundry marked points of resemblance to the lower human races; as in the flatness of the alÆ of the nose, the depression of its bridge, the divergence and forward opening of the nostrils, the form of the lips, the absence of a frontal sinus, the width between the eyes, the smallness of the legs. Now, as the developmental process by which these traits are turned into those of the adult European, is a continuation of that change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous displayed during the previous evolution of the embryo, which every physiologist will admit; it follows that the parallel developmental process by which the like traits of the barbarous races have been turned into those of the civilized races, has also been a continuation of the change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. The truth of the second position—that Mankind, as a whole, have become more heterogeneous—is so obvious as scarcely to need illustration. Every work on Ethnology, by its divisions and subdivisions of races, bears testimony to it. Even were we to admit the hypothesis that Mankind originated from several separate stocks, it would still remain true that as, from each of these stocks, there have sprung many now widely different tribes, which are proved by philological evidence to have had a common origin, the race as a whole is far less homogeneous than it once was. Add to which, that we have, in the Anglo-Americans, an example of a new variety arising within these few generations; and that, if we may trust to the descriptions of observers, we are likely soon to have another such example in Australia.

§ 48. On passing from Humanity under its individual form, to Humanity as socially embodied, we find the general law still more variously exemplified. The change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, is displayed equally in the progress of civilization as a whole, and in the progress of every tribe or nation; and is still going on with increasing rapidity.

As we see in existing barbarous tribes, society in its first and lowest form is a homogeneous aggregation of individuals having like powers and like functions: the only marked difference of function being that which accompanies difference of sex. Every man is warrior, hunter, fisherman, tool-maker, builder; every woman performs the same drudgeries; every family is self-sufficing, and, save for purposes of aggression and defence, might as well live apart from the rest. Very early, however, in the process of social evolution, we find an incipient differentiation between the governing and the governed. Some kind of chieftainship seems coeval with the first advance from the state of separate wandering families to that of a nomadic tribe. The authority of the strongest makes itself felt among a body of savages, as in a herd of animals, or a posse of school-boys. At first, however, it is indefinite, uncertain; is shared by others of scarcely inferior power; and is unaccompanied by any difference in occupation or style of living: the first ruler kills his own game, makes his own weapons, builds his own hut, and, economically considered, does not differ from others of his tribe. Gradually, as the tribe progresses, the contrast between the governing and the governed grows more decided. Supreme power becomes hereditary in one family; the head of that family, ceasing to provide for his own wants, is served by others; and he begins to assume the sole office of ruling. At the same time there has been arising a co-ordinate species of government—that of Religion. As all ancient records and traditions prove, the earliest rulers are regarded as divine personages. The maxims and commands they uttered during their lives are held sacred after their deaths, and are enforced by their divinely-descended successors; who in their turns are promoted to the pantheon of the race, there to be worshipped and propitiated along with their predecessors: the most ancient of whom is the supreme god, and the rest subordinate gods. For a long time these connate forms of government—civil and religious—continue closely associated. For many generations the king continues to be the chief priest, and the priesthood to be members of the royal race. For many ages religious law continues to contain more or less of civil regulation, and civil law to possess more or less of religious sanction; and even among the most advanced nations these two controlling agencies are by no means completely differentiated from each other. Having a common root with these, and gradually diverging from them, we find yet another controlling agency—that of Manners or ceremonial usages. All titles of honour are originally the names of the god-king; afterwards of God and the king; still later of persons of high rank; and finally come, some of them, to be used between man and man. All forms of complimentary address were at first the expressions of submission from prisoners to their conqueror, or from subjects to their ruler, either human or divine—expressions that were afterwards used to propitiate subordinate authorities, and slowly descended into ordinary intercourse. All modes of salutation were once obeisances made before the monarch and used in worship of him after his death. Presently others of the god-descended race were similarly saluted; and by degrees some of the salutations have become the due of all.^[9] Thus, no sooner does the originally homogeneous social mass differentiate into the governed and the governing parts, than this last exhibits an incipient differentiation into religious and secular—Church and State; while at the same time there begins to be differentiated from both, that less definite species of government which rides our daily intercourse—a species of government which, as we may see in heralds’ colleges, in books of the peerage, in masters of ceremonies, is not without a certain embodiment of its own. Each of these kinds of government is itself subject to successive differentiations. In the course of ages, there arises, as among ourselves, a highly complex political organization of monarch, ministers, lords and commons, with their subordinate administrative departments, courts of justice, revenue offices, &c., supplemented in the provinces by municipal governments, county governments, parish or union governments—all of them more or less elaborated. By its side there grows up a highly complex religious organization, with its various grades of officials from archbishops down to sextons, its colleges, convocations, ecclesiastical courts, &c.; to all which must be added the ever-multiplying independent sects, each with its general and local authorities. And at the same time there is developed a highly complex aggregation of customs, manners, and temporary fashions, enforced by society at large, and serving to control those minor transactions between man and man which are not regulated by civil and religious law. Moreover, it is to be observed that this ever-increasing heterogeneity in the governmental appliances of each nation, has been accompanied by an increasing heterogeneity in the governmental appliances of different nations: all of which are more or less unlike in their political systems and legislation, in their creeds and religious institutions, in their customs and ceremonial usages.

Simultaneously there has been going on a second differentiation of a more familiar kind; that, namely, by which the mass of the community has been segregated into distinct classes and orders of workers. While the governing part has undergone the complex development above detailed, the governed part has undergone an equally complex development; which has resulted in that minute division of labour characterizing advanced nations. It is needless to trace out this progress from its first stages, up through the caste divisions of the East and the incorporated guilds of Europe, to the elaborate producing and distributing organization existing among ourselves. Political economists have long since indicated the evolution which, beginning with a tribe whose members severally perform the same actions, each for himself ends with a civilized community whose members severally perform different actions for each other; and they have further pointed out the changes through which the solitary producer of any one commodity, is transformed into a combination of producers who, united under a master, take separate parts in the manufacture of such commodity. But there are yet other and higher phases of this advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous in the industrial organization of society. Long after considerable progress has been made in the division of labour among the different classes of workers, there is still little or no division of labour among the widely separated parts of the community: the nation continues comparatively homogeneous in the respect that in each district the same occupations are pursued. But when roads and other means of transit become numerous and good, the different districts begin to assume different functions, and to become mutually dependent. The calico-manufacture locates itself in this county, the woollen-manufacture in that; silks are produced here, lace there; stockings in one place, shoes in another; pottery, hardware, cutlery, come to have their special towns; and ultimately every locality grows more or less distinguished from the rest by the leading occupation carried on in it. Nay, more, this subdivision of functions shows itself not only among the different parts of the same nation, but among different nations. That exchange of commodities which free-trade promises so greatly to increase, will ultimately have the effect of specializing, in a greater or less degree, the industry of each people. So that beginning with a barbarous tribe, almost if not quite homogeneous in the functions of its members, the progress has been, and still is, towards an economic aggregation of the whole human race; growing ever more heterogeneous in respect of the separate functions assumed by separate nations, the separate functions assumed by the local sections of each nation, the separate functions assumed by the many kinds of makers and traders in each town, and the separate functions assumed by the workers united in producing each commodity.

§ 49. Not only is the law thus clearly exemplified in the evolution of the social organism, but it is exemplified with equal clearness in the evolution of all products of human thought and action; whether concrete or abstract, real or ideal. Let us take Language as our first illustration.

The lowest form of language is the exclamation, by which an entire idea is vaguely conveyed through a single sound; as among the lower animals. That human language ever consisted solely of exclamations, and so was strictly homogeneous in respect of its parts of speech, we have no evidence. But that language can be traced down to a form in which nouns and verbs are its only elements, is an established fact. In the gradual multiplication of parts of speech out of these primary ones—in the differentiation of verbs into active and passive, of nouns into abstract and concrete—in the rise of distinctions of mood, tense, person, of number and case—in the formation of auxiliary verbs, of adjectives, adverbs, pronouns, prepositions, articles—in the divergence of those orders, genera, species, and varieties of parts of speech by which civilized races express minute modifications of meaning—we see a change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. And it may be remarked, in passing, that it is more especially in virtue of having carried this subdivision of functions to a greater extent and completeness, that the English language is superior to all others. Another aspect under which we may trace the development of language, is the differentiation of words of allied meanings. Philology early disclosed the truth that in all languages words may be grouped into families having a common ancestry. An aboriginal name, applied indiscriminately to each of an extensive and ill-defined class of things or actions, presently undergoes modifications by which the chief divisions of the class are expressed. These several names springing from the primitive root, themselves become the parents of other names still further modified. And by the aid of those systematic modes which presently arise, of making derivatives and forming compound terms expressing still smaller distinctions, there is finally developed a tribe of words so heterogeneous in sound and meaning, that to the uninitiated it seems incredible they should have had a common origin. Meanwhile, from other roots there are being evolved other such tribes, until there results a language of some sixty thousand or more unlike words, signifying as many unlike objects, qualities, acts. Yet another way in which language in general advances from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, is in the multiplication of languages. Whether, as Max MÜller and Bunsen think, all languages have grown from one stock, or whether, as some philologists say, they have grown from two or more stocks, it is clear that since large families of languages, as the Indo-European, are of one parentage, they have become distinct through a process of continuous divergence. The same diffusion over the Earth’s surface which has led to the differentiation of the race, has simultaneously led to a differentiation of their speech: a truth which we see further illustrated in each nation by the peculiarities of dialect found in separate districts. Thus the progress of Language conforms to the general law, alike in the evolution of languages, in the evolution of families of words, and in the evolution of parts of speech.

On passing from spoken to written language, we come upon several classes of facts, all having similar implications. Written language is connate with Painting and Sculpture; and at first all three are appendages of Architecture, and have a direct connexion with the primary form of all Government—the theocratic. Merely noting by the way the fact that sundry wild races, as for example the Australians and the tribes of South Africa, are given to depicting personages and events upon the walls of caves, which are probably regarded as sacred places, let us pass to the case of the Egyptians. Among them, as also among the Assyrians, we find mural paintings used to decorate the temple of the god and the palace of the king (which were, indeed, originally identical); and as such they were governmental appliances in the same sense that state-pageants and religious feasts were. Further, they were governmental appliances in virtue of representing the worship of the god, the triumphs of the god-king, the submission of his subjects, and the punishment of the rebellious. And yet again they were governmental, as being the products of an art reverenced by the people as a sacred mystery. From the habitual use of this pictorial representation, there naturally grew up the but slightly-modified practice of picture-writing—a practice which was found still extant among the Mexicans at the time they were discovered. By abbreviations analogous to those still going on in our own written and spoken language, the most familiar of these pictured figures were successively simplified; and ultimately there grew up a system of symbols, most of which had but a distant resemblance to the things for which they stood. The inference that the hieroglyphics of the Egyptians were thus produced, is confirmed by the fact that the picture-writing of the Mexicans was found to have given birth to a like family of ideographic forms; and among them, as among the Egyptians, these had been partially differentiated into the kuriological or imitative, and the tropical or symbolic: which were, however, used together in the same record. In Egypt, written language underwent a further differentiation; whence resulted the hieratic and the epistolographic or enchorial: both of which are derived from the original hieroglyphic. At the same time we find that for the expression of proper names, which could not be otherwise conveyed, phonetic symbols were employed; and though it is alleged that the Egyptians never actually achieved complete alphabetic writing, yet it can scarcely be doubted that these phonetic symbols occasionally used in aid of their ideographic ones, were the germs out of which alphabetic writing grew. Once having become separate from hieroglyphics, alphabetic writing itself underwent numerous differentiations—multiplied alphabets were produced: between most of which, however, more or less connexion can still be traced. And in each civilized nation there has now grown up, for the representation of one set of sounds, several sets of written signs, used for distinct purposes. Finally, through a yet more important differentiation came printing; which, uniform in kind as it was at first, has since become multiform.

§ 50. While written language was passing through its earlier stages of development, the mural decoration which formed its root was being differentiated into Painting and Sculpture. The gods, kings, men, and animals represented, were originally marked by indented outlines and coloured. In most cases these outlines were of such depth, and the object they circumscribed so far rounded and marked out in its leading parts, as to form a species of work intermediate between intaglio and bas-relief. In other cases we see an advance upon this: the raised spaces between the figures being chiselled off, and the figures themselves appropriately tinted, a painted bas-relief was produced. The restored Assyrian architecture at Sydenham, exhibits this style of art carried to greater perfection—the persons and things represented, though still barbarously coloured, are carved out with more truth and in greater detail; and in the winged lions and bulls used for the angles of gateways, we may see a considerable advance towards a completely sculptured figure; which, nevertheless, is still coloured, and still forms part of the building. But while in Assyria the production of a statue proper, seems to have been little, if at all, attempted, we may trace in Egyptian art the gradual separation of the sculptured figure from the wall. A walk through the collection in the British Museum will clearly show this; while it will at the same time afford an opportunity of observing the evident traces which the independent statues bear of their derivation from bas-relief: seeing that nearly all of them not only display that union of the limbs with the body which is the characteristic of bas-relief, but have the back of the statue united from head to foot with a block which stands in place of the original wall. Greece repeated the leading stages of this progress. As in Egypt and Assyria, these twin arts were at first united with each other and with their parent, Architecture; and were the aids of Religion and Government. On the friezes of Greek temples, we see coloured bas-reliefs representing sacrifices, battles, processions, games—all in some sort religious. On the pediments we see painted sculptures more or less united with the tympanum, and having for subjects the triumphs of gods or heroes. Even when we come to statues that are definitely separated from the buildings to which they pertain, we still find them coloured; and only in the later periods of Greek civilization, does the differentiation of sculpture from painting appear to have become complete. In Christian art we may clearly trace a parallel re-genesis. All early paintings and sculptures throughout Europe, were religious in subject—represented Christs, crucifixions, virgins, holy families, apostles, saints. They formed integral parts of church architecture, and were among the means of exciting worship: as in Roman Catholic countries they still are. Moreover, the early sculptures of Christ on the cross, of virgins, of saints, were coloured; and it needs but to call to mind the painted madonnas and crucifixes still abundant in continental churches and highways, to perceive the significant fact that painting and sculpture continue in closest connexion with each other, where they continue in closest connexion with their parent. Even when Christian sculpture was pretty clearly differentiated from painting, it was still religious and governmental in its subjects—was used for tombs in churches and statues of kings; while, at the same time, painting, where not purely ecclesiastical, was applied to the decoration of palaces, and besides representing royal personages, was almost wholly devoted to sacred legends. Only in quite recent times have painting and sculpture become entirely secular arts. Only within these few centuries has painting been divided into historical, landscape, marine, architectural, genre, animal, still-life, &c., and sculpture grown heterogeneous in respect of the variety of real and ideal subjects with which it occupies itself.

Strange as it seems then, we find it no less true, that all forms of written language, of painting, and of sculpture, have a common root in the politico-religious decorations of ancient temples and palaces. Little resemblance as they now have, the bust that stands on the console, the landscape that hangs against the wall, and the copy of the Times lying upon the table, are remotely akin; not only in nature, but by extraction. The brazen face of the knocker which the postman has just lifted, is related not only to the woodcuts of the Illustrated London News which he is delivering, but to the characters of the billet-doux which accompanies it. Between the painted window, the prayer-book on which its light falls, and the adjacent monument, there is consanguinity. The effigies on our coins, the signs over shops, the figures that fill every ledger, the coat of arms outside the carriage-panel, and the placards inside the omnibus, are, in common with dolls, blue-books and paper-hangings, lineally descended from the rude sculpture-paintings in which the Egyptians represented the triumphs and worship of their god-kings. Perhaps no example can be given which more vividly illustrates the multiplicity and heterogeneity of the products that in course of time may arise by successive differentiations from a common stock.

Before passing to other classes of facts, it should be observed that the evolution of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous is displayed not only in the separation of Painting and Sculpture from Architecture and from each other, and in the greater variety of subjects they embody; but it is further shown in the structure of each work. A modern picture or statue is of far more heterogeneous nature than an ancient one. An Egyptian sculpture-fresco represents all its figures as on one plane—that is, at the same distance from the eye; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting that represents them as at various distances from the eye. It exhibits all objects as exposed to the same degree of light; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting which exhibits different objects, and different parts of each object, as in different degrees of light. It uses scarcely any but the primary colours, and these in their full intensity; and so is less heterogeneous than a painting which, introducing the primary colours but sparingly, employs an endless variety of intermediate tints, each of heterogeneous composition, and differing from the rest not only in quality but in intensity. Moreover, we see in these earliest works a great uniformity of conception. The same arrangement of figures is perpetually reproduced—the same actions, attitudes, faces, dresses. In Egypt the modes of representation were so fixed that it was sacrilege to introduce a novelty; and indeed it could have been only in consequence of a fixed mode of representation that a system of hieroglyphics became possible. The Assyrian bas-reliefs display parallel characters. Deities, kings, attendants, winged-figures and animals, are severally depicted in like positions, holding like implements, doing like things, and with like expression or non-expression of face. If a palm-grove is introduced, all the trees are of the same height, have the same number of leaves, and are equidistant. When water is imitated, each wave is a counterpart of the rest; and the fish, almost always of one kind, are evenly distributed over the surface. The beards of the kings, the gods, and the winged-figures, are everywhere similar; as are the manes of the lions, and equally so those of the horses. Hair is represented throughout by one form of curl. The king’s beard is quite architecturally built up of compound tiers of uniform curls, alternating with twisted tiers placed in a transverse direction, and arranged with perfect regularity; and the terminal tufts of the bulls’ tails are represented in exactly the same manner. Without tracing out analogous facts in early Christian art, in which, though less striking, they are still visible, the advance in heterogeneity will be sufficiently manifest on remembering that in the pictures of our own day the composition is endlessly varied; the attitudes, faces, expressions, unlike; the subordinate objects different in size, form, position, texture; and more or less of contrast even in the smallest details. Or, if we compare an Egyptian statue, seated bolt upright on a block, with hands on knees, fingers outspread and parallel, eyes looking straight forward, and the two sides perfectly symmetrical in every particular, with a statue of the advanced Greek or the modern school, which is asymmetrical in respect of the position of the head, the body, the limbs, the arrangement of the hair, dress, appendages, and in its relations to neighbouring objects, we shall see the change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous clearly manifested.

§ 51. In the co-ordinate origin and gradual differentiation of Poetry, Music, and Dancing, we have another series of illustrations. Rhythm in speech, rhythm in sound, and rhythm in motion, were in the beginning, parts of the same thing; and have only in process of time become separate things. Among various existing barbarous tribes we find them still united. The dances of savages are accompanied by some kind of monotonous chant, the clapping of hands, the striking of rude instruments: there are measured movements, measured words, and measured tones; and the whole ceremony, usually having reference to war or sacrifice, is of governmental character. In the early records of the historic races we similarly find these three forms of metrical action united in religious festivals. In the Hebrew writings we read that the triumphal ode composed by Moses on the defeat of the Egyptians, was sung to an accompaniment of dancing and timbrels. The Israelites danced and sung “at the inauguration of the golden calf. And as it is generally agreed that this representation of the Deity was borrowed from the mysteries of Apis, it is probable that the dancing was copied from that of the Egyptians on those occasions.” There was an annual dance in Shiloh on the sacred festival; and David danced before the ark. Again, in Greece the like relation is everywhere seen: the original type being there, as probably in other cases, a simultaneous chanting and mimetic representation of the life and adventures of the god. The Spartan dances were accompanied by hymns and songs; and in general the Greeks had “no festivals or religious assemblies but what were accompanied with songs and dances”—both of them being forms of worship used before altars. Among the Romans, too, there were sacred dances: the Salian and Lupercalian being named as of that kind. And even in Christian countries, as at Limoges in comparatively recent times, the people have danced in the choir in honour of a saint. The incipient separation of these once united arts from each other and from religion, was early visible in Greece. Probably diverging from dances partly religious, partly warlike, as the Corybantian, came the war-dances proper, of which there were various kinds; and from these resulted secular dances. Meanwhile Music and Poetry, though still united, came to have an existence separate from dancing. The aboriginal Greek poems, religious in subject, were not recited but chanted; and though at first the chant of the poet was accompanied by the dance of the chorus, it ultimately grew into independence. Later still, when the poem had been differentiated into epic and lyric—when it became the custom to sing the lyric and recite the epic—poetry proper was born. As during the same period musical instruments were being multiplied, we may presume that music came to have an existence apart from words. And both of them were beginning to assume other forms besides the religious. Facts having like implications might be cited from the histories of later times and peoples; as the practices of our own early minstrels, who sang to the harp heroic narratives versified by themselves to music of their own composition: thus uniting the now separate offices of poet, composer, vocalist, and instrumentalist. But, without further illustration, the common origin and gradual differentiation of Dancing, Poetry, and Music will be sufficiently manifest.

The advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous is displayed not only in the separation of these arts from each other and from religion, but also in the multiplied differentiations which each of them afterwards undergoes. Not to dwell upon the numberless kinds of dancing that have, in course of time, come into use; and not to occupy space in detailing the progress of poetry, as seen in the development of the various forms of metre, of rhyme, and of general organization; let us confine our attention to music as a type of the group. As argued by Dr. Burney, and as implied by the customs of still extant barbarous races, the first musical instruments were, without doubt, percussive—sticks, calabashes, tom-toms—and were used simply to mark the time of the dance; and in this constant repetition of the same sound, we see music in its most homogeneous form. The Egyptians had a lyre with three strings. The early lyre of the Greeks had four, constituting their tetrachord. In course of some centuries lyres of seven and eight strings were employed. And, by the expiration of a thousand years, they had advanced to their “great system” of the double octave. Through all which changes there of course arose a greater heterogeneity of melody. Simultaneously there came into use the different modes—Dorian, Ionian, Phrygian, Æolian, and Lydian—answering to our keys: and of these there were ultimately fifteen. As yet, however, there was but little heterogeneity in the time of their music. Instrumental music during this period being merely the accompaniment of vocal music, and vocal music being completely subordinated to words,—the singer being also the poet, chanting his own compositions and making the lengths of his notes agree with the feet of his verses; there unavoidably arose a tiresome uniformity of measure, which, as Dr Burney says, “no resources of melody could disguise.” Lacking the complex rhythm obtained by our equal bars and unequal notes, the only rhythm was that produced by the quantity of the syllables, and was of necessity comparatively monotonous. And further, it may be observed that the chant thus resulting, being like recitative, was much less clearly differentiated from ordinary speech than is our modern song. Nevertheless, considering the extended range of notes in use, the variety of modes, the occasional variations of time consequent on changes of metre, and the multiplication of instruments, we see that music had, towards the close of Greek civilization, attained to considerable heterogeneity: not indeed as compared with our music, but as compared with that which preceded it. As yet, however, there existed nothing but melody: harmony was unknown. It was not until Christian church-music had reached some development, that music in parts was evolved; and then it came into existence through a very unobtrusive differentiation. Difficult as it may be to conceive, À priori, how the advance from melody to harmony could take place without a sudden leap, it is none the less true that it did so. The circumstance which prepared the way for it, was the employment of two choirs singing alternately the same air. Afterwards it became the practice (very possibly first suggested by a mistake) for the second choir to commence before the first had ceased; thus producing a fugue. With the simple airs then in use, a partially harmonious fugue might not improbably thus result; and a very partially harmonious fugue satisfied the ears of that age, as we know from still preserved examples. The idea having once been given, the composing of airs productive of fugal harmony would naturally grow up; as in some way it did grow up out of this alternate choir-singing. And from the fugue to concerted music of two, three, four, and more parts, the transition was easy. Without pointing out in detail the increasing complexity that resulted from introducing notes of various lengths, from the multiplication of keys, from the use of accidentals, from varieties of time, from modulations and so forth, it needs but to contrast music as it is, with music as it was, to see how immense is the increase of heterogeneity. We see this if, looking at music in its ensemble, we enumerate its many different genera and species—if we consider the divisions into vocal, instrumental, and mixed; and their subdivisions into music for different voices and different instruments—if we observe the many forms of sacred music, from the simple hymn, the chant, the canon, motet, anthem, &c., up to the oratorio; and the still more numerous forms of secular music, from the ballad up to the serenata, from the instrumental solo up to the symphony. Again, the same truth is seen on comparing any one sample of aboriginal music with a sample of modern music—even an ordinary song for the piano; which we find to be relatively highly heterogeneous, not only in respect of the varieties in the pitch and in the length of the notes, the number of different notes sounding at the same instant in company with the voice, and the variations of strength with which they are sounded and sung, but in respect of the changes of key, the changes of time, the changes of timbre of the voice, and the many other modifications of expression. While between the old monotonous dance-chant and a grand opera of our own day, with its endless orchestral complexities and vocal combinations, the contrast in heterogeneity is so extreme that it seems scarcely credible that the one should have been the ancestor of the other.

§ 52. Were they needed, many further illustrations might be cited. Going back to the early time when the deeds of the god-king, chanted and mimetically represented in dances round his altar, were further narrated in picture-writings on the walls of temples and palaces, and so constituted a rude literature, we might trace the development of Literature through phases in which, as in the Hebrew Scriptures it presents in one work, theology, cosmogony, history, biography, civil law, ethics, poetry; through other phases in which, as in the Iliad, the religious, martial, historical, the epic, dramatic, and lyric elements are similarly commingled; down to its present heterogeneous development, in which its divisions and subdivisions are so numerous and varied as to defy complete classification. Or we might track the evolution of Science: beginning with the era in which it was not yet differentiated from Art, and was, in union with Art, the handmaid of Religion; passing through the era in which the sciences were so few and rudimentary, as to be simultaneously cultivated by the same philosophers; and ending with the era in which the genera and species are so numerous that few can enumerate them, and no one can adequately grasp even one genus. Or we might do the like with Architecture, with the Drama, with Dress. But doubtless the reader is already weary of illustrations; and my promise has been amply fulfilled. I believe it has been shown beyond question, that that which the German physiologists have found to be the law of organic development, is the law of all development. The advance from the simple to the complex, through a process of successive differentiations, is seen alike in the earliest changes of the Universe to which we can reason our way back, and in the earliest changes which we can inductively establish; it is seen in the geologic and climatic evolution of the Earth, and of every single organism on its surface; it is seen in the evolution of Humanity, whether contemplated in the civilized individual, or in the aggregation of races; it is seen in the evolution of Society, in respect alike of its political, its religious, and its economical organization; and it is seen in the evolution of all those endless concrete and abstract products of human activity, which constitute the environment of our daily life. From the remotest past which Science can fathom, up to the novelties of yesterday, that in which Evolution essentially consists, is the transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous.

§ 53. But now, does this generalization express the whole truth? Does it include all the phenomena of Evolution? and does it exclude all other phenomena? A careful consideration of the facts, will show that it does neither.

That there are changes from the less heterogeneous to the more heterogeneous, which do not come within what we call Evolution, is proved in every case of local disease. A portion of the body in which there arises a cancer, or other morbid growth, unquestionably displays a new differentiation. Whether this morbid growth be, or be not, more heterogeneous than the tissues in which it is seated, is not the question. The question is, whether the structure of the organism as a whole, is, or is not, rendered more heterogeneous by the addition of a part unlike every pre-existing part, both in form and composition. And to this question there can be none but an affirmative answer. Again, it might with apparent truth be contended, that the earlier stages of decomposition in a dead body, similarly involve an increase of heterogeneity. Supposing the chemical changes to commence in some parts of the body earlier than in other parts, as they commonly do; and to affect different tissues in different, ways, as they must; it seems to be a necessary admission that the entire body, made up of undecomposed parts and parts decomposed in different ways and degrees, has become more heterogeneous than it was. Though greater homogeneity will be the eventual result, the immediate result is the opposite. And yet this immediate result is certainly not evolution. But perhaps of all illustrations the least debatable are those furnished by social disorders and disasters. When in any nation there occurs a rebellion, which, while leaving some provinces undisturbed, developes itself here in secret societies, there in public demonstrations, and elsewhere in actual appeal to arms, leading probably to conflict and bloodshed; it must be admitted that the society, regarded as a whole, has so been rendered more heterogeneous. Or when a dearth causes commercial panic with its entailed bankruptcies, closed factories, discharged operatives, political agitations, food riots, incendiarisms; it is manifest that as, throughout the rest of society, there still exists the ordinary organization displaying the usual phenomena, these new phenomena must be regarded as adding to the complexity previously existing. Nevertheless, it is clear that such changes so far from constituting a further stage of evolution, are steps towards dissolution.

There is good reason to think then, that the definition arrived at in the last chapter, is an imperfect one. We may suspect, not that the process of evolution is different from the process there described; but that the description did not contain all that it should. The changes above instanced as coming within the formula as it now stands, are so obviously different from the rest, that the inclusion of them implies some oversight—some distinction hitherto overlooked. Such further distinction we shall find really exists.

§ 54. At the same time that all evolution is a change from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous, it is also a change from the indefinite to the definite. As well as an advance from simplicity to complexity, there is an advance from confusion to order—from undetermined arrangement to determined arrangement. In the process of development, no matter what sphere it is displayed in, there is not only a gradual multiplication of unlike parts; but there is a gradual increase in the distinctness with which these parts are marked off from each other. And so is that increase of heterogeneity which characterizes Evolution, distinguished from that increase of heterogeneity which does not. For proof of this, it needs only to reconsider the instances given above. The structural changes constituting a disease, have no such definiteness, either in locality, extent, or outline, as the structural changes constituting development. Though certain morbid growths arise much more commonly in some parts of the body than in others (as warts on the hands, cancer on the breasts, tubercle in the lungs), yet they are not confined to these parts; nor, when found on them, are they anything like so precise in their relative positions as are the normal parts around them. In size, again, they are extremely variable—they bear no such constant proportion to the body as organs do. Their forms, too, are far less specific than organic forms. And they are extremely irregular or confused in their internal structures. That is to say, they are in all respects comparatively indefinite. The like peculiarity may be traced in decomposition. That state of total indefiniteness to which a dead body is finally reduced, is a state towards which the putrefactive changes have tended from their commencement. Each step in the destruction of the organic compounds, is accompanied by a blurring of the minute structure—diminishes its distinctness. From the portions that have undergone most decomposition, there is a gradual transition to the less decomposed portions. And step by step the lines of organization, once so precise, disappear. Similarly with social changes of an abnormal kind. A political outbreak rising finally to a rebellion, tends from the very first to obliterate the specializations, governmental and industrial, which previously existed. The disaffection which originates such an outbreak, itself implies a loosening of those ties by which the citizens are bound up into distinct classes and sub-classes. Agitation, growing into revolutionary meetings, shows us a decided tendency towards the fusion of ranks that are usually separated. Acts of open insubordination exhibit a breaking through of those definite limits to individual conduct which were previously observed; and a disappearance of the lines previously existing between those in authority and those beneath them. At the same time, by the arrest of trade, artizans and others lose their occupations; and in so ceasing to be functionally distinguished, become fused into a mass from which the demarcations in great part vanish. And when at last there comes positive insurrection, all magisterial and official powers, all class distinctions, and all industrial differences, at once cease: organized society lapses into an unorganized aggregation of social units. How the like holds true of such social disasters as are entailed by famine, needs not be pointed out. On calling to mind that in cases of this kind the changes are from order towards disorder, it will at once be seen that like the foregoing they are changes from definite arrangements to indefinite arrangements.

Thus then is that increase of heterogeneity which constitutes Evolution, distinguished from that increase of heterogeneity which does not do so. Though in disease and death, individual or social, the earliest modifications may be construed as additions to the heterogeneity previously existing; yet they cannot be construed as additions to the definiteness previously existing. They begin from the very outset to destroy this definiteness; and so, gradually produce a heterogeneity that is indeterminate instead of determinate. Just in the same way that a city, already multiform in its variously arranged structures of various architecture, may be made more multiform by an earthquake, which leaves part of it standing and overthrows other parts in different ways and degrees, and yet is at the same time reduced from definite arrangement to indefinite arrangement; so may organized bodies be made for a time more multiform by changes which are nevertheless disorganizing changes. And in the one case as in the other, it is the absence of definiteness which distinguishes the multiformity of regression from the multiformity of progression.

If the advance from the indefinite to the definite is an essential characteristic of Evolution, we shall of course find it everywhere displayed; as in the last Chapter we found the advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. With a view of showing that it is so, let us now briefly reconsider the same several classes of facts.

§ 55. Beginning as before with a hypothetical illustration, we have to note that each further stage in the evolution of the Solar System, supposing it to have originated from diffused matter, was an advance towards more definite forms, and times, and forces. At first irregular in shape and with indistinct margins, the attenuated substance, as it concentrated and acquired a rotatory motion, must have assumed the shape of an oblate spheroid; which, with every increase of density, became more specific in general outline, and had its surface more sharply marked off from the surrounding void. At the same time, the constituent portions of nebulous matter, instead of independently moving towards their common centre of gravity from all points, and tending to revolve round it in various planes, as they would at first do, must have had these planes more and more merged into a single plane; and this plane must have gained greater precision as the concentration progressed. To which add that in the gradual establishment of a common and determinate angular velocity, instead of the various and conflicting angular velocities of different parts, we have a further change of like nature. According to the hypothesis, change from indistinct characteristics to distinct ones, was repeated in the evolution of each planet and satellite; and may in them be traced to a much greater extent. A gaseous spheroid is less definitely marked off from the space around it than a fluid spheroid, since it is subject to larger and more rapid undulations of surface, and to much greater distortions of general form; and similarly a fluid spheroid, covered as it must be with waves of various magnitudes, is less definite than a solid spheroid. Nor is it only in greater fixity of surface that a planet in its last stage, is distinguished from a planet in its earlier stages. Its general form, too, is more precise. The sphere, to which in the end it very closely approximates, is a perfectly specific figure; while the spheroid, under which figure it previously existed, being infinitely variable in oblateness, is an imperfectly specific figure. And further, a planet having an axis inclined to the plane of its orbit, must, while its form is very oblate, have its plane of rotation greatly disturbed by the attraction of external bodies; whereas its approach to a spherical form, involving a less extreme precessional motion, implies less marked variations in the direction of its axis. Nor is it only in respect of space-relations that the Solar System in general and in detail has become more precise. The like is true of time-relations. During the process of concentration the various portions of the nebulous mass must not only differ more or less from each other in their angular velocities, but each of them must gradually change the period in which it moves round the general axis. In every detached ring however, and in the resulting planet, this progressive alteration ceases: there results a determinate period of revolution. And similarly the time of axial rotation, which, during the formation of each planet, is continually diminishing, becomes at last practically fixed: as in the case of the Earth, whose day is not a second less than it was 2000 years ago. It is scarcely needful to point out that the force-relations have simultaneously become more and more settled. The exact calculations of physical astronomy, show us how definite these force-relations now are; while the great indefiniteness which once characterized them, is implied in the extreme difficulty, if not impossibility, of subjecting the nebular hypothesis to mathematical treatment.

From that originally molten state of the Earth inferable from established geological data—a state in harmony with the nebular hypothesis but inexplicable on any other—the transition to its existing state has been through stages in which the characters became more determinate. Besides being, as above pointed out, comparatively unstable in surface and contour, a fluid spheroid is less definite than a solid spheroid in having no fixed distribution of parts. Currents of molten matter, though kept to certain general circuits by the conditions of equilibrium, cannot in the absence of solid boundaries be precise or permanent in direction: all parts must be in motion with respect to other parts. But a solidification of the surface, even though but partial, is manifestly a step towards the establishment of definite relations of position. In a thin crust however, frequently ruptured as it must be by disturbing forces, and moved by every tidal undulation, such fixity of relative position can be but temporary. Only as the crust slowly increases in thickness, can there arise distinct and settled geographical relations. Observe too that when, on a crust that has cooled to the requisite degree, there begins to precipitate the water floating above as vapour, the water which is precipitated cannot maintain any definiteness either of state or place. Falling on a surface not thick enough to preserve anything beyond slight variations of level, it must form small shallow deposits over areas sufficiently cool to permit condensation; which areas must not only pass insensibly into others that are too hot for this, but must themselves from time to time be so raised in temperature as to drive off the water lying on them. With progressive refrigeration, however,—with an increasing thickness of crust, a consequent formation of larger elevations and depressions, and the condensation of more atmospheric water, there comes an arrangement of parts that is comparatively fixed in both time and space; and the definiteness of state and position increases, until there results such a distribution of continents and oceans as we now see—a distribution that is not only topographically precise, but also in its cliff-marked coast-lines presents a more definite division of land from water than could have existed during the period when islands of low elevation had shelving beaches up which the tide ebbed and flowed to great distances. Respecting the characteristics technically classed as geological, we may draw parallel inferences. While the Earth’s crust was thin, mountain-chains were impossibilities: there could not have been long and well-defined axes of elevation, with distinct water-sheds and areas of drainage. Moreover, from small islands admitting of but small rivers, and tidal streams both feeble and narrow, there would result no clearly-marked sedimentary strata. Confused and varying masses of detritus, such as those now found at the mouths of brooks, must have been the prevailing formations. And these could give place to distinct strata, only as there arose continents and oceans, with their great rivers, long coast-lines, and wide-spreading marine currents. How there must simultaneously have resulted more definite meteorological characters, need not be pointed out in detail. That differences of climates and seasons must have grown relatively decided as the heat of the Sun became distinguishable from the proper heat of the Earth; that the establishment through this cause of comparatively constant atmospheric currents, must have similarly produced more specific conditions in each locality; and that these effects must have been aided by increasing permanence in the distribution of land and sea and of ocean currents; are conclusions which are sufficiently obvious.

Let us turn now to the evidence furnished by organic bodies. In place of deductive illustrations like the foregoing, we shall here find numerous illustrations which, as being inductively established, are less open to criticism. The process of mammalian development, for example, will supply us with numerous proofs ready-described by embryologists. The first change which the ovum of a mammal undergoes, after continued segmentation has reduced its yelk to a mulberry-like mass, is the appearance of a greater definiteness in the peripheral cells of this mass: each of which acquires a distinct enveloping membrane. These peripheral cells, vaguely distinguished from the internal ones both by their greater completeness and by their minuter subdivision, coalesce to form the blastoderm or germinal membrane. One portion of the blastoderm presently becomes contrasted with the rest, through the accumulation of cells still more subdivided, which, together, form an opaque roundish spot. This area germinativa, as it is called, is not sharply delineated, but shades off gradually into the surrounding parts of the blastoderm; and the area pellucida, subsequently formed in the midst of this germinal area, is similarly without any precise margin. The “primitive trace,” which makes its appearance in the centre of the area pellucida, and is the rudiment of that vertebrate axis which is to be the fundamental characteristic of the mature animal, is shown by its name to be at first indefinite—a mere trace. Beginning as a shallow groove, this becomes slowly more pronounced: its sides grow higher, their summits overlap, and at last unite; and so the indefinite groove passes into a definite tube, forming the vertebral canal. In this vertebral canal the leading divisions of the brain are at first discernible only as slight bulgings; while the vertebrÆ commence as indistinct modifications of the tissue bounding the canal. Simultaneously, the outer portion of the blastoderm has been undergoing separation from the inner portion: there has been a division into the serous and mucous layers—a division at the outset indistinct, and traceable only about the germinal area, but which insensibly spreads throughout nearly the whole germinal membrane, and becomes definite. From the mucous layer, the development of the alimentary canal proceeds as that of the vertebral canal does from the serous layer. Originally a simple channel along the under surface of the embryonic mass, the intestine is rendered step by step more distinct by the bending down, on each side, of ridges which finally join to form a tube—the permanent absorbing surface is by degrees clearly cut off from that temporary absorbing surface of which it was at first a part like all the rest. And in an analogous manner the entire embryo, which at first lies outspread upon the surface of the yelk-sack, gradually rises up from it, and, by the infolding of its ventral surface, becomes a separate mass, connected with the yelk-sack only by a narrow duct. These changes through which the general structure of the embryo is marked out with slowly-increasing precision, are paralleled in the evolution of each organ. The heart is at first a mere aggregation of cells, of which the inner liquify to form the cavity, while the outer are transformed into the walls; and when thus sketched out, the heart is indefinite not only as being unlined by limiting membrane, but also as being but vaguely distinguishable from the great blood-vessels: of which it is little more than a dilatation. By and by the receiving portion of the cavity becomes distinct from the propelling portion. Afterwards there begins to be formed across the ventricle, a septum, which, however, is some time before it completely shuts off the two halves from each other; while the later-formed septum of the auricle remains incomplete during the whole of foetal life. Again, the liver commences as a multiplication of certain cells in the wall of the intestine. The thickening produced by this multiplication “increases so as to form a projection upon the exterior of the canal;” and at the same time that the organ grows and becomes distinct from the intestine, the channels which permeate it are transformed into ducts having clearly-marked walls. Similarly, by the increase of certain cells of the external coat of the alimentary canal at its upper portion, are produced buds from which the lungs are developed; and these, in their general outlines and detailed structure, acquire distinctness step by step. Changes of this order continue long after birth; and, in the human being, are some of them not completed till middle life. During youth, most of the articular surfaces of the bones remain rough and fissured—the calcareous deposit ending irregularly in the surrounding cartilage. But between puberty and the age of thirty, the articular surfaces are finished off by the addition of smooth, hard, sharply-cut “epiphyses.” Thus we may say that during Evolution, an increase of definiteness continues long after there ceases to be any appreciable increase of heterogeneity. And, indeed, there is reason to think that those structural modifications which take place after maturity, ending in old age and death, are modifications of this nature; since they result in a growing rigidity of structure, a consequent restriction of movement and of functional pliability, a gradual narrowing of the limits within which the vital processes go on, ending at length in an organic adjustment too precise—too narrow in its margin of possible variation to permit the requisite adaptation to external changes of condition.

To demonstrate that the Earth’s Flora and Fauna, regarded either as wholes or in their separate species, have progressed in definiteness, is of course no more possible than it was to demonstrate that they have progressed in heterogeneity: lack of facts being an obstacle to the one conclusion as to the other. If, however, we allow ourselves to reason from the hypothesis, now daily rendered more probable, that every species of organic form up to the most complex, has arisen out of the simplest through the accumulation of modifications upon modifications, just as every individual organic form arises; we shall see that in such case there must have been a progress from the indeterminate to the determinate, both in the particular forms and in the groups of forms. We may set out with the significant fact that many of the lowest living organisms (which are analogous in structure to the germs of all higher ones) are so indefinite in character that it is difficult, if not impossible, to decide whether they are plants or animals. Respecting sundry of them there are unsettled disputes between zoologists and botanists; and it has even been proposed to group them into a separate kingdom, forming a common basis to the animal and vegetal kingdoms. Note next that among the Protozoa, extreme indefiniteness of shape is very general. In the shell-less Rhizopods and their allies, not only is the form so irregular as to admit of no description, but it is neither alike in any two individuals nor in the same individual at successive moments. By the aggregation of such creatures, are produced, among other indefinite bodies, the sponges—bodies that are indefinite in size, in contour, in internal arrangement, and in the absence of an external limiting membrane. As further showing the relatively indeterminate character of the simplest organisms, it may be mentioned that their structures vary very greatly with surrounding conditions: so much so that, among the Protozoa and Protophyta, many forms which were once classed as distinct species, and even as distinct genera, are found to be merely varieties of one species. If now we call to mind how precise in their attributes are the highest organisms—how sharply cut their outlines, how invariable their proportions, and how comparatively constant their structures under changed conditions, we cannot deny that greater definiteness is one of their characteristics; and that if they have been evolved out of lower organisms, an increase of definiteness has been an accompaniment of their evolution. That in course of time, species have become more sharply marked off from other species, genera from genera, and orders from orders, is a conclusion not admitting of a more positive establishment than the foregoing; and must, indeed, stand or fall with it. If, however, species and genera and orders have resulted from the process of “natural selection,” then, as Mr. Darwin shows, there must have been a tendency to divergence, causing the contrasts between groups to become more and more pronounced. By the disappearance of intermediate forms, less fitted for special spheres of existence than the extreme forms they connected, the differences between the extreme forms must be rendered more decided; and so, from indistinct and unstable varieties, must slowly be produced distinct and stable species. Of which inference it may be remarked, not only that it follows from a process to which the organic creation is of necessity ever subject, but also that it is in harmony with what we know respecting races of men and races of domestic animals.

Evidence that in the course of psychial development, there is a change from the vague to the distinct, may be seen in every nursery. The confusion of the infant’s perceptions is shown by its inability to distinguish persons. The dimness of its ideas of direction and distance, may be inferred from the ill-guided movements of its hands, and from its endeavours to grasp objects far out of reach. Only by degrees does the sense of equilibrium, needful for safe standing and moving, gain the requisite precision. Through the insensible steps that end in comprehensible speech, we may trace an increase in the accuracy with which sounds are discriminated and in the nicety with which they are imitated. And similarly during education, the change is towards the establishment of internal relations more perfectly corresponding to external ones—to exactness in calculations, to a better representation of objects drawn, to a more correct spelling, to a completer conformity to the rules of speech, to clearer ideas respecting the affairs of life. How in the further progress to maturity the law still holds, needs not here be pointed out; more especially as it will presently be shown in treating of the evolution of intelligence during the advance of civilization. The only further fact calling for remark, is, that this increase of mental definiteness is, in some ways, manifested even during the advance from maturity to old age. The habits of life grow more and more fixed; the character becomes less capable of change; the quantity of knowledge previously acquired ceases to have its limits alterable by additions; and the opinions upon every point admit of no modification.

Still more manifestly do the successive phases through which societies pass, display the progress from indeterminate arrangement to determinate arrangement. A wandering tribe of savages, as being fixed neither in its locality nor in the relative positions of its parts, is far less definite than a nation, covering a territory clearly marked out, and formed of individuals grouped together in towns and villages. In such a tribe the social relations are similarly confused and unsettled. Political authority is neither well established nor precise. Distinctions of rank are neither clearly marked nor impassable. “Medicine-men” and “rain-makers” form a class by no means as distinct from the rest of the community as eventually becomes the priesthood they foreshadow. And save in the different occupations of men and women, there are no complete industrial divisions. Only in tribes of considerable size, which have enslaved other tribes, is the economical differentiation decided. Any one of these primitive societies however that developes, becomes step by step more specific. Increasing in size, consequently ceasing to be so nomadic, and restricted in its range by neighbouring tribes, it acquires, after prolonged border warfare, a more settled territorial boundary. The distinction between the royal race and the people, grows so extreme as to amount in the popular apprehension to a difference of nature. The warrior-class attains a perfect separation from classes devoted to the cultivation of the soil or other occupations regarded as servile. And there arises a priesthood that is defined in its rank, its functions, its privileges. This sharpness of definition, growing both greater and more variously exemplified as societies advance to maturity, is extremest in those that have reached their full development or are declining. Of ancient Egypt we read that its social divisions were strongly-marked and its customs rigid. Recent investigations make it more than ever clear, that among the Assyrians and surrounding peoples, not only were the laws unalterable, but even the minor habits, down to those of domestic routine, possessed a sacredness which insured their permanence. In India at the present day, the unchangeable distinctions of caste, not less than the constancy in modes of dress, industrial processes, and religious observances, show us how fixed are the arrangements where the antiquity is great. Nor does China with its long-settled political organization, its elaborate and precise conventions, and its unprogressive literature, fail to exemplify the same truth. The successive phases of our own and neighbouring societies, furnish facts somewhat different in kind but similar in meaning. After our leading class-divisions had become tolerably well-established, it was long before they acquired their full precision. Originally, monarchical authority was more baronial, and baronial authority more monarchical, than they afterwards became. Between modern priests and the priests of old times, who while officially teachers of religion were also warriors, judges, architects, there is a marked difference in definiteness of function. And among the people engaged in productive occupations, the like contrast would be found to hold: the industrial office has become more distinct from the military; and its various divisions from each other. A history of our constitution, reminding us how, after prolonged struggles, the powers of King, Lords, and Commons, have been gradually settled, would clearly exhibit analogous changes. Countless facts bearing the like construction would meet us, were we to trace the development of legislation: in the successive stages of which, we should find statutes made more precise in their provisions—more specific in their applications to particular cases. Even at the present time we see that each new law, beginning as a vague proposition, is, in the course of enactment, elaborated into specific clauses; and further that only after its interpretation has been established by judges’ decisions in courts of justice, does it reach its final definiteness. From the history of minor institutions like evidence may be gathered. Religious, charitable, literary, and all other societies, beginning with ends and methods roughly sketched out and easily modifiable, show us how, by the accumulation of rules and precedents, the purposes become more distinct and the modes of action more restricted; until at last death often results from a fixity which admits of no adaptation to new conditions. Should it be objected that among civilized nations there are examples of decreasing definiteness, (instance the breaking down of limits between ranks,) the reply is, that such apparent exceptions are the accompaniments of a social metamorphosis—a change from the military or predatory type of social structure, to the industrial or mercantile type, during which the old lines of organization are disappearing and the new ones becoming more marked.

That all organized results of social action, pass in the course of civilization through parallel phases, is demonstrable. Being, as they are, objective products of subjective processes, they must display corresponding changes; and that they do this, the cases of Language, of Science, of Art, clearly prove.

If we strike out from our sentences everything but nouns and verbs, we shall perceive how extremely vague is the expression of ideas in undeveloped tongues. When we note how each inflection of a verb or addition by which the case of a noun is marked, serves to limit the conditions of action or of existence, we see that these constituents of speech enable men more precisely to communicate their thoughts. That the application of an adjective to a noun or an adverb to a verb, narrows the class of things or changes indicated, implies that these additional words serve further to define the meaning. And similarly with other parts of speech. The like effect results from the multiplication of words of each order. When the names for objects, and acts, and qualities, are but few, the range of each is proportionately wide, and its meaning therefore unspecific. The similes and metaphors so abundantly used by aboriginal races, are simply vehicles for indirectly and imperfectly conveying ideas, which lack of words disables them from conveying directly and perfectly. In contrasting these figurative expressions, interpretable in various senses, with the expressions which we should use in place of them, the increase of exactness which wealth of language gives, is rendered very obvious. Or to take a case from ordinary life, if we compare the speech of the peasant, who, out of his limited vocabulary, can describe the contents of the bottle he carries, only as “doctor’s-stuff” which he has got for his “sick” wife, with the speech of the physician, who tells those educated like himself the particular composition of the medicine, and the particular disorder for which he has prescribed it; we have vividly brought home to us, the precision which language gains by the multiplication of terms. Again, in the course of its evolution, each tongue acquires a further accuracy through processes which fix the meaning of each word. Intellectual intercourse tends gradually to diminish laxity of expression. By and by dictionaries give definitions. And eventually, among the most cultivated, indefiniteness is not tolerated, either in the terms used or in their grammatical combinations. Once more, languages considered as wholes, become gradually more distinct from each other, and from their common parent: as witness in early times the divergence from the same root of two languages so unlike as Greek and Latin, and in later times the development of three Latin dialects into Italian, French, and Spanish.

In his “History of the Inductive Sciences,” Dr. Whewell says that the Greeks failed in physical philosophy because their “ideas were not distinct, and appropriate to the facts.” I do not quote this remark for its luminousness; since it would be equally proper to ascribe the indistinctness and inappropriateness of their ideas to the imperfection of their physical philosophy; but I quote it because it serves as good evidence of the indefiniteness of primitive science. The same work and its fellow on “The Philosophy of the Inductive Sciences,” supply other evidences equally good, because equally independent of any such hypothesis as is here to be established. Respecting mathematics we have the fact that geometrical theorems grew out of empirical methods; and that these theorems, at first isolated, did not acquire the clearness which complete demonstration gives, until they were arranged by Euclid into a series of dependent propositions. At a later period the same general truth was exemplified in the progress from the “method of exhaustions” and the “method of indivisibles” to the “method of limits;” which is the central idea of the infinitesimal calculus. In early mechanics, too, may be traced a dim perception that action and re-action are equal and opposite; though for ages after, this truth remained unformulated. And similarly, the property of inertia, though not distinctly comprehended until Kepler lived, was vaguely recognized long previously. “The conception of statical force,” “was never presented in a distinct form till the works of Archimedes appeared;” and “the conception of accelerating force was confused, in the mind of Kepler and his contemporaries, and did not become clear enough for purposes of sound scientific reasoning before the succeeding century.” To which specific assertions may be added the general remark, that “terms which originally, and before the laws of motion were fully known, were used in a very vague and fluctuating sense, were afterwards limited and rendered precise.” When we turn from abstract scientific conceptions to the concrete previsions of science, of which astronomy furnishes us with numerous examples, the like contrast is visible. The times at which celestial phenomena will occur, have been predicted with ever-increasing accuracy: errors once amounting to days, have been reduced down to seconds. The correspondence between the real and supposed forms of orbits, has been growing gradually more precise. Originally thought circular, then epicyclical, then elliptical, orbits are now ascertained to be curves which always deviate more or less from perfect ellipses, and which are ever undergoing change. But the general advance of Science in definiteness, is best shown by the contrast between its qualitative stage, and its quantitative stage. At first, the facts ascertained were, that between such and such phenomena some connexion existed—that the appearances a and b always occurred together or in succession; but it was neither known what was the nature of the relation between a and b, nor how much of a accompanied so much of b. The development of Science has in part been the reduction of these vague connexions to distinct ones. Most relations have been determined as belonging to the classes mechanical, chemical, thermal, electric, magnetic, &c.; and we have learnt to infer the amounts of the antecedents and consequents from each other with an exactness that becomes ever greater. Were there space to state them, illustrations of this truth might be cited from all departments of physics; but it must suffice here to instance the general progress of chemistry. Besides the conspicuous fact that we have positively ascertained the constituent elements of an immense number of compounds which our ancestors could not analyze, and of a far greater number which they never even saw, there is the still more conspicuous fact that the combining equivalents of these elements are accurately calculated. The beginnings of a like advance from qualitative to quantitative prevision, may be traced even in some of the higher sciences. Physiology shows it in the weighing and measuring of organic products, and of the materials consumed. By Pathology it is displayed in the use of the statistical method of determining the sources of diseases, and the effects of treatment. In Zoology and Botany, the numerical comparisons of Floras and Faunas, leading to specific conclusions respecting their sources and distributions, illustrate it. And in Sociology, questionable as are the conclusions usually drawn from the classified sum-totals of the census, from Board-of-Trade tables, and from criminal returns, it must be admitted that these imply a progress towards more accurate conceptions of social phenomena. That an essential characteristic of advancing Science is increase in definiteness, appears indeed almost a truism, when we remember that Science may be described as definite knowledge, in contradistinction to that indefinite knowledge possessed by the uncultured. And if, as we cannot question, Science has, in the slow course of ages, been evolved out of this indefinite knowledge of the uncultured; then, the gradual acquirement of that great definiteness which now distinguishes it, must have been a leading trait in its evolution.

The Arts, industrial and Æsthetic, furnish illustrations perhaps still more striking. Flint implements of the kind recently found in certain of the later geologic deposits—implements so rude that some have held them to be of natural rather than of artificial origin—show the extreme want of precision in men’s first handyworks. Though a great advance on these is seen in the tools and weapons of existing savage tribes, yet an inexactness in forms and fittings, more than anything else distinguishes such tools and weapons from those of civilized races. In a less degree, the productions of semi-barbarous nations are characterized by like defects. A Chinese junk with all its contained furniture and appliances, nowhere presents a perfectly straight line, a uniform curve, or a true surface. Nor do the utensils and machines of our ancestors fail to exhibit a similar inferiority to our own. An antique chair, an old fireplace, a lock of the last century, or almost any article of household use that has been preserved for a few generations, will prove by contrast how greatly the industrial products of our time excel those of the past in their accuracy. Since planing machines have been invented, it has become possible to produce absolutely straight lines, and surfaces so truly level as to be air-tight when applied to each other. While in the dividing-engine of Troughton, in the micrometer of Whitworth, and in microscopes that show fifty thousand divisions to the inch, we have an exactness as far exceeding that reached in the works of our great-grandfathers, as theirs exceeded that of the aboriginal celt-makers. In the Fine Arts there has been a parallel process. From the rudely carved and painted idols of savages, through the early sculptures characterized by limbs having no muscular detail, wooden-looking drapery, and faces devoid of individuality, up to the later statues of the Greeks or some of those now produced, the increased accuracy of representation is conspicuous. Compare the mural paintings of the Egyptians with the paintings of medieval Europe, or these with modern paintings, and the more precise rendering of the appearances of objects is manifest. So too is it with the delineations of fiction and the drama. In the marvellous tales current among Eastern nations, in the romantic legends of feudal Europe, as well as in the mystery-plays and those immediately succeeding them, we see great want of correspondence to the realities of life; not only in the predominance of supernatural events and extremely improbable coincidences, but also in the vaguely-indicated personages, who are nothing more than embodiments of virtue and vice in general, or at best of particular virtues and vices. Through transitions that need not be specified, there has been a progressive diminution, in both fiction and the drama, of whatever is unnatural—whatever does not answer to real life. And now, novels and plays are applauded in proportion to the fidelity with which they exhibit individual characters with their motives and consequent actions; improbabilities, like the impossibilities which preceded them, are disallowed; and there is even an incipient abandonment of those elaborate plots which the realities of life rarely if ever furnish.

Were it needful, it would be easy to accumulate evidences of various other kinds. The progress from myths and legends, extreme in their misrepresentations, to a history that has slowly become, and is still becoming, more accurate; the establishment of settled systematic methods of doing things, instead of the indeterminate ways at first pursued; and the great increase in the number of points on which conflicting opinion has settled down into exact knowledge; might severally be used further to exemplify the general truth enunciated. The basis of induction is, however, already sufficiently wide. Proof that all Evolution is from the indefinite to the definite, we find to be not less abundant than proof that all Evolution is from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. The one kind of change is co-extensive with the other—is equally with it exhibited throughout Nature.

§ 56. To form a complete conception of Evolution, we have to contemplate it under yet another aspect. This advance from the indefinite to the definite, is obviously not primary but secondary—is an incidental result attendant on the finishing of certain changes. The transformation of a whole that was originally uniform, into a combination of multiform parts, implies a progressive separation. While this is going on there must be indistinctness. Only as each separated division draws into its general mass those diffused peripheral portions which are at first imperfectly disunited from the peripheral portions of neighbouring divisions, can it acquire anything like a precise outline. And it cannot become perfectly definite until its units are aggregated into a compact whole. That is to say, the acquirement of definiteness is simply a concomitant of complete union of the elements constituting each component division. Thus, Evolution is characterized not only by a continuous multiplication of parts, but also by a growing oneness in each part. And while an advance in heterogeneity results from progressive differentiation, an advance in definiteness results from progressive integration. The two changes are simultaneous; or are rather opposite aspects of the same change. This change, however, cannot be rightly comprehended without looking at both its sides. Let us then once more consider Evolution under its several manifestations; for the purpose of noting how it is throughout a process of integration.

The illustrations furnished by the Solar System, supposing it to have had a nebular origin, are so obvious as scarcely to need indicating. That as a whole, it underwent a gradual concentration while assuming its present distribution of parts; and that there subsequently took place a like concentration of the matter forming each planet and satellite, is the leading feature of the hypothesis. The process of integration is here seen in its simplest and most decided form.

Geologic evolution, if we trace it up from that molten state of the Earth’s substance which we are obliged to postulate, supplies us with more varied facts of like meaning. The advance from a thin crust, at first everywhere fissured and moveable, to a crust so solid and thick as to be but now and then very partially dislocated by disturbing forces, exemplifies the unifying process; as does likewise the advance from a surface covered with small patches of land and water, to one divided into continents and oceans—an advance also resulting from the Earth’s gradual solidification. Moreover, the collection of detritus into strata of great extent, and the union of such strata into extensive “systems,” becomes possible only as surfaces of land and water become wide, and subsidences great, in both area and depth; whence it follows that integrations of this order must have grown more pronounced as the Earth’s crust thickened. Different and simpler instances of the process through which mixed materials are separated, and the kindred units aggregated into masses, are exhibited in the detailed structure of the Earth. The phenomena of crystallization may be cited en masse, as showing how the unifications of similar elements take place wherever the conditions permit. Not only do we see this where there is little or no hindrance to the approach of the particles, as in the cases of crystals formed from solutions, or by sublimation; but it is also seen where there are great obstacles to their approach. The flints and the nodules of iron pyrites that are found in chalk, as well as the silicious concretions which occasionally occur in limestone, can be interpreted only as aggregations of atoms of silex or sulphuret of iron, originally diffused almost uniformly through the deposit, but gradually collected round certain centres, notwithstanding the solid or semi-solid state of the surrounding matter. Iron-stone as it ordinarily occurs, presents a similar phenomenon to be similarly explained; and what is called bog iron-ore supplies the conditions and the result in still more obvious correlation.

During the evolution of an organism, there occurs, as every physiologist knows, not only separation of parts, but coalescence of parts. In the mammalian embryo, the heart, at first a long pulsating blood-vessel, by and by twists upon itself and becomes integrated. The layer of bile-cells constituting the rudimentary liver, do not simply become different from the wall of the intestine in which they at first lie; but they simultaneously diverge from it and consolidate into an organ. The anterior segments of the cerebro-spinal axis, which are at first continuous with the rest, and distinguished only by their larger size, undergo a gradual union; and at the same time the resulting head consolidates into a mass clearly marked off from the rest of the vertebral column. The like process, variously exemplified in other organs, is meanwhile exhibited by the body as a whole; which becomes integrated, somewhat in the same way that the contents of an outspread handkerchief become integrated when its edges are drawn in and fastened to make a bundle. Analogous changes go on long after birth, and continue even up to old age. In the human being that gradual solidification of the bony framework, which, during childhood, is seen in the coalescence of portions of the same bone ossified from different centres, is afterwards seen in the coalescence of bones that were originally distinct. The appendages of the vertebrÆ unite with the vertebral centres to which they belong—a change not completed until towards thirty. At the same time the epiphyses, formed separately from the main bodies of their respective bones, have their cartilaginous connexions turned into osseous ones—are fused to the masses beneath them. The component vertebrÆ of the sacrum, which remain separate till about the sixteenth year, then begin to unite; and in ten or a dozen years more their union is complete. Still later occurs the coalescence of the coccygeal vertebrÆ; and there are some other bony unions which are not completed until advanced age. To which add that the increase of density and toughness, going on throughout the tissues in general during life, may be regarded as the formation of a more highly integrated substance. The species of change thus illustrated under its several aspects in the unfolding of the human body, may be traced in all animals. That mode of it which consists in the union of homogeneous parts originally separate, has been described by Milne-Edwards and others, as exhibited in various of the invertebrata; though it does not seem to have been included by them as an essential peculiarity in the process of organic development. We shall, however, be led strongly to suspect that progressive integration should form part of the definition of this process, when we find it displayed not only in tracing up the stages passed through by every embryo, but also in ascending from the lower living creatures to the higher. And here, as in the evolution of individual organisms, it goes on both longitudinally and transversely: under which different forms we may indeed most conveniently consider it. Of longitudinal integration, the sub-kingdom Annulosa supplies abundant examples. Its lower members, such as worms and myriapods, are mostly characterized by the great number of segments composing them: reaching in some cases to several hundreds. But in the higher divisions—crustaceans, insects, and spiders—we find this number reduced down to twenty-two, thirteen, or even fewer; while, accompanying the reduction, there is a shortening or integration of the whole body, reaching its extreme in the crab and the spider. The significance of these contrasts, as bearing upon the general doctrine of Evolution, will be seen when it is pointed out that they are parallel to those which arise during the development of individual Annulosa. In the lobster, the head and thorax form one compact box, made by the union of a number of segments which in the embryo were separable. Similarly, the butterfly shows us segments so much more closely united than they were in the caterpillar, as to be, some of them, no longer distinguishable from each other. The Vertebrata again, throughout their successively higher classes, furnish like instances of longitudinal union. In most fishes, and in reptiles that have no limbs, the only segments of the spinal column that coalesce, are those forming the skull. In most mammals and in birds, a variable number of vertebrÆ become fused together to form the sacrum; and in the higher quadrumana and man, the caudal vertebrÆ also lose their separate individualities in a single os coccygis. That which we may distinguish as transverse integration, is well illustrated among the Annulosa in the development of the nervous system. Leaving out those most degraded forms which do not present distinct ganglia, it is to be observed that the lower annulose animals, in common with the larvÆ of the higher, are severally characterized by a double chain of ganglia running from end to end of the body; while in the more perfectly formed annulose animals, this double chain becomes more or less completely united into a single chain. Mr. Newport has described the course of this concentration as exhibited in insects; and by Rathke it has been traced in crustaceans. During the early stages of the Astacus fluviatilis, or common cray-fish, there is a pair of separate ganglia to each ring. Of the fourteen pairs belonging to the head and thorax, the three pairs in advance of the mouth consolidate into one mass to form the brain, or cephalic ganglion. Meanwhile, out of the remainder, the first six pairs severally unite in the median line, while the rest remain more or less separate. Of these six double ganglia thus formed, the anterior four coalesce into one mass; the remaining two coalesce into another mass; and then these two masses coalesce into one. Here we see longitudinal and transverse integration going on simultaneously; and in the highest crustaceans they are both carried still further. The Vertebrata clearly exhibit transverse integration in the development of the generative system. The lowest of the mammalia—the Monotremata—in common with birds, to which they are in many respects allied, have oviducts which towards their lower extremities are dilated into cavities, severally performing in an imperfect way the function of a uterus. “In the Marsupialia there is a closer approximation of the two lateral sets of organs on the median line; for the oviducts converge towards one another and meet (without coalescing) on the median line; so that their uterine dilatations are in contact with each other, forming a true ‘double uterus....’ As we ascend the series of ‘placental’ mammals, we find the lateral coalescence becoming more and more complete.... In many of the Rodentia the uterus still remains completely divided into two lateral halves; whilst in others these coalesce at their lower portions, forming a rudiment of the true ‘body’ of the uterus in the human subject. This part increases at the expense of the lateral ‘cornua’ in the higher herbivora and carnivora; but even in the lower quadrumana the uterus is somewhat cleft at its summit.”^[10]

In the social organism integrative changes are not less clearly and abundantly exemplified. Uncivilized societies display them when wandering families, such as the bushmen show us, unite into tribes of considerable numbers. Among these we see a further progress of like nature everywhere manifested in the subjugation of weaker tribes by stronger ones; and in the subordination of their respective chiefs to the conquering chief. The partial combinations thus resulting, which among aboriginal races are being continually formed and continually broken up, become, among the superior races, both more complete and more permanent. If we trace the metamorphoses through which our own society, or any adjacent one, has passed, we see this unification from time to time repeated on a larger scale and with increasing stability. The aggregation of juniors and the children of juniors under elders and the children of elders; the consequent establishment of groups of vassals bound to their respective nobles; the subordination afterwards established of groups of inferior nobles to dukes or earls; and the still later establishment of the kingly power over dukes or earls; are so many instances of increasing consolidation. This process through which petty tenures are combined into feuds, feuds into provinces, provinces into kingdoms, and finally contiguous kingdoms into a single one, slowly completes itself by destroying the original lines of demarcation. And it may be further remarked of the European nations as a whole, that in the tendency to form alliances more or less lasting, in the restraining influences exercised by the several governments over each other, in the system that is gradually establishing itself of settling international disputes by congresses, as well as in the breaking down of commercial barriers and the increasing facilities of communication, we may trace the incipient stage of a European confederation—a still larger integration than any now established. But it is not only in these external unions of groups with groups, and of the compound groups with each other, that the general law is exemplified. It is exemplified also in unions that take place internally, as the groups become more highly organized. These, of which the most conspicuous are commercial in their origin and function, are well illustrated in our own society. We have integrations consequent on the simple growth of adjacent parts performing like functions: as, for instance, the junction of Manchester with its calico-weaving suburbs. We have other integrations that arise when, out of several places producing a particular commodity, one monopolizes more and more of the business, and leaves the rest to dwindle: as witness the growth of the Yorkshire cloth-districts at the expense of those in the west of England; or the absorption by Staffordshire of the pottery-manufacture, and the consequent decay of the establishments that once flourished at Worcester, Derby, and elsewhere. And we have those yet other integrations produced by the actual approximation of the similarly-occupied parts: whence result such facts as the concentration of publishers in Paternoster Row; of lawyers in the Temple and neighbourhood; of corn-merchants about Mark Lane; of civil engineers in Great George Street; of bankers in the centre of the city. Industrial combinations that consist, not in the approximation or fusion of parts, but in the establishment of common centres of connexion, are exhibited in the Bank clearing-house and the Railway clearing-house. While of yet another genus are those unions which bring into relation the more or less dispersed citizens who are occupied in like ways: as traders are brought by the Exchange and the Stock-Exchange; and as are professional men by institutes, like those of Civil Engineers, Architects, &c.

Here, as before, it is manifest that a law of Evolution which holds of organisms, must hold too of all objective results of their activity; and that hence Language, and Science, and Art, must not only in the course of their development display increasing heterogeneity and definiteness, but also increasing integration. We shall find this conclusion to be in harmony with the facts.

Among uncivilized races, the many-syllabled terms used for not uncommon objects, as well as the descriptive character of proper names, show us that the words used for the less familiar things are formed by compounding the words used for the more familiar things. This process of composition is sometimes found in its incipient stage—a stage in which the component words are temporarily united to signify some unnamed object, and do not (from lack of frequent use) permanently cohere. But in the majority of inferior languages, the process of “agglutination,” as it is called, has gone far enough to produce considerable stability in the compound words: there is a manifest integration. How small is the degree of this integration, however, when compared with that reached in well-developed languages is shown both by the great length of the compound words used for things and acts of constant occurrence, and by the separableness of their elements. Certain North-American tongues very well illustrate this. In a Ricaree vocabulary extending to fifty names of common objects, which in English are nearly all expressed by single syllables, there is not one monosyllabic word; and in the nearly-allied vocabulary of the Pawnees, the names for these same common objects are monosyllabic in but two instances. Things so familiar to these hunting tribes as dog and bow, are, in the Pawnee language, ashakish and teeragish; the hand and the eyes are respectively iksheeree and keereekoo; for day the term is shakoorooeeshairet, and for devil it is tsaheekshkakooraiwah; while the numerals are composed of from two syllables up to five, and in Ricaree up to seven. That the great length of these familiar words implies a low degree of development, and that in the formation of higher languages out of lower there is a progressive integration, which reduces the polysyllables to dissyllables and monosyllables, is an inference fully confirmed by the history of our own language. Anglo-Saxon steorra has been in course of time consolidated into English star, mona into moon, and nama into name. The transition through the intermediate semi-Saxon is clearly traceable. Sunu became in semi-Saxon sune, and in English son: the final e of sune being an evanescent form of the original u. The change from the Anglo-Saxon plural, formed by the distinct syllable as, to our plural formed by the appended consonant s, shows us the same thing: smithas in becoming smiths, and endas in becoming ends, illustrate progressive coalescence. So too does the disappearance of the terminal an in the infinitive mood of verbs; as shown in the transition from the Anglo-Saxon cuman to the semi-Saxon cumme, and to the English come. Moreover the process has been slowly going on, even since what we distinguish as English was formed. In Elizabeth’s time, verbs were still very frequently pluralized by the addition of en—we tell was we tellen; and in some rural districts this form of speech may even now be heard. In like manner the terminal ed of the past tense, has united with the word it modifies. Burn-ed has in pronunciation become burnt; and even in writing the terminal t has in some cases taken the place of the ed. Only where antique forms in general are adhered to, as in the church-service, is the distinctness of this inflection still maintained. Further, we see that the compound vowels have been in many cases fused into single vowels. That in bread the e and a were originally both sounded, is proved by the fact that they are still so sounded in parts where old habits linger. We, however, have contracted the pronunciation into bred; and we have made like changes in many other common words. Lastly, let it be noted that where the frequency of repetition is greatest, the process is carried furthest; as instance the contraction of lord (originally laford) into lud in the mouths of Barristers; and still better the coalescence of God be with you into Good bye. Besides exhibiting in this way the integrative process, Language equally exhibits it throughout all grammatical development. The lowest kinds of human speech, having merely nouns and verbs without inflections to them, manifestly permit no such close union of the elements of a proposition as results when the relations are either marked by inflections or by words specially used for purposes of connexion. Such speech is necessarily what we significantly call “incoherent.” To a considerable extent, incoherence is seen in the Chinese language. “If, instead of saying I go to London, figs come from Turkey, the sun shines through the air, we said, I go end London, figs come origin Turkey, the sun shines passage air, we should discourse of the manner of the Chinese.” From this “aptotic” form, there is clear evidence of a transition by coalescence to a form in which the connexions of words are expressed by the addition to them of certain inflectional words. “In Languages like the Chinese,” remarks Dr Latham, “the separate words most in use to express relation may become adjuncts or annexes.” To this he adds the fact that “the numerous inflexional languages fall into two classes. In one, the inflexions have no appearance of having been separate words. In the other, their origin as separate words is demonstrable.” From which the inference drawn is, that the “aptotic” languages, by the more and more constant use of adjuncts, gave rise to the “agglutinate” languages, or those in which the original separateness of the inflexional parts can be traced; and that out of these, by further use, arose the “amalgamate” languages, or these in which the original separateness of the inflexional parts can no longer be traced. Strongly corroborative of this inference is the unquestionable fact, that by such a process there have grown out of the amalgamate languages, the “anaptotic” languages; of which our own is the most perfect example—languages in which, by further consolidation, inflexions have almost disappeared, while, to express the verbal relations, certain new kinds of words have been developed. When we see the Anglo-Saxon inflexions gradually lost by contraction during the development of English, and, though to a less degree, the Latin inflexions dwindling away during the development of French, we cannot deny that grammatical structure is modified by integration; and seeing how clearly the earlier stages of grammatical structure are explained by it, we can scarcely doubt that it has been going on from the first. And now mark that in proportion to the degree of the integration above described, is the extent to which integration of another order is shown. Aptotic languages are, as already pointed out, necessarily incoherent—the elements of a proposition cannot be tied into a definite and complete whole. But as fast as coalescence produces inflected words, it becomes possible to unite them into sentences of which the parts are so mutually dependent that no considerable change can be made without destroying the meaning. Yet a further stage in this process may be noted. After the development of those grammatical forms which make definite statements possible, we do not at first find them used to express anything beyond statements of a simple kind. A single subject with a single predicate, accompanied by but few qualifying terms, are usually all. If we compare, for instance, the Hebrew scriptures with writings of modern times, a marked difference of aggregation among the groups of words, is visible. In the number of subordinate propositions which accompany the principal one; in the various complements to subjects and predicates; and in the numerous qualifying clauses—all of them united into one complex whole—many sentences in modern composition exhibit a degree of integration not to be found in ancient ones.

The history of Science presents facts of the same meaning at every step. Indeed the integration of groups of like entities and like relations, may be said to constitute the most conspicuous part of scientific progress. A glance at the classificatory sciences, shows us not only that the confused aggregations which the vulgar make of natural objects, are differentiated into groups that are respectively more homogeneous, but also that these groups are gradually rendered complete and compact. While, instead of considering all marine creatures as fish, shell-fish, and jelly-fish, Zoology establishes divisions and sub-divisions under the heads Vertebrata, Annulosa, Mollusca, &c.—while in place of the wide and vague assemblage popularly described as “creeping things,” it makes the specific classes Annelida, Myriopoda, Insecta, Arachnida; it at the same time gives to these an increasing consolidation. The several orders and genera of which each consists, are arranged according to their affinities and bound together under common definitions; at the same time that, by extended observation and rigorous criticism, the previously unknown and undetermined forms are integrated with their respective congeners. Nor is the same process less clearly manifested in those sciences which have for their subject-matter, not classified objects, but classified relations. Under one of its chief aspects, the advance of Science is the advance of generalization; and generalization is the uniting into groups all like co-existencies and sequences among phenomena. Not only, however, does the colligation of a number of concrete relations into a generalization of the lowest order, exemplify the principle enunciated; but it is again and again exemplified in the colligation of these lowest generalizations into higher ones, and these into still higher ones. Year by year are established certain connexions among orders of phenomena that seem wholly unallied; and these connexions, multiplying and strengthening, gradually bring the seemingly unallied orders under a common bond. When, for example, Humboldt quotes the saying of the Swiss—“it is going to rain because we hear the murmur of the torrents nearer,”—when he remarks the relation between this and an observation of his own, that the cataracts of the Orinoco are heard at a greater distance by night than by day—when he notes the essential parallelism existing between these facts and the fact that the unusual visibility of remote objects is also an indication of coming rain—and when he points out that the common cause of these variations is the smaller hindrance offered to the passage of both light and sound, by media which are comparatively homogeneous, either in temperature or hygrometric state; he helps in bringing under one generalization the phenomena of light and those of sound. Experiment having shown that these conform to like laws of reflection and refraction, the conclusion that they are both produced by undulations gains probability: there is an incipient integration of two great orders of phenomena, between which no connexion was suspected in times past. A still more decided integration has been of late taking place between the once independent sub-sciences of Electricity, Magnetism, and Light. And indeed it must be obvious to those who are familiar with the present state of Science, that there will eventually take place a far wider integration, by which all orders of phenomena will be combined as differently conditioned forms of one ultimate fact.

Nor do the industrial and Æsthetic Arts fail to supply us with equally conclusive evidence. The progress from rude, small, and simple tools, to perfect, complex, and large machines, illustrates not only a progress in heterogeneity and in definiteness, but also in integration. Among what are classed as the mechanical powers, the advance from the lever to the wheel-and-axle is an advance from a simple agent to an agent made up of several simple ones combined together. On comparing the wheel-and-axle, or any of the machines used in early times with those used now, we find an essential difference to be, that in each of our machines several of the primitive machines are united into one. A modern apparatus for spinning or weaving, for making stockings or lace, contains not simply a lever, an inclined plane, a screw, a wheel-and-axle, united together; but several of each integrated into one complex whole. Again, in early ages, when horse-power and man-power were alone employed, the motive agent was not bound up with the tool moved; but the two have now become in many cases fused together: the fire-box and boiler of a locomotive are combined with the machinery which the steam works. Nor is this the most extreme case. A still more extensive integration is exhibited in every large factory. Here we find a large number of complicated machines, all connected by driving shafts with the same steam-engine—all united with it into one vast apparatus. Contrast the mural decorations of the Egyptians and Assyrians with modern historical paintings, and there becomes manifest a great advance in unity of composition—in the subordination of the parts to the whole. One of these ancient frescoes is in truth made up of a number of pictures that have little mutual dependence. The several figures of which each group consists, show very imperfectly by their attitudes, and not at all by their expressions, the relations in which they stand to each other; the respective groups might be separated with but little loss of meaning; and the centre of chief interest, which should link all parts together, is often inconspicuous. The same trait may be noted in the tapestries of medieval days. Representing perhaps a hunting scene, one of these exhibits men, horses, dogs, beasts, birds, trees, and flowers, miscellaneously dispersed: the living objects being variously occupied, and mostly with no apparent consciousness of each other’s proximity. But in the paintings since produced, faulty as many of them are in this respect, there is always a more or less manifest co-ordination of parts—an arrangement of attitudes, expressions, lights, and colours, such as to combine the picture into an organic whole; and the success with which unity of effect is educed from variety of components, is a chief test of merit. In music, progressive integration is displayed in still more numerous ways. The simple cadence embracing but a few notes, which in the chants of savages is monotonously repeated, becomes among civilized races, a long series of different musical phrases combined into one whole; and so complete is the integration, that the melody cannot be broken off in the middle, nor shorn of its final note, without giving us a painful sense of incompleteness. When to the air, a bass, a tenor, and an alto are added; and when to the harmony of different voice-parts there is added an accompaniment; we see exemplified integrations of another order, which grow gradually more elaborate. And the process is carried a stage higher when these complex solos, concerted pieces, choruses, and orchestral effects, are combined into the vast ensemble of a musical drama; of which, be it remembered, the artistic perfection largely consists in the subordination of the particular effects to the total effect. Once more the Arts of literary delineation, narrative and dramatic, furnish us with parallel illustrations. The tales of primitive times, like those with which the story-tellers of the East still daily amuse their listeners, are made up of successive occurrences that are not only in themselves unnatural, but have no natural connexion: they are but so many separate adventures put together without necessary sequence. But in a good modern work of imagination, the events are the proper products of the characters working under given conditions; and cannot at will be changed in their order or kind, without injuring or destroying the general effect. And further, the characters themselves, which in early fictions play their respective parts without showing us how their minds are modified by each other or by the events, are now presented to us as held together by complex moral relations, and as acting and re-acting upon each other’s natures.

Evolution, then, is in all cases a change from a more diffused or incoherent form, to a more consolidated or coherent form. This proves to be a characteristic displayed equally in those earliest changes which the Universe as a whole is supposed to have undergone, and in those latest changes which we trace in society and the products of social life. Nor is it only that in the development of a planet, of an organism, of a society, of a science, of an art, the process of integration is seen in a more complete aggregation of each whole and of its constituent parts; but it is also shown in an increasing mutual dependence of the parts. Dimly foreshadowed as this mutual dependence is among inorganic phenomena, both celestial and terrestrial, it becomes distinct among organic phenomena. From the lowest living forms upwards, the degree of development is marked by the degree in which the several parts constitute a mutually-dependent whole. The advance from those creatures which live on in each part when cut in pieces, up to those creatures which cannot lose any considerable part without death, nor any inconsiderable part without great constitutional disturbance, is clearly an advance to creatures which are not only more integrated in respect of their solidification, but are also more integrated as consisting of organs that live for and by each other. The like contrast between undeveloped and developed societies, need not be shown in detail: the ever-increasing co-ordination of parts, is conspicuous to all. And it must suffice just to indicate that the same thing holds true of social products: as, for instance, of Science; which has become highly integrated not only in the sense that each division is made up of mutually-dependent propositions, but also in the sense that the several divisions are mutually-dependent—cannot carry on their respective investigations without aid from each other.

It seems proper to remark that the generalization here variously illustrated, is akin to one enunciated by Schelling, that Life is the tendency to individuation. Struck by the fact that an aggregative process is traceable throughout nature, from the growth of a crystal up to the development of a man; and by the fact that the wholes resulting from this process, completer in organic than in inorganic bodies, are completest where the vital manifestations are the highest; Schelling concluded that this characteristic was the essential one. According to him, the formation of individual bodies is not incident to Life, but is that in which Life fundamentally consists. This position is, for several reasons, untenable. In the first place, it requires the conception of Life to be extended so as to embrace inorganic phenomena; since in crystallization, and even in the formation of amorphous masses of matter, this tendency to individuation is displayed. Schelling, fully perceiving this, did indeed accept the implication; and held that inorganic bodies had life lower only in degree than that of organic bodies—their degree of life being measured by their degree of individuation. This bold assumption, which Schelling evidently made to save his definition, is inadmissible. Rational philosophy cannot ignore those broad distinctions which the general sense of mankind has established. If it transcends them, it must at the same time show what is their origin; how far only they are valid; and why they disappear from a higher point of view. Note next that the more complete individuality which Schelling pointed out as characterizing bodies having the greatest amount of life, is only one of their structural traits. The greater degree of heterogeneity which they exhibit, is, as we have seen, a much more conspicuous peculiarity; and though it might possibly be contended that greater heterogeneity is remotely implied by greater individuality, it must be admitted that in defining Life as the tendency to individuation, no hint is given that the bodies which live most are the most heterogeneous bodies. Moreover it is to be remarked that this definition of Schelling, refers much more to the structures of living bodies than to the processes which constitute Life. Not Life, but the invariable accompaniment of Life, is that which his formula alone expresses. The formation of a completer organic whole, a more fully individuated body, is truly a necessary concomitant of a higher life; and the development of a higher life must therefore be accompanied by a tendency to greater individuation. But to represent this tendency as Life itself, is to mistake an incidental result for an original cause. Life, properly so called, consists of multiform changes united together in various ways; and is not expressed either by an anatomical description of the organism which manifests it, or by a history of the modifications through which such organism has reached its present structure. Yet it is only in such description and such history that the tendency to individuation is seen. Lastly, this definition which Schelling gave of Life is untenable, not only because it refers rather to the organism than to the actions going on in it; but also because it wholly ignores that connexion between the organism and the external world, on which Life depends. All organic processes, physical and psychial, having for their object the maintenance of certain relations with environing agencies and objects; it is impossible that there should be a true definition of Life, in which the environment is not named. Nevertheless, Schelling’s conception was not a baseless one. Though not a truth, it was yet the adumbration of a truth. In defining Life as the tendency to individuation, he had in view that formation of a more compact, complete, and mutually-dependent whole, which, as we have seen, is one characteristic of Evolution in general. His error was, firstly, in regarding it as a characteristic of Life, instead of a characteristic of living bodies, displayed, though in a less degree, by other bodies; and, secondly, in regarding it as the sole characteristic of such bodies. It remains only to add, that for expressing this aspect of the process of Evolution, the word integration is for several reasons preferable to the word individuation. Integration is the true antithesis of differentiation; it has not that tacit reference to living bodies which the word individuation cannot be wholly freed from; it expresses the aggregative tendency not only as displayed in the formation of more complete wholes, but also as displayed in the consolidation of the several parts of which such wholes are made up; and it has not the remotest teleological implication. In short, it simply formulates in the most abstract manner, a wide induction untainted by any hypothesis.

§ 57. Thus we find that to complete the definition arrived at in the last chapter, much has to be added. What was there alleged is true; but it is not the whole truth. Evolution is unquestionably a change from a homogeneous state to a heterogeneous state; but, as we have seen, there are some advances in heterogeneity which cannot be included in the idea of Evolution. This undue width of the definition, implies the omission of some further peculiarity by which Evolution is distinguished; and this peculiarity we find to be that the more highly developed things become, the more definite they become. Advance from the indefinite to the definite, is as constantly and variously displayed as advance from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous. And we are thus obliged to regard it as an essential characteristic of Evolution. Further analysis, however, shows us that this increase of definiteness is not an independent process; but is rather the necessary concomitant of another process. A very little consideration of the facts proves that a change from the indefinite to the definite, can arise only through a completer consolidation of the respective parts, and of the whole which they constitute. And so we find that while Evolution is a transformation of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous, and of the indefinite into the definite, it is also a transformation of the incoherent into the coherent. Along with the differentiation shown in increasing contrasts of parts with each other, there goes on an integration, by which the parts are rendered distinct units, as well as closely united components of one whole. These clauses here added to the definition, are essential ones; not only as being needful to distinguish Evolution from that which is not Evolution, but likewise as being needful to express all which the idea of Evolution includes. Progressive integration with the growing definiteness necessarily resulting from it, is of co-ordinate importance with the progressive differentiation before dwelt upon—nay, from one point of view, may be held of greater importance. For organization, in which what we call Evolution is most clearly and variously displayed, consists even more in the union of many parts into one whole, than in the formation of many parts. The Evolution which we see throughout inorganic nature, is lower than that which organic nature exhibits to us, for the especial reason that the mutual dependence of parts is extremely indefinite, even when traceable at all. In an amorphous mass of matter, you may act mechanically or chemically upon one part without appreciably affecting the other parts. Though their electrical or thermal states may be for the moment altered, their original states are soon resumed. Even in the highest inorganic aggregation—a crystal—the apex may be broken off and leave the rest intact: the only clear evidence of mutual dependence of parts, being, the ability of the crystal to regenerate its apex if replaced in the solution from which it was formed. But the constituent parts of organic bodies can severally maintain their existing states, only while remaining in connexion. Even in the lowest living forms, mutilation cannot be carried beyond a certain point without decomposition ensuing. As we advance through the higher up to the highest forms, we see a gradual narrowing of the limits within which the mutilation does not cause destruction: a progressive increase of mutual dependence or integration which is, at the same time, the condition to greater functional perfection. In societies this truth is equally manifest. That the component units slowly segregate into groups of different ranks and occupations, is a fact scarcely more conspicuous than is the fact that these groups are necessary to each other’s existence. And we cannot contemplate the still-progressing division of labour, without seeing that the interdependence becomes ever greater as the evolution becomes higher. It remains only to point out definitely, what has been already implied, that these several forms of change which have been successively described as making up the process of Evolution, are not in reality separate forms of change, but different aspects of the same change. Intrinsically the transformation is one and indivisible. The establishment of differences that become gradually more decided, is evidently but the beginning of an action which cannot be pushed to its extreme without producing definite divisions between the parts, and reducing each part to a separate mass. But with our limited faculties, it is not possible to take in the entire process at one view; nor have we any single terms by which the process can be described. Hence we are obliged to contemplate each of its aspects separately, and to find a separate expression for its characteristic.

Having done this, we are now in a position to frame a true idea of Evolution. Combining these partial definitions we get a complete definition, which may be most conveniently expressed thus—Evolution is a change from an indefinite, incoherent homogeneity, to a definite, coherent heterogeneity; through continuous differentiations and integrations.

It may perhaps be remarked that the last of these clauses is superfluous; since the differentiation and integration are implied in the first clause. This is true: the transition which the first clause specifies, is impossible save through the process specified in the second. Nevertheless, a mere statement of the two extreme stages with which Evolution begins and ends, omitting all reference to changes connecting them, leaves the mind with but an incomplete idea. The idea becomes much more concrete when these changes are described. Hence, though not logically necessary, the second clause of the definition is practically desirable.

Before closing the chapter, a few words must be added respecting certain other modes of describing Evolution. Organic bodies, from the changes of which the idea of Evolution has arisen, and to the changes of which alone it is usually applied, are often said to progress from simplicity to complexity. The transformation of the simple into the complex, and of the homogeneous into the heterogeneous, are used as equivalent phrases; or, if any difference is recognized between them, it is to the advantage of the first, which is held to be the more specific. After what has been said, however, it must be obvious that Evolution cannot be thus adequately formulated. No hint is given of that increased definiteness which we have found to be a concomitant of development. Nor is there anything implying the greater mutual dependence of parts. Nevertheless, the brevity of the expression gives it a value for ordinary purposes; and I shall probably hereafter frequently use it, both in those cases where more precise language is not demanded, and in those cases where it indicates the particular aspect of Evolution referred to. Another description frequently given of Evolution, is, that it is a change from the general to the special. The more or less spherical germ from which every organism, animal and vegetal, proceeds, is comparatively general: alike in the sense that in appearance and chemical nature it is very similar to all other germs; and also in the sense that its form is less markedly distinguished from the average forms of objects at large, than is that of the mature organism—a contrast which equally holds of internal structure. But this progress from the more general to the more special, is rather a derivative than an original characteristic. An increase of speciality being really an increase in the number of attributes—an addition of traits not possessed by bodies that are in other respects similar—is a necessary result of multiplying differentiations. In other words, general and special are subjective or ideal distinctions involved in our conceptions of classes, rather than objective or real distinctions presented in the bodies classified. Nevertheless, this abstract formula is not without its use. It expresses a fact of much significance; and one which we shall have constantly to refer to when dealing with the relations between organic bodies and their surrounding conditions.

The law of Evolution however, be it expressed in full as above, or in these shorter but less specific phrases, is essentially that which has been exhibited in detail throughout the foregoing pages. So far as we can ascertain, this law is universal. It is illustrated with endless repetition, and in countless ways, wherever the facts are abundant; and where the facts do not suffice for induction, deduction goes far to supply its place. Among all orders of phenomena that lie within the sphere of observation, we see ever going on the process of change above defined; and many significant indications warrant us in believing, that the same process of change went on throughout that remote past which lies beyond the sphere of observation. If we must form any conclusion respecting the general course of things, past, present, and future, the one which the evidence as far as it goes justifies, and the only one for which there is any justification, is, that the change from an indeterminate uniformity to a determinate multiformity which we everywhere see going on, has been going on from the first, and will continue to go on.

§ 58. Is this law ultimate or derivative? Must we rest satisfied with the conclusion that throughout all classes of concrete phenomena such is the mode of evolution? Or is it possible for us to ascertain why such is the mode of evolution? May we seek for some all-pervading principle which underlies this all-pervading process? Can we by a further step reduce our empirical generalization to a rational generalization?

Manifestly this community of result implies community of causation. It may be that of such causation no account can be given, further than that the Unknowable is manifested to us after this manner. Or, it may be, that the mode of manifestation is reducible to simpler ones, from which these many complex consequences follow. Analogy suggests the latter inference. At present, the conclusion that every kind of Evolution is from a state of indefinite incoherent homogeneity to a state of definite coherent heterogeneity, stands in the same position as did the once ultimate conclusion that every kind of organized body undergoes, when dead, a more or less rapid decay. And as, for the various kinds of decomposition through which animal and vegetal products pass, we have now discovered a rationale in the chemical affinities of their constituent elements; so, possibly, this universal transformation of the simple into the complex may be affiliated upon certain simple primordial principles.

Such cause or causes of Evolution, may be sought for without in the least assuming that the ultimate mystery can be fathomed. Fully conscious that an absolute solution is for ever beyond us, we may still look for a relative solution—may try to reduce the problem to its lowest terms. Just as it was possible to interpret Kepler’s laws as necessary consequences of the law of gravitation, and then to admit that gravitation transcends analysis; so it may be possible to interpret the law of Evolution as the necessary consequence of some deeper law, beyond which we may nevertheless be unable to go.

§ 59. The probability of common causation, and the possibility of formulating it, being granted, it will be well before going further, to consider what must be the general characteristics of such causation, and in what direction we ought to look for it. We can with certainty predict that be it simple or compound, the cause has a high degree of generality; seeing that it is common to such infinitely varied phenomena: in proportion to the universality of its application must be the abstractness of its character. Whatever be the agency and the conditions under which it acts, we need not expect to see in them an obvious explanation of this or that species of Evolution, because they equally underlie species of Evolution of quite a different order. Determining Evolution of every kind—astronomic, geologic, organic, ethnologic, social, economic, artistic, &c.—they must be concerned with something common to all these; and to see what these possess in common, will therefore be the best method of guiding ourselves towards the desired solution.

The only obvious respect in which all kinds of Evolution are alike, is, that they are modes of change. Every phenomenon to which we apply the term, presents us with a succession of states; and when such succession ceases, we no longer predicate Evolution. Equally in those past forms of it which are more or less hypothetical, and in those forms of it which we see going on around, this is the common characteristic. Note next, that the kind of change which constitutes Evolution, is broadly distinguished from change of an equally general kind, in this, that it is change of internal relations instead of change of external relations. All things in motion through space are the subjects of change; but while in this which we call mechanical motion, the relative position as measured from surrounding objects is continually altered, there is not implied any alteration in the positions of the parts of the moving body in respect to each other. Conversely, a body exhibiting what we call Evolution, while it either may or may not display new relations of position to the things around it, must display new relations of position among the parts of which it is made up. Thus we narrow the field of inquiry by recognizing the change in which Evolution consists, as a change in the arrangement of parts: of course using the word parts in its most extended sense, as signifying both ultimate units and masses of such units. Further, we have to remember that this change in the arrangement of parts which constitutes Evolution, is a certain order of such change. As we saw in the last chapter, there is a change in the arrangement of parts which is not Evolution but Dissolution—a destructive change as opposed to a constructive change—a change by which the definite is gradually rendered indefinite, the coherent slowly becomes incoherent, and the heterogeneous eventually lapses into comparative homogeneity. Thus then we reduce that which we have to investigate to its most abstract shape. Our task is to find the cause or causes of a certain order of change that takes place in the arrangement of parts.

§ 60. Evidently the problem, as thus expressed, brings us face to face with the ultimate elements of phenomena in general. It is impossible to account for a certain change in the arrangement of the parts of any mass, without involving—first, the matter which makes up the parts thus re-arranged; next, the motion exhibited during the re-arrangement; and then, the force producing this motion. The problem is a dynamical one; and there can be no truly scientific solution of it, save one given in terms of Matter, Motion, and Force—terms in which all other dynamical problems are expressed and solved.

The proposal thus to study the question from a purely physical point of view, will most likely, notwithstanding what has been said in the first part of this work, raise in some minds either alarm or prejudice. Having, throughout life, constantly heard the charge of materialism made against those who ascribed the more involved phenomena to agencies like those seen in the simplest phenomena, most persons have acquired a repugnance to such methods of interpretation; and when it is proposed to apply them universally, even though it is premised that the solution they give can be but relative, more or less of the habitual feeling will probably arise. Such an attitude of mind, however, is significant, not so much of a reverence for the Unknown Cause, as of an irreverence for those omnipresent forms in which the Unknown Cause is manifested to us. Men who have not risen above that vulgar conception which unites with Matter the contemptuous epithets “gross” and “brute,” may naturally enough feel dismay at the proposal to reduce the phenomena of Life, of Mind, and of Society, to a level with those which they think so degraded. But whoever remembers that the forms of existence which the uncultivated speak of with so much scorn, are not only shown by the man of science to be the more marvellous in their attributes the more they are investigated, but are also proved to be in their ultimate nature absolutely incomprehensible—as absolutely incomprehensible as sensation, or the conscious something which perceives it—whoever fully realizes this truth, I say, will see that the course proposed does not imply a degradation of the so-called higher, but an elevation of the so-called lower. Perceiving, as he will, that the Materialist and Spiritualist controversy is a mere war of words, in which the disputants are equally absurd—each thinking he understands that which it is impossible for any man to understand—he will perceive how utterly groundless is the fear referred to. Being fully convinced that whatever nomenclature is used, the ultimate mystery must remain the same, he will be as ready to formulate all phenomena in terms of Matter, Motion, and Force, as in any other terms; and will rather indeed anticipate, that only in a doctrine which recognizes the Unknown Cause as co-extensive with all orders of phenomena, can there be a consistent Religion, or a consistent Science.

On the other hand, the conclusion that Evolution, considered under its most abstract form, is a certain change in the arrangement of parts; and that the causes of this change can be expressed only in terms of Matter, Motion, and Force; may in critical minds raise the question—What are Matter, Motion, and Force? Referring back in thought to the reasonings contained in the chapter on “Ultimate Scientific Ideas;” and remembering how it was there shown that absolute knowledge of Matter, Motion, and Force, is impossible; some readers will perhaps conclude that any such interpretation as the one above proposed, must be visionary. It may be asked—How can a comprehensible account of Evolution be given in terms that are themselves incomprehensible?

Before proceeding, this question must be met. There can be no sound philosophy without clearly defined terms; and as, on the meanings of the terms to be here used, doubts have probably been cast by the reasonings contained in the chapter referred to, such doubts must be removed. If, as was shown, our ideas of things do not correspond with things in themselves, it becomes necessary to inquire in what way they are to be accepted. If they are not absolutely true, then what is the exact meaning of the assertion that they are relatively true? To this question let us now address ourselves.

§ 61. That sceptical state of mind which the criticisms of Philosophy usually produce, is, in great measure, caused by the misinterpretation of words. A sense of universal illusion ordinarily follows the reading of metaphysics; and is strong in proportion as the argument has appeared conclusive. This sense of universal illusion would probably never have arisen, had the terms used been always rightly construed. Unfortunately, these terms have by association acquired meanings that are quite different from those given to them in philosophical discussions; and the ordinary meanings being unavoidably suggested, there results more or less of that dreamlike idealism which is so incongruous with our instinctive convictions. The word phenomenon and its equivalent word appearance, are in great part to blame for this. In ordinary speech, these are uniformly employed in reference to visual perceptions. Habit, almost, if not quite, disables us from thinking of appearance except as something seen; and though phenomenon has a more generalized meaning, yet we cannot rid it of associations with appearance, which is its verbal equivalent. When, therefore, Philosophy proves that our knowledge of the external world can be but phenomenal—when it concludes that the things of which we are conscious are appearances; it inevitably arouses in us the notion of an illusiveness like that to which our visual perceptions are so liable in comparison with our tactual perceptions. Good pictures show us that the aspects of things may be very nearly simulated by colours on canvass. The looking-glass still more distinctly proves how deceptive is sight when unverified by touch. And the frequent cases in which we misinterpret the impressions made on our eyes, and think we see something which we do not see, further shake our faith in vision. So that the implication of uncertainty has infected the very word appearance. Hence, Philosophy, by giving it an extended meaning, leads us to think of all our senses as deceiving us in the same way that the eyes do; and so makes us feel ourselves floating in a world of phantasms. Had phenomenon and appearance no such misleading associations, little, if any, of this mental confusion would result. Or did we in place of them use the term effect, which is equally applicable to all impressions produced on consciousness through any of the senses, and which carries with it in thought the necessary correlative cause, with which it is equally real, we should be in little danger of falling into the insanities of idealism.

Such danger as there might still remain, would disappear on making a further verbal correction. At present, the confusion resulting from the above misinterpretation, is made greater by an antithetical misinterpretation. We increase the seeming unreality of that phenomenal existence which we can alone know, by contrasting it with a noumenal existence which we imagine would, if we could know it, be more truly real to us. But we delude ourselves with a verbal fiction. What is the meaning of the word real? This is the question which underlies every metaphysical inquiry; and the neglect of it is the remaining cause of the chronic antagonisms of metaphysicians. In the interpretation put on the word real, the discussions of philosophy retain one element of the vulgar conception of things, while they reject all its other elements; and create confusion by the inconsistency. The peasant, on contemplating an object, does not regard that which he contemplates as something in himself, but believes the thing of which he is conscious to be the external object—imagines that his consciousness extends to the very place where the object lies: to him the appearance and the reality are one and the same thing. The metaphysician, however, is convinced that consciousness cannot embrace the reality, but only the appearance of it; and so he transfers the appearance into consciousness and leaves the reality outside. This reality left outside of consciousness, he continues to think of much in the same way as the ignorant man thinks of the appearance. Though the reality is asserted to be out of consciousness, yet the realness ascribed to it is constantly spoken of as though it were a knowledge possessed apart from consciousness. It seems to be forgotten that the conception of reality can be nothing more than some mode of consciousness; and that the question to be considered is—What is the relation between this mode and other modes?

By reality we mean persistence in consciousness: a persistence that is either unconditional, as our consciousness of space, or that is conditional, as our consciousness of a body while grasping it. The real, as we conceive it, is distinguished solely by the test of persistence; for by this test we separate it from what we call the unreal. Between a person standing before us, and the idea of such a person, we discriminate by our ability to expel the idea from consciousness, and our inability, while looking at him, to expel the person from consciousness. And when in doubt as to the validity or illusiveness of some impression made upon us in the dusk, we settle the matter by observing whether the impression persists on closer observation; and we predicate reality if the persistence is complete. How truly persistence is what we mean by reality, is shown in the fact that when, after criticism has proved that the real as we are conscious of it is not the objectively real, the indefinite notion which we form of the objectively real, is of something which persists absolutely, under all changes of mode, form, or appearance. And the fact that we cannot form even an indefinite notion of the absolutely real, except as the absolutely persistent, clearly implies that persistence is our ultimate test of the real as present to consciousness.

Reality then, as we think it, being nothing more than persistence in consciousness, the result must be the same to us whether that which we perceive be the Unconditioned itself, or an effect invariably wrought on us by the Unconditioned. If some mode of the Unconditioned uniformly produces some mode of consciousness—if the mode of consciousness so produced, is as persistent as would be such mode of the Unconditioned were it immediately known; it follows that the reality will be to our consciousness as complete in the one case as in the other. Were the Unconditioned itself present in thought, it could but be persistent; and if instead of it, there is present its persistent effect, the resulting consciousness of reality must be exactly the same.

Hence there may be drawn these conclusions:—First, that we have an indefinite consciousness of an absolute reality transcending relations, which is produced by the absolute persistence in us of something which survives all changes of relation. Second, that we have a definite consciousness of relative reality, which unceasingly persists in us under one or other of its forms, and under each form so long as the conditions of presentation are fulfilled; and that the relative reality, being thus continuously persistent in us, is as real to us as would be the absolute reality could it be immediately known. Third, that thought being possible only under relation, the relative reality can be conceived as such only in connexion with an absolute reality; and the connexion between the two being absolutely persistent in our consciousness, is real in the same sense as the terms it unites are real.

Thus then we may resume, with entire confidence, those realistic conceptions which philosophy at first sight seems to dissipate. Though reality under the forms of our consciousness, is but a conditioned effect of the absolute reality, yet this conditioned effect standing in indissoluble relation with its unconditioned cause, and being equally persistent with it so long as the conditions persist, is, to the consciousness supplying those conditions, equally real. The persistent impressions being the persistent results of a persistent cause, are for practical purposes the same to us as the cause itself; and may be habitually dealt with as its equivalents. Somewhat in the same way that our visual perceptions, though merely symbols found to be the equivalents of tactual perceptions, are yet so identified with those tactual perceptions that we actually appear to see the solidity and hardness which we do but infer, and thus conceive as objects what are only the signs of objects; so, on a higher stage, do we deal with these relative realities as though they were absolutes instead of effects of the absolute. And we may legitimately continue so to deal with them as long as the conclusions to which they help us are understood as relative realities and not absolute ones.

This general conclusion it now remains to interpret specifically, in its application to each of our ultimate scientific ideas.

§ 62.^[11] We think in relations. This is truly the form of all thought; and if there are any other forms, they must be derived from this. We have seen (Chap. iii. Part I.) that the several ultimate modes of being cannot be known or conceived as they exist in themselves; that is, out of relation to our consciousness. We have seen, by analyzing the product of thought, (§ 23,) that it always consists of relations; and cannot include anything beyond the most general of these. On analyzing the process of thought, we found that cognition of the Absolute was impossible, because it presented neither relation, nor its elements—difference and likeness. Further, we found that not only Intelligence but Life itself, consists in the establishment of internal relations in correspondence with external relations. And lastly, it was shown that though by the relativity of our thought we are eternally debarred from knowing or conceiving Absolute Being; yet that this very relativity of our thought, necessitates that vague consciousness of Absolute Being which no mental effort can suppress. That relation is the universal form of thought, is thus a truth which all kinds of demonstration unite in proving.

By the transcendentalists, certain other phenomena of consciousness are regarded as forms of thought. Presuming that relation would be admitted by them to be a universal mental form, they would class with it two others as also universal. Were their hypothesis otherwise tenable however, it must still be rejected if such alleged further forms are interpretable as generated by the primary form. If we think in relations, and if relations have certain universal forms, it is manifest that such universal forms of relations will become universal forms of our consciousness. And if these further universal forms are thus explicable, it is superfluous, and therefore unphilosophical, to assign them an independent origin. Now relations are of two orders—relations of sequence, and relations of co-existence; of which the one is original and the other derivative. The relation of sequence is given in every change of consciousness. The relation of co-existence, which cannot be originally given in a consciousness of which the states are serial, becomes distinguished only when it is found that certain relations of sequence have their terms presented in consciousness in either order with equal facility; while the others are presented only in one order. Relations of which the terms are not reversible, become recognized as sequences proper; while relations of which the terms occur indifferently in both directions, become recognized as co-existences. Endless experiences, which from moment to moment present both orders of these relations, render the distinction between them perfectly definite; and at the same time generate an abstract conception of each. The abstract of all sequences is Time. The abstract of all co-existences is Space. From the fact that in thought, Time is inseparable from sequence, and Space from co-existence, we do not here infer that Time and Space are original conditions of consciousness under which sequences and co-existences are known; but we infer that our conceptions of Time and Space are generated, as other abstracts are generated from other concretes: the only difference being, that the organization of experiences has, in these cases, been going on throughout the entire evolution of intelligence.

This synthesis is confirmed by analysis. Our consciousness of Space is a consciousness of co-existent positions. Any limited portion of space can be conceived only by representing its limits as co-existing in certain relative positions; and each of its imagined boundaries, be it line or plane, can be thought of in no other way than as made up of co-existent positions in close proximity. And since a position is not an entity—since the congeries of positions which constitute any conceived portion of space, and mark its bounds, are not sensible existences; it follows that the co-existent positions which make up our consciousness of Space, are not co-existences in the full sense of the word (which implies realities as their terms), but are the blank forms of co-existences, left behind when the realities are absent; that is, are the abstracts of co-existences. The experiences out of which, during the evolution of intelligence, this abstract of all co-existences has been generated, are experiences of individual positions as ascertained by touch; and each of such experiences involves the resistance of an object touched, and the muscular tension which measures this resistance. By countless unlike muscular adjustments, involving unlike muscular tensions, different resisting positions are disclosed; and these, as they can be experienced in one order as readily as another, we regard as co-existing. But since, under other circumstances, the same muscular adjustments do not produce contact with resisting positions, there result the same states of consciousness, minus the resistances—blank forms of co-existence from which the co-existent objects before experienced are absent. And from a building up of these, too elaborate to be here detailed, results that abstract of all relations of co-existence which we call Space. It remains only to point out, as a thing which we must not forget, that the experiences from which the consciousness of Space arises, are experiences of force. A certain correlation of the muscular forces we ourselves exercise, is the index of each position as originally disclosed to us; and the resistance which makes us aware of something existing in that position, is an equivalent of the pressure we consciously exert. Thus, experiences of forces variously correlated, are those from which our consciousness of Space is abstracted.

That which we know as Space being thus shown, alike by its genesis and definition, to be purely relative, what are we to say of that which causes it? Is there an absolute Space which relative Space in some sort represents? Is Space in itself a form or condition of absolute existence, producing in our minds a corresponding form or condition of relative existence? These are unanswerable questions. Our conception of Space is produced by some mode of the Unknowable; and the complete unchangeableness of our conception of it simply implies a complete uniformity in the effects wrought by this mode of the Unknowable upon us. But therefore to call it a necessary mode of the Unknowable, is illegitimate. All we can assert is, that Space is a relative reality; that our consciousness of this unchanging relative reality implies an absolute reality equally unchanging in so far as we are concerned; and that the relative reality may be unhesitatingly accepted in thought as a valid basis for our reasonings; which, when rightly carried on, will bring us to truths that have a like relative reality—the only truths which concern us or can possibly be known to us.

Concerning Time, relative and absolute, a parallel argument leads to parallel conclusions. These are too obvious to need specifying in detail.

§ 63. Our conception of Matter, reduced to its simplest shape, is that of co-existent positions that offer resistance; as contrasted with our conception of Space, in which the co-existent positions offer no resistance. We think of Body as bounded by surfaces that resist; and as made up throughout of parts that resist. Mentally abstract the co-existent resistances, and the consciousness of Body disappears; leaving behind it the consciousness of Space. And since the group of co-existing resistent positions constituting a portion of matter, is uniformly capable of giving us impressions of resistance in combination with various muscular adjustments, according as we touch its near, its remote, its right, or its left side; it results that as different muscular adjustments habitually indicate different co-existences, we are obliged to conceive every portion of matter as containing more than one resistent position—that is, as occupying Space. Hence the necessity we are under of representing to ourselves the ultimate elements of Matter as being at once extended and resistent: this being the universal form of our sensible experiences of Matter, becomes the form which our conception of it cannot transcend, however minute the fragments which imaginary subdivisions produce. Of these two inseparable elements, the resistance is primary, and the extension secondary. Occupied extension, or Body, being distinguished in consciousness from unoccupied extension, or Space, by its resistance, this attribute must clearly have precedence in the genesis of the idea. Such a conclusion is, indeed, an obvious corollary from that at which we arrived in the foregoing section. If, as was there contended, our consciousness of Space is a product of accumulated experiences, partly our own but chiefly ancestral—if, as was pointed out, the experiences from which our consciousness of Space is abstracted, can be received only through impressions of resistance made upon the organism; the necessary inference is, that experiences of resistance being those from which the conception of Space is generated, the resistance-attribute of Matter must be regarded as primordial and the space-attribute as derivative. Whence it becomes manifest that our experience of force, is that out of which the idea of Matter is built. Matter as opposing our muscular energies, being immediately present to consciousness in terms of force; and its occupancy of Space being known by an abstract of experiences originally given in terms of force; it follows that forces, standing in certain correlations, form the whole content of our idea of Matter.

Such being our cognition of the relative reality, what are we to say of the absolute reality? We can only say that it is some mode of the Unknowable, related to the Matter we know, as cause to effect. The relativity of our cognition of Matter is shown alike by the above analysis, and by the contradictions which are evolved when we deal with the cognition as an absolute one (§ 16). But, as we have lately seen, though known to us only under relation, Matter is as real in the true sense of that word, as it would be could we know it out of relation; and further, the relative reality which we know as Matter, is necessarily represented to the mind as standing in a persistent or real relation to the absolute reality. We may therefore deliver ourselves over without hesitation, to those terms of thought which experience has organized in us. We need not in our physical, chemical, or other researches, refrain from dealing with Matter as made up of extended and resistent atoms; for this conception, necessarily resulting from our experiences of Matter, is not less legitimate, than the conception of aggregate masses as extended and resistent. The atomic hypothesis, as well as the kindred hypothesis of an all-pervading ether consisting of molecules, is simply a necessary development of those universal forms which the actions of the Unknowable have wrought in us. The conclusions logically worked out by the aid of these hypotheses, are sure to be in harmony with all others which these same forms involve, and will have a relative truth that is equally complete.

§ 64. The conception of Motion as presented or represented in the developed consciousness, involves the conceptions of Space, of Time, and of Matter. A something that moves; a series of positions occupied in succession; and a group of co-existent positions united in thought with the successive ones—these are the constituents of the idea. And since, as we have seen, these are severally elaborated from experiences of force as given in certain correlations, it follows that from a further synthesis of such experiences, the idea of Motion is also elaborated. A certain other element in the idea, which is in truth its fundamental element, (namely, the necessity which the moving body is under to go on changing its position), results immediately from the earliest experiences of force. Movements of different parts of the organism in relation to each other, are the first presented in consciousness. These, produced by the action of the muscles, necessitate reactions upon consciousness in the shape of sensations of muscular tension. Consequently, each stretching-out or drawing-in of a limb, is originally known as a series of muscular tensions, varying in intensity as the position of the limb changes. And this rudimentary consciousness of Motion, consisting of serial impressions of force, becomes inseparably united with the consciousness of Space and Time as fast as these are abstracted from further impressions of force. Or rather, out of this primitive conception of Motion, the adult conception of it is developed simultaneously with the development of the conceptions of Space and Time: all three being evolved from the more multiplied and varied impressions of muscular tension and objective resistance. Motion, as we know it, is thus traceable, in common with the other ultimate scientific ideas, to experiences of force.

That this relative reality answers to some absolute reality, it is needful only for form’s sake to assert. What has been said above, respecting the Unknown Cause which produces in us the effects called Matter, Space, and Time, will apply, on simply changing the terms, to Motion.

§ 65. We come down then finally to Force, as the ultimate of ultimates. Though Space, Time, Matter, and Motion, are apparently all necessary data of intelligence, yet a psychological analysis (here indicated only in rude outline) shows us that these are either built up of, or abstracted from, experiences of Force. Matter and Motion, as we know them, are differently conditioned manifestations of Force. Space and Time, as we know them, are disclosed along with these different manifestations of Force as the conditions under which they are presented. Matter and Motion are concretes built up from the contents of various mental relations; while Space and Time are abstracts of the forms of these various relations. Deeper down than these, however, are the primordial experiences of Force, which, as occurring in consciousness in different combinations, supply at once the materials whence the forms of relations are generalized, and the related objects built up. A single impression of force is manifestly receivable by a sentient being devoid of mental forms: grant but sensibility, with no established power of thought, and a force producing some nervous change, will still be presentable at the supposed seat of sensation. Though no single impression of force so received, could itself produce consciousness (which implies relations between different states), yet a multiplication of such impressions, differing in kind and degree, would give the materials for the establishment of relations, that is, of thought. And if such relations differed in their forms as well as in their contents, the impressions of such forms would be organized simultaneously with the impressions they contained. Thus all other modes of consciousness are derivable from experiences of Force; but experiences of Force are not derivable from anything else. Indeed, it needs but to remember that consciousness consists of changes, to see that the ultimate datum of consciousness must be that of which change is the manifestation; and that thus the force by which we ourselves produce changes, and which serves to symbolize the cause of changes in general, is the final disclosure of analysis.

It is a truism to say that the nature of this undecomposable element of our knowledge is inscrutable. If, to use an algebraic illustration, we represent Matter, Motion, and Force, by the symbols x, y, and z; then, we may ascertain the values of x and y in terms of z; but the value of z can never be found: z is the unknown quantity which must for ever remain unknown; for the obvious reason that there is nothing in which its value can be expressed. It is within the possible reach of our intelligence to go on simplifying the equations of all phenomena, until the complex symbols which formulate them are reduced to certain functions of this ultimate symbol; but when we have done this, we have reached that limit which eternally divides science from nescience.

That this undecomposable mode of consciousness into which all other modes may be decomposed, cannot be itself the Power manifested to us through phenomena, has been already proved (§ 18). We saw that to assume an identity of nature between the cause of changes as it absolutely exists, and that cause of change of which we are conscious in our own muscular efforts, betrays us into alternative impossibilities of thought. Force, as we know it, can be regarded only as a certain conditioned effect of the Unconditioned Cause—as the relative reality indicating to us an Absolute Reality by which it is immediately produced. And here, indeed, we see even more clearly than before, how inevitable is that transfigured realism to which sceptical criticism finally brings us round. Getting rid of all complications, and contemplating pure Force, we are irresistibly compelled by the relativity of our thought, to vaguely conceive some unknown force as the correlative of the known force. Conditioned effect and unconditioned cause, are here presented in their primordial relation as two sides of the same change; of which we are obliged to regard the conditioned and the unconditioned sides as equally real: the only difference being that the reality of the one is made relative by the imposition of the forms and limits of our consciousness, while the reality of the other, in the absence of those forms and limits, remains absolute.

Thus much respecting the nature of our ultimate scientific ideas. Before proceeding to our general inquiry concerning the causes of Evolution, we have still to consider certain ultimate scientific truths.

§ 66. Not because the truth is unfamiliar, is it needful here to say something concerning the indestructibility of Matter; but partly because the symmetry of our argument demands the enunciation of this truth, and partly because the evidence on which it is accepted requires examination. Could it be shown, or could it with any rationality be even supposed, that Matter, either in its aggregates or in its units, ever became non-existent, there would be an end to the inquiry on which we are now setting out. Evolution, considered as a re-arrangement of parts, could not be scientifically explained, if, during its course, any of the parts might arise out of nothing or might lapse into nothing. The question would no longer be one comprehending only the forces and motions by which the re-arrangement is effected; but would involve an incalculable element, and would hence be insoluble. Clearly, therefore, the indestructibility of Matter is an indispensable axiom.

So far from being admitted as a self-evident truth, this would, in primitive times, have been rejected as a self-evident error. There was once universally current, a notion that things could vanish into absolute nothing, or arise out of absolute nothing. If we analyze early superstitions, or that faith in magic which was general in later times and even still survives among the uncultured, we find one of its postulates to be, that by some potent spell Matter can be called out of nonentity, and can be made non-existent. If men did not believe this in the strict sense of the word (which would imply that the process of creation or annihilation was clearly represented in consciousness), they still believed that they believed it; and how nearly, in their confused thoughts, the one was equivalent to the other, is shown by their conduct. Nor, indeed, have dark ages and inferior minds alone betrayed this belief. The current theology, in its teachings respecting the beginning and end of the world, is clearly pervaded by it; and it may be even questioned whether Shakespeare, in his poetical anticipation of a time when all things should disappear and “leave not a wrack behind,” was not under its influence. The gradual accumulation of experiences however, and still more the organization of experiences, has tended slowly to reverse this conviction; until now, the doctrine that Matter is indestructible has become a common-place. Whatever may be true of it absolutely, we have learnt that relatively to our consciousness, Matter never either comes into existence or ceases to exist. Cases which once gave an apparent support to the illusion that something could come out of nothing, a wider knowledge has one by one cancelled. The comet that is all at once discovered in the heavens and nightly waxes larger, is proved not to be a newly-created body, but a body that was until lately beyond the range of vision. The cloud which in the course of a few minutes forms in the sky, consists not of substance that has just begun to be, but of substance that previously existed in a more diffused and transparent form. And similarly with a crystal or precipitate in relation to the fluid depositing it. Conversely, the seeming annihilations of Matter turn out, on closer observation, to be only changes of state. It is found that the evaporated water, though it has become invisible, may be brought by condensation to its original shape. The discharged fowling-piece gives evidence that though the gunpowder has disappeared, there have appeared in place of it certain gases, which, in assuming a larger volume, have caused the explosion. Not, however, until the rise of quantitative chemistry, could the conclusion suggested by such experiences be reduced to a certainty. When, having ascertained not only the combinations into which various substances enter, but also the proportions in which they combine, chemists were enabled to account for the matter that had made its appearance or become invisible, the proof was rendered complete. When, in place of the candle that had slowly burnt away, it was shown that certain calculable quantities of carbonic acid and water had resulted—when it was demonstrated that the joint weight of the carbonic acid and water thus produced, was equal to the weight of the candle plus that of the oxygen uniting with its constituents during combustion; it was put beyond doubt that the carbon and hydrogen forming the candle, were still in existence, and had simply changed their state. And of the general conclusion thus exemplified, the exact analyses daily made, in which the same portion of matter is pursued through numerous transformations and finally separated, furnish never-ceasing confirmations.

Such has become the effect of this specific evidence, joined to that general evidence which the continued existence of familiar objects unceasingly gives us; that the indestructibility of Matter is now recognized by many as a truth of which the negation is inconceivable. Habitual experiences being no longer met by any counter-experiences, as they once seemed to be; but these apparent counter-experiences furnishing new proof that Matter exists permanently, even where the senses fail to detect it; it has grown into an axiom of science, that whatever metamorphoses Matter undergoes, its quantity is fixed. The chemist, the physicist, and the physiologist, not only one and all take this for granted, but would severally profess themselves unable to realize any supposition to the contrary.

§ 67. This last fact naturally raises the question, whether we have any higher warrant for this fundamental belief, than the warrant of conscious induction. The indestructibility of Matter is proved experimentally to be an absolute uniformity within the range of our experience. But absolute uniformities of experience, generate absolute uniformities of thought. Does it not follow, then, that this ultimate truth must be a cognition involved in our mental organization? An affirmative answer we shall find unavoidable.

What is termed the ultimate incompressibility of Matter, is an admitted law of thought. Though it is possible to imagine a piece of matter to be compressed without limit, yet however small the bulk to which we conceive it reduced, it is impossible to conceive it reduced into nothing. While we can represent to ourselves the parts of the matter as indefinitely approximated, and the space occupied as indefinitely decreased, we cannot represent to ourselves the quantity of matter as made less. To do this would imply an imagined disappearance of some of the constituent parts—would imply that some of the constituent parts were in thought compressed into nothing; which is no more possible than the compression of the whole into nothing. Whence it is an obvious corollary, that the total quantity of matter in the Universe, cannot really be conceived as diminished, any more than it can be conceived as increased. Our inability to conceive Matter becoming non-existent, is immediately consequent on the very nature of thought. Thought consists in the establishment of relations. There can be no relation established, and therefore no thought framed, when one of the related terms is absent from consciousness. Hence it is impossible to think of something becoming nothing, for the same reason that it is impossible to think of nothing becoming something—the reason, namely, that nothing cannot become an object of consciousness. The annihilation of Matter is unthinkable for the same reason that the creation of Matter is unthinkable; and its indestructibility thus becomes an À priori cognition of the highest order—not one that results from a long continued registry of experiences gradually organized into an irreversible mode of thought; but one that is given in the form of all experiences whatever.

Doubtless it will be considered strange that a truth only in modern times accepted as unquestionable, and then only by men of science, should be classed as an À priori truth; not only of equal certainty with those commonly so classed, but of even higher certainty. To set down as a proposition which cannot be thought, one which mankind once universally professed to think, and which the great majority profess to think even now, seems absurd. The explanation is, that in this, as in countless other cases, men have supposed themselves to think what they did not think. As was shown at the outset, the greater part of our conceptions are symbolic. Many of these symbolic conceptions, though rarely developed into real ones, admit of being so developed; and, being directly or indirectly proved to correspond with actualities, are valid. But along with these there pass current others which cannot be developed—cannot by any direct or indirect process be realized in thought; much less proved to correspond with actualities. Not being habitually tested, however, the legitimate and illegitimate symbolic conceptions are confounded together; and supposing themselves to have literally thought, that which they have thought only symbolically, men say they believe propositions of which the terms cannot even be put together in consciousness. Hence the ready acceptance given to sundry hypotheses respecting the origin of the Universe, which yet are absolutely unthinkable. And as before we found the commonly asserted doctrine that Matter was created out of nothing, to have been never really conceived at all, but to have been conceived only symbolically; so here we find the annihilation of Matter to have been conceived only symbolically, and the symbolic conception mistaken for a real one. Possibly it will be objected that the words thought, and belief, and conception, are here employed in new senses; and that it is a misuse of language to say that men did not really think that which has nevertheless so profoundly influenced their conduct. It must be confessed that there is an inconvenience in so restricting the meanings of these words. There is no remedy however. Definite conclusions can be reached, only by the use of well-defined terms. Questions touching the validity of any portion of our knowledge, cannot be profitably discussed unless the words knowing, and thinking, have specific interpretations. We must not include under them whatever confused processes of consciousness the popular speech applies them to; but only the distinct processes of consciousness. And if this obliges us to reject a large part of human thinking as not thinking at all, but merely pseudo-thinking, there is no help for it.

Returning to the general question, we find the results to be:—that we have positive experience of the continued existence of Matter; that the form of our thought renders it impossible for us to have experience of Matter passing into non-existence, since such experience would involve cognition of a relation having one of its terms not representable in consciousness; that hence the indestructibility of Matter is in strictness an À priori truth; that nevertheless, certain illusive experiences, suggesting the notion of its annihilation, have produced in undisciplined minds not only the supposition that Matter could be conceived to become non-existent, but the notion that it did so; but that careful observation, showing the supposed annihilations to have never taken place, has confirmed, À posteriori, the À priori cognition which Psychology shows to result from a uniformity of experience that can never be met by counter-experience.

§ 68. The fact, however, which it most concerns us here to observe, is, the nature of the perceptions by which the permanence of Matter is perpetually illustrated to us, and from which Science draws the inference that Matter is indestructible. These perceptions, under all their forms, amount simply to this—that the force which a given quantity of matter exercises, remains always the same. This is the proof on which common sense and exact science alike rely. When, for example, somebody known to have existed a few years since is said to exist still, by one who yesterday saw him, his assertion amounts to this—that an object which in past time wrought on his consciousness a certain group of changes, still exists because a like group of changes has been again wrought on his consciousness: the continuance of the power thus to impress him, he holds to prove the continuance of the object. Should some auditor allege a mistake in identity, the witness is admitted to give conclusive proof when he says that he not only saw, but shook hands with this person, and remarked while grasping his hand, that absence of the index finger which was his known peculiarity: the implication being, that an object which through a special combination of forces, produces special tactual impressions, is concluded still to exist while it continues still to do this. Even more clearly do we see that force is our ultimate measure of Matter, in those cases where the shape of the matter has been changed. A piece of gold given to an artizan to be worked into an ornament, and which when brought back appears to be less, is placed in the scales; and if it balances a much smaller weight than it did in its rough state, we infer that much has been lost either in manipulation or by direct abstraction. Here the obvious postulate is, that the quantity of Matter is finally determinable by the quantity of gravitative force it manifests. And this is the kind of evidence on which Science bases its experimentally-established induction that Matter is indestructible. Whenever a piece of substance lately visible and tangible, has been reduced to an invisible, intangible shape, but is proved by the weight of the gas into which it has been transformed to be still existing; the assumption is, that though otherwise insensible to us, the amount of matter is the same, if it still tends towards the Earth with the same force. Similarly, every case in which the weight of an element present in combination, is inferred from the known weight of another element which it neutralizes, is a case in which the quantity of matter is expressed in terms of the quantity of chemical force it exerts; and in which this specific chemical force is assumed to be the necessary correlative of a specific gravitative force.

Thus then by the indestructibility of Matter, we really mean the indestructibility of the force with which Matter affects us. As we become conscious of Matter only through that resistance which it opposes to our muscular energy, so do we become conscious of the permanence of Matter only through the permanence of this resistance; as either immediately or mediately proved to us. And this truth is made manifest not only by analysis of the À posteriori cognition, but equally so by analysis of the À priori one. For that which we cannot conceive to be diminished by the continued compression of Matter, is not its occupancy of space, but its ability to resist.

§ 69. Another general truth of the same order with the foregoing, must here be specified—one which, though not so generally recognized, has yet long been familiar among men of science. The continuity of Motion, like the indestructibility of Matter, is clearly an axiom underlying the very possibility of a rational theory of Evolution. That kind of change in the arrangement of parts, which we have found to constitute Evolution, could not be deductively explained were it possible for Motion either to appear or disappear. If those motions through which the parts pass into a new arrangement, might either proceed from nothing or lapse into nothing, there would be an end to scientific interpretation of them. Each constituent change might as well as not be supposed to begin and end of itself.

The axiomatic character of the truth that Motion is continuous, is recognized only after the discipline of exact science has given precision to the conceptions. Aboriginal men, our uneducated population, and even most of the so-called educated, think in an extremely indefinite manner. From careless observations, they pass by careless reasoning, to conclusions of which they do not contemplate the implications—conclusions which they never develope for the purpose of seeing whether they are consistent. Accepting without criticism the dicta of unaided perception, to the effect that surrounding bodies when put in motion soon return to rest, the great majority tacitly assume that the motion is actually lost. They do not consider whether the phenomenon can be otherwise interpreted; or whether the interpretation they put on it can be mentally realized. They are content with a colligation of mere appearances. But the establishment of certain facts having quite an opposite implication, led to inquiries which have gradually proved such appearances to be illusive. The discovery that the planets revolve round the Sun with undiminishing speed, raised the suspicion that a moving body, when not interfered with, will go on for ever without change of velocity; and suggested the question whether bodies which lose their motion, do not at the same time communicate as much motion to other bodies. It was a familiar fact that a stone would glide further over a smooth surface, such as ice, presenting no small objects to which it could part with its motion by collision, than over a surface strewn with such small objects; and that a projectile would travel a far greater distance through a rare medium like air, than through a dense medium like water. Thus the primitive notion that moving bodies had an inherent tendency gradually to lose their motion and finally stop—a notion of which the Greeks did not get rid, but which lasted till the time of Galileo—began to give way. It was further shaken by such experiments as those of Hooke, which proved that the spinning of a top continued long in proportion as it was prevented from communicating movement to surrounding matter—experiments which, when repeated with the aid of modern appliances, have shown that in vacuo such rotation, retarded only by the friction of the axis, will continue for nearly an hour. Thus have been gradually dispersed, the obstacles to the reception of the first law of motion;—the law, namely, that when not influenced by external forces, a moving body will go on in a straight line with a uniform velocity. And this law is in our day being merged in the more general one, that Motion, like Matter, is indestructible; and that whatever is lost by any one portion of matter is transferred to other portions—a conclusion which, however much at variance it seems with cases of sudden arrest from collision with an immovable object, is yet reconciled with such cases by the discovery that the motion apparently lost continues under new forms, though forms not directly perceptible.

§ 70. And here it may be remarked of Motion, as it was before of Matter, that its indestructibility is not only to be inductively inferred, but that it is a necessity of thought: its destructibility never having been truly conceived at all, but having always been, as it is now, a mere verbal proposition that cannot be realized in consciousness—a pseud-idea. Whether that absolute reality which produces in us the consciousness we call Motion, be or be not an eternal mode of the Unknowable, it is impossible for us to say; but that the relative reality which we call Motion never can come into existence, or cease to exist, is a truth involved in the very nature of our consciousness. To think of Motion as either being created or annihilated—to think of nothing becoming something, or something becoming nothing—is to establish in consciousness a relation between two terms of which one is absent from consciousness, which is impossible. The very nature of intelligence, negatives the supposition that Motion can be conceived (much less known) to either commence or cease.

§ 71. It remains to be pointed out that the continuity of Motion, as well as the indestructibility of Matter, is really known to us in terms of force. That a certain manifestation of force remains for ever undiminished, is the ultimate content of the thought; whether reached À posteriori or À priori.

From terrestrial physics let us take the case of sound propagated to a great distance. Whenever we are directly conscious of the causation of sound (namely, when we produce it ourselves), its invariable antecedent is force. The immediate sequence of this force we know to be motion—first, of our own organs, and then of the body which we set vibrating. The vibrations so generated we can discern both through the fingers and through the ears; and that the sensations received by the ears are the equivalents of mechanical force communicated to the air, and by it impressed on surrounding objects, we have clear proof when objects are fractured: as windows by the report of a cannon; or a glass vessel by a powerful voice. On what, then, rests the reasoning when, as occasionally happens under favourable circumstances, men on board a vessel a hundred miles from shore, hear the ringing of church-bells on placing their ears in the focus of the main sail; and when it is inferred that atmospheric undulations have traversed this immense distance? Manifestly, the assertion that the motion of the clapper, transformed into the vibrations of the bell, and communicated to the surrounding air, has propagated itself thus far on all sides, diminishing in intensity as the mass of air moved became greater, is based solely upon a certain change produced in consciousness through the ears. The listeners are not conscious of motion; they are conscious of an impression produced on them—an impression which implies a force as its necessary correlative. With force they begin, and with force they end: the intermediate motion being simply inferred. Again, where, as in celestial physics, the continuity of motion is quantitatively proved, the proof is not direct but inferential; and forces furnish the data for the inference. A particular planet can be identified only by its constant power to affect our visual organs in a special way—to impress upon the retina a group of forces standing in a particular correlation. Further, such planet has not been seen to move by the astronomical observer; but its motion is inferred from a comparison of its present position with the position it before occupied. If rigorously examined, this comparison proves to be a comparison between the different impressions produced on him by the different adjustments of the observing instruments. Going a step further back, it turns out that this difference is meaningless until shown to correspond with a certain calculated position which the planet must occupy, supposing that no motion has been lost. And if, finally, we examine the implied calculation, we find that it makes allowances for those accelerations and retardations which ellipticity of the orbit involves, as well as those variations of velocity caused by adjacent planets—we find, that is, that the motion is concluded to be indestructible not from the uniform velocity of the planet, but from the constant quantity of motion exhibited when allowance is made for the motion communicated to, or received from, other celestial bodies. And when we ask how this communicated motion is estimated, we discover that the estimate is based upon certain laws of force; which laws, one and all, embody the postulate that force cannot be destroyed. Without the axiom that action and re-action are equal and opposite, astronomy could not make its exact predictions; and we should lack the rigorous inductive proof they furnish that motion can never be lost, but can only be transferred.

Similarly with the À priori conclusion that Motion is continuous. That which defies suppression in thought, is really the force which the motion indicates. The unceasing change of position, considered by itself, may be mentally abolished without difficulty. We can readily imagine retardation and stoppage to result from the action of external bodies. But to imagine this, is not possible without an abstraction of the force implied by the motion. We are obliged to conceive this force as impressed in the shape of re-action on the bodies that cause the arrest. And the motion that is communicated to them, we are compelled to regard, not as directly communicated, but as a product of the communicated force. We can mentally diminish the velocity or space-element of motion, by diffusing the momentum or force-element over a larger mass of matter; but the quantity of this force-element, which we regard as the cause of the motion, is unchangeable in thought.

§ 72. Before taking a first step in the rational interpretation of Evolution, it is needful to recognize, not only the facts that Matter is indestructible and Motion continuous, but also the fact that Force persists. An attempt to assign the causes of Evolution, would manifestly be absurd, if that agency to which the metamorphosis in general and in detail is due, could either come into existence or cease to exist. The succession of phenomena would in such case be altogether arbitrary; and deductive science impossible.

Here, indeed, the necessity is even more imperative than in the two preceding cases. For the validity of the proofs given that Matter is indestructible and Motion continuous, really depends upon the validity of the proof that Force is persistent. An analysis of the reasoning demonstrated that in both cases, the À posteriori conclusion involves the assumption that unchanged quantities of Matter and Motion are proved by unchanged manifestations of Force; and in the À priori cognition we found this to be the essential constituent. Hence, that the quantity of Force remains always the same, is the fundamental cognition in the absence of which these derivative cognitions must disappear.

§ 73. But now on what grounds do we assert the persistence of Force? Inductively we can allege no evidence except such as is presented to us throughout the world of sensible phenomena. No force however, save that of which we are conscious during our own muscular efforts, is immediately known to us. All other force is mediately known through the changes we attribute to it. Since, then, we cannot infer the persistence of Force from our own sensation of it, which does not persist; we must infer it, if it is inferred at all, from the continuity of Motion, and the undiminished ability of Matter to produce certain effects. But to reason thus is manifestly to reason in a circle. It is absurd to allege the indestructibility of Matter, because we find experimentally that under whatever changes of form a given mass of matter exhibits the same gravitation, and then afterwards to argue that gravitation is constant because a given mass of matter exhibits always the same quantity of it. We cannot prove the continuity of Motion by assuming that Force is persistent, and then prove the persistence of Force by assuming that Motion is continuous.

The data of both objective and subjective science being involved in this question touching the nature of our cognition that Force is persistent, it will be desirable here to examine it more closely. At the risk of trying the reader’s patience, we must reconsider the reasoning through which the indestructibility of Matter and the continuity of Motion are established; that we may see how impossible it is to arrive by parallel reasoning at the persistence of Force. In all three cases the question is one of quantity:—does the Matter, or Motion, or Force, ever diminish in quantity? Quantitative science implies measurement; and measurement implies a unit of measure. The units of measure from which all others of any exactness are derived, are units of linear extension. From these, through the medium of the equal-armed lever or scales, we derive our equal units of weight, or gravitative force. And it is by means of these equal units of extension and equal units of weight, that we make those quantitative comparisons by which the truths of exact science are reached. Throughout the investigations leading the chemist to the conclusion that of the carbon which has disappeared during combustion, no portion has been lost, and that in any compound afterwards formed by the resulting carbonic acid the whole of the original carbon is present, what is his repeatedly assigned proof? That afforded by the scales. In what terms is the verdict of the scales given? In grains—in units of weight—in units of gravitative force. And what is the total content of the verdict? That as many units of gravitative force as the carbon exhibited at first, it exhibits still. The quantity of matter is asserted to be the same, if the number of units of force it counter-balances is the same. The validity of the inference, then, depends entirely upon the constancy of the units of force. If the force with which the portion of metal called a grain-weight, tends towards the Earth, has varied, the inference that Matter is indestructible is vicious. Everything turns on the truth of the assumption that the gravitation of the weights is persistent; and of this no proof is assigned, or can be assigned. In the reasonings of the astronomer there is a like implication; from which we may draw the like conclusion. No problem in celestial physics can be solved without the assumption of some unit of force. This unit need not be, like a pound or a ton, one of which we can take direct cognizance. It is requisite only that the mutual attraction which some two of the bodies concerned exercise at a given distance, should be taken as one; so that the other attractions with which the problem deals, may be expressed in terms of this one. Such unit being assumed, the momenta which the respective masses will generate in each other in a given time, are calculated; and compounding these with the momenta they already have, their places at the end of that time are predicted. The prediction is verified by observation. From this, either of two inferences may be drawn. Assuming the masses to be fixed, the motion may be proved to be undiminished; or assuming the motion to be undiminished, the masses may be proved to be fixed. But the validity of one or other inference, depends wholly on the truth of the assumption that the unit of force is unchanged. Let it be supposed that the gravitation of the two bodies towards each other at the given distance, has varied, and the conclusions drawn are no longer true. Nor is it only in their concrete data that the reasonings of terrestrial and celestial physics assume the persistence of Force. They equally assume it in the abstract principle with which they set out; and which they repeat in justification of every step. The equality of action and reaction is taken for granted from beginning to end of either argument; and to assert that action and reaction are equal and opposite, is to assert that Force is persistent. The allegation really amounts to this, that there cannot be an isolated force beginning and ending in nothing; but that any force manifested, implies an equal antecedent force from which it is derived, and against which it is a reaction. Further, that the force so originating cannot disappear without result; but must expend itself in some other manifestation of force, which, in being produced, becomes its reaction; and so on continually. Clearly then the persistence of Force is an ultimate truth of which no inductive proof is possible.

We might indeed be certain, even in the absence of any such analysis as the foregoing, that there must exist some principle which, as being the basis of science, cannot be established by science. All reasoned-out conclusions whatever, must rest on some postulate. As before shown (§ 23), we cannot go on merging derivative truths in those wider and wider truths from which they are derived, without reaching at last a widest truth which can be merged in no other, or derived from no other. And whoever contemplates the relation in which it stands to the truths of science in general, will see that this truth transcending demonstration is the persistence of Force.

§ 74. But now what is the force of which we predicate persistence? It is not the force we are immediately conscious of in our own muscular efforts; for this does not persist. As soon as an outstretched limb is relaxed, the sense of tension disappears. True, we assert that in the stone thrown or in the weight lifted, is exhibited the effect of this muscular tension; and that the force which has ceased to be present in our consciousness, exists elsewhere. But it does not exist elsewhere under any form cognizable by us. It was proved (§ 18), that though, on raising an object from the ground, we are obliged to think of its downward pull as equal and opposite to our upward pull; and though it is impossible to represent these pulls as equal without representing them as like in kind; yet, since their likeness in kind would imply in the object a sensation of muscular tension, which cannot be ascribed to it, we are compelled to admit that force as it exists out of our consciousness, is not force as we know it. Hence the force of which we assert persistence is that Absolute Force of which we are indefinitely conscious as the necessary correlate of the force we know. Thus, by the persistence of Force, we really mean the persistence of some Power which transcends our knowledge and conception. The manifestations, as occurring either in ourselves or outside of us, do not persist; but that which persists is the Unknown Cause of these manifestations. In other words, asserting the persistence of Force, is but another mode of asserting an Unconditioned Reality, without beginning or end.

Thus, quite unexpectedly, we come down once more to that ultimate truth in which, as we saw, Religion and Science coalesce. On examining the data underlying a rational theory of Evolution, we find them all at last resolvable into that datum without which consciousness was shown to be impossible—the continued existence of an Unknowable as the necessary correlative of the Knowable. Once commenced, the analysis of the truths taken for granted in scientific inquiries, inevitably brings us down to this deepest truth, in which Common Sense and Philosophy are reconciled.

The arguments and conclusion contained in this and the foregoing three chapters, supply, indeed, the complement to the arguments and conclusion set forth in the preceding part of this work. It was there first shown, by an examination of our ultimate religious ideas, that knowledge of Absolute Being is impossible; and the impossibility of knowing Absolute Being, was also shown by an examination of our ultimate scientific ideas. In a succeeding chapter a subjective analysis proved, that while, by the very conditions of thought, we are prevented from knowing anything beyond relative being; yet that by these very same conditions of thought, an indefinite consciousness of Absolute Being is necessitated. And here, by objective analysis, we similarly find that the axiomatic truths of physical science, unavoidably postulate Absolute Being as their common basis.

Thus there is even a more profound agreement between Religion and Science than was before shown. Not only are they wholly at one on the negative proposition that the Non-relative cannot be known; but they are wholly at one on the positive proposition that the Non-relative is an actual existence. Both are obliged by the demonstrated untenability of their supposed cognitions, to confess that the Ultimate Reality is incognizable; and yet both are obliged to assert the existence of an Ultimate Reality. Without this, Religion has no subject-matter; and without this, Science, subjective and objective, lacks its indispensable datum. We cannot construct a theory of internal phenomena without postulating Absolute Being; and unless we postulate Absolute Being, or being which persists, we cannot construct a theory of external phenomena.

§ 75. A few words must be added respecting the nature of this fundamental consciousness. Already it has been looked at from several points of view; and here it seems needful finally to sum up the results.

In Chapter IV. we saw that the Unknown Power of which neither beginning nor end can be conceived, is present to us as that unshaped material of consciousness which is shaped afresh in every thought. Our inability to conceive its limitation, is thus simply the obverse of our inability to put an end to the thinking subject while still continuing to think. In the two foregoing chapters, we contemplated this fundamental truth under another aspect. The indestructibility of Matter and the continuity of Motion, we saw to be really corollaries from the impossibility of establishing in thought a relation between something and nothing. What we call the establishment of a relation in thought, is the passage of the substance of consciousness, from one form into another. To think of something becoming nothing, would involve that this substance of consciousness having just existed under a given form, should next assume no form; or should cease to be consciousness. And thus our inability to conceive Matter and Motion destroyed, is our inability to suppress consciousness itself. What, in these two foregoing chapters, was proved true of Matter and Motion, is, À fortiori, true of the Force out of which our conceptions of Matter and Motion are built. Indeed, as we saw, that which is indestructible in matter and motion, is the force they present. And, as we here see, the truth that Force is indestructible, is the obverse of the truth that the Unknown Cause of the changes going on in consciousness is indestructible. So that the persistence of consciousness, constitutes at once our immediate experience of the persistence of Force, and imposes on us the necessity we are under of asserting its persistence.

§ 76. Thus, in all ways there is forced on us the fact, that here is an ultimate truth given in our mental constitution. It is not only a datum of science, but it is a datum which even the assertion of our nescience involves. Whoever alleges that the inability to conceive a beginning or end of the Universe, is a negative result of our mental structure, cannot deny that our consciousness of the Universe as persistent, is a positive result of our mental structure. And this persistence of the Universe, is the persistence of that Unknown Cause, Power, or Force, which is manifested to us through all phenomena.

Such then is the foundation of any possible system of positive knowledge. Deeper than demonstration—deeper even than definite cognition—deep as the very nature of mind, is the postulate at which we have arrived. Its authority transcends all other whatever; for not only is it given in the constitution of our own consciousness, but it is impossible to imagine a consciousness so constituted as not to give it. Thought, involving simply the establishment of relations, may be readily conceived to go on while yet these relations have not been organized into the abstracts we call Space and Time; and so there is a conceivable kind of consciousness which does not contain the truths, commonly called À priori, involved in the organization of these forms of relations. But thought cannot be conceived to go on without some element between which its relations may be established; and so there is no conceivable kind of consciousness which does not imply continued existence as its datum. Consciousness without this or that particular form is possible; but consciousness without contents is impossible.

The sole truth which transcends experience by underlying it, is thus the persistence of Force. This being the basis of experience, must be the basis of any scientific organization of experiences. To this an ultimate analysis brings us down; and on this a rational synthesis must build up.

§ 77. When, to the unaided senses, Science began to add supplementary senses in the shape of measuring instruments, men began to perceive various phenomena which eyes and fingers could not distinguish. Of known forms of force, minuter manifestations became appreciable; and forms of force before unknown were rendered cognizable and measurable. Where forces had apparently ended in nothing, and had been carelessly supposed to have actually done so, instrumental observation proved that effects had in every instance been produced: the forces reappearing in new shapes. Hence there has at length arisen the inquiry whether the force displayed in each surrounding change, does not in the act of expenditure undergo metamorphosis into an equivalent amount of some other force or forces. And to this inquiry experiment is giving an affirmative answer, which becomes day by day more decisive. Grove, Helmholtz, and Meyer, are more than any others to be credited with the clear enunciation of this doctrine. Let us glance at the evidence on which it rests.

Motion, wherever we can directly trace its genesis, we find to pre-exist as some other mode of force. Our own voluntary acts have always certain sensations of muscular tension as their antecedents. When, as in letting fall a relaxed limb, we are conscious of a bodily movement requiring no effort, the explanation is that the effort was exerted in raising the limb to the position whence it fell. In this case, as in the case of an inanimate body descending to the Earth, the force accumulated by the downward motion is just equal to the force previously expended in the act of elevation. Conversely, Motion that is arrested produces, under different circumstances, heat, electricity, magnetism, light. From the warming of the hands by rubbing them together, up to the ignition of a railway-brake by intense friction—from the lighting of detonating powder by percussion, up to the setting on fire a block of wood by a few blows from a steam-hammer; we have abundant instances in which heat arises as Motion ceases. It is uniformly found, that the heat generated is great in proportion as the Motion lost is great; and that to diminish the arrest of motion, by diminishing the friction, is to diminish the quantity of heat evolved. The production of electricity by Motion is illustrated equally in the boy’s experiment with rubbed sealing-wax, in the common electrical machine, and in the apparatus for exciting electricity by the escape of steam. Wherever there is friction between heterogeneous bodies, electrical disturbance is one of the consequences. Magnetism may result from Motion either immediately, as through percussion on iron, or mediately as through electric currents previously generated by Motion. And similarly, Motion may create light; either directly, as in the minute incandescent fragments struck off by violent collisions, or indirectly, as through the electric spark. “Lastly, Motion may be again reproduced by the forces which have emanated from Motion; thus, the divergence of the electrometer, the revolution of the electrical wheel, the deflection of the magnetic needle, are, when resulting from frictional electricity, palpable movements reproduced by the intermediate modes of force, which have themselves been originated by motion.”

That mode of force which we distinguish as Heat, is now generally regarded by physicists as molecular motion—not motion as displayed in the changed relations of sensible masses to each other, but as occurring among the units of which such sensible masses consist. If we cease to think of Heat as that particular sensation given to us by bodies in certain conditions, and consider the phenomena otherwise presented by these bodies, we find that motion, either in them or in surrounding bodies, or in both, is all that we have evidence of. With one or two exceptions which are obstacles to every theory of Heat, heated bodies expand; and expansion can be interpreted only as a movement of the units of a mass in relation to each other. That so-called radiation through which anything of higher temperature than things around it, communicates Heat to them, is clearly a species of motion. Moreover, the evidence afforded by the thermometer that Heat thus diffuses itself, is simply a movement caused in the mercurial column. And that the molecular motion which we call Heat, may be transformed into visible motion, familiar proof is given by the steam-engine; in which “the piston and all its concomitant masses of matter are moved by the molecular dilatation of the vapour of water.” Where Heat is absorbed without apparent result, modern inquiries show that decided though unobtrusive changes are produced: as on glass, the molecular state of which is so far changed by heat, that a polarized ray of light passing through it becomes visible, which it does not do when the glass is cold; or as on polished metallic surfaces, which are so far changed in structure by thermal radiations from objects very close to them, as to retain permanent impressions of such objects. The transformation of Heat into electricity, occurs when dissimilar metals touching each other are heated at the point of contact: electric currents being so induced. Solid, incombustible matter introduced into heated gas, as lime into the oxyhydrogen flame, becomes incandescent; and so exhibits the conversion of Heat into light. The production of magnetism by Heat, if it cannot be proved to take place directly, may be proved to take place indirectly through the medium of electricity. And through the same medium may be established the correlation of Heat and chemical affinity—a correlation which is indeed implied by the marked influence that Heat exercises on chemical composition and decomposition.

The transformations of Electricity into other modes of force, are still more clearly demonstrable. Produced by the motion of heterogeneous bodies in contact, Electricity, through attractions and repulsions, will immediately reproduce motion in neighbouring bodies. Now a current of Electricity generates magnetism in a bar of soft iron; and now the rotation of a permanent magnet generates currents of Electricity. Here we have a battery in which from the play of chemical affinities an electric current results; and there, in the adjacent cell, we have an electric current effecting chemical decomposition. In the conducting wire we witness the transformation of Electricity into heat; while in electric sparks and in the voltaic arc we see light produced. Atomic arrangement, too, is changed by Electricity: as instance the transfer of matter from pole to pole of a battery; the fractures caused by the disruptive discharge; the formation of crystals under the influence of electric currents. And whether, conversely, Electricity be or be not directly generated by re-arrangement of the atoms of matter, it is at any rate indirectly so generated through the intermediation of magnetism.

How from Magnetism the other physical forces result, must be next briefly noted—briefly, because in each successive case the illustrations become in great part the obverse forms of those before given. That Magnetism produces motion is the ordinary evidence we have of its existence. In the magneto-electric machine we see a rotating magnet evolving electricity. And the electricity so evolved may immediately after exhibit itself as heat, light, or chemical affinity. Faraday’s discovery of the effect of Magnetism on polarized light, as well as the discovery that change of magnetic state is accompanied by heat, point to further like connexions. Lastly, various experiments show that the magnetization of a body alters its internal structure; and that conversely, the alteration of its internal structure, as by mechanical strain, alters its magnetic condition.

Improbable as it seemed, it is now proved that from Light also may proceed the like variety of agencies. The solar rays change the atomic arrangements of particular crystals. Certain mixed gases, which do not otherwise combine, combine in the sunshine. In some compounds Light produces decomposition. Since the inquiries of photographers have drawn attention to the subject, it has been shown that “a vast number of substances, both elementary and compound, are notably affected by this agent, even those apparently the most unalterable in character, such as metals.” And when a daguerreotype plate is connected with a proper apparatus “we get chemical action on the plate, electricity circulating through the wires, magnetism in the coil, heat in the helix, and motion in the needles.”

The genesis of all other modes of force from Chemical Action, scarcely needs pointing out. The ordinary accompaniment of chemical combination is heat; and when the affinities are intense, light also is, under fit conditions, produced. Chemical changes involving alteration of bulk, cause motion, both in the combining elements and in adjacent masses of matter: witness the propulsion of a bullet by the explosion of gunpowder. In the galvanic battery we see electricity resulting from chemical composition and decomposition. While through the medium of this electricity, Chemical Action produces magnetism.

These facts, the larger part of which are culled from Mr. Grove’s work on “The Correlation of Physical Forces,” show us that each force is transformable, directly or indirectly, into the others. In every change Force undergoes metamorphosis; and from the new form or forms it assumes, may subsequently result either the previous one or any of the rest, in endless variety of order and combination. It is further becoming manifest that the physical forces stand not simply in qualitative correlations with each other, but also in quantitative correlations. Besides proving that one mode of force may be transformed into another mode, experiments illustrate the truth that from a definite amount of one, definite amounts of others always arise. Ordinarily it is indeed difficult to show this; since it mostly happens that the transformation of any force is not into some one of the rest but into several of them: the proportions being determined by the ever-varying conditions. But in certain cases, positive results have been reached. Mr. Joule has ascertained that the fall of 772 lbs. through one foot, will raise the temperature of a pound of water one degree of Fahrenheit. The investigations of Dulong, Petit and Neumann, have proved a relation in amount between the affinities of combining bodies and the heat evolved during their combination. Between chemical action and voltaic electricity, a quantitative connexion has also been established: Faraday’s experiments implying that a specific measure of electricity is disengaged by a given measure of chemical action. The well-determined relations between the quantities of heat generated and water turned into steam, or still better the known expansion produced in steam by each additional degree of heat, may be cited in further evidence. Whence it is no longer doubted that among the several forms which force assumes, the quantitative relations are fixed. The conclusion tacitly agreed on by physicists, is, not only that the physical forces undergo metamorphoses, but that a certain amount of each is the constant equivalent of certain amounts of the others.

§ 78. Throughout Evolution under all its phases, this truth of course invariably holds. Every successive change or group of changes forming part of it, is of necessity limited by the conditions thus implied. The forces which any step in Evolution exhibits, must be affiliable on the like or unlike forces previously existing; while from the forces so generated must thereafter be derived others more or less transformed. And besides recognizing the forces at any time existing, as necessarily linked with those preceding and succeeding them, we must also recognize the amounts of these forces successively manifested as determinate,—as necessarily producing such and such quantities of results, and as necessarily limited to those quantities.

Involved as are the phenomena of Evolution, it is not to be expected that a definite quantitative relation can in each case, or indeed in any case, be shown between the forces expended in successive phases. We have not adequate data for this; and probably shall never have them. The antecedents of the simpler forms of Evolution, belong to a remote past respecting which we can have nothing but inferential knowledge; while the antecedents of the only kind of Evolution which is traceable from beginning to end (namely, that of individual organisms) are too complex to be dealt with by exact methods. Hence we cannot hope to establish equivalence among the successive manifestations of force which each order of Evolution affords. The most we can hope is to establish a qualitative correlation that is indefinitely quantitative—quantitative in so far as involving something like a due proportion between causes and effects. If this can be done, however, some progress will be made towards the solution of our problem. Though it may be beyond our power to show a measurable relation between the force or group of forces which any phase of Evolution displays, and the force or group of forces immediately succeeding it; yet if we can show that there always are antecedent forces, and that the effects they produce always become the antecedents of further ones—if while unable to calculate how much of each change will be produced, we can prove that a change of that kind was necessitated—if we can discern even the vaguest correspondence between the amount of such change and the amount of the pre-existing force; we shall advance a step towards interpreting the transformation of the simple into the complex.

With the view of attempting this, let us now reconsider the different types of Evolution awhile since delineated: taking them in the same order as before.

§ 79. On contemplating our Solar System the first fact which strikes us, is, that all its members are in motion; and that their motion is of a two-fold, or rather of a three-fold, kind. Each planet and satellite has a movement of rotation and a movement of translation; besides the movement through space which all have in common with their rotating primary. Whence this unceasing change of place?

The hypothesis of Evolution supplies us with an answer. Impossible as it is to assign a reason for the pre-existence of matter in the diffused form supposed; yet assuming its pre-existence in that form, we have in the gravitation of its parts a cause of motion adequate to the results. So far too as the evidence carries us, we can perceive some quantitative relation between the motions produced, and the gravitative forces expended in producing them. The planets formed from that matter which has travelled the shortest distance towards the common centre of gravity, have the smallest velocities: the uniform law being that in advancing from the outermost to the innermost planets, the rate of orbital motion progressively increases. It may indeed be remarked that this is explicable on the teleological hypothesis; since it is a condition to equilibrium. But without dwelling on the fact that this is beside the question, it will suffice to point out that the like cannot be said of the planetary rotations. No such final cause can be assigned for the rapid axial movement of Jupiter and Saturn, or the slow axial movement of Mercury. But if in pursuance of the doctrine of correlation we look for the antecedents of these gyrations which all planets exhibit, the theory of Evolution furnishes us with equivalent ones; and ones which bear manifest quantitative relations to the motions displayed. For the planets that turn on their axes with extreme rapidity, are those having great masses and large orbits—those, that is, of which the once diffused elements moved to their centres of gravity through immense spaces, and so acquired high velocities. While, conversely, there has resulted the smallest axial movement where the orbit and the mass are both the smallest.

“But what,” it may be asked, “has in such case become of all that motion which brought about the aggregation of this diffused matter into solid bodies?” The rotation of each body can be but a residuary result of concentration—a result due to the imperfect balancing of gravitative movements from opposite points towards the common centre. Such gravitative movements from opposite points must in great measure destroy each other. What then has become of these mutually-destroyed motions? The answer which the doctrine of correlation suggests is—they must have been radiated in the form of heat and light. And this answer the evidence, so far as it goes, confirms. Apart from any speculation respecting the genesis of the solar system, the inquiries of geologists lead to the conclusion that the heat of the Earth’s still molten nucleus is but a remnant of the heat which once made molten the entire Earth. The mountainous surfaces of the Moon and of Venus (which alone are near enough to be scrutinized), indicating, as they do, crusts that have, like our own, been corrugated by contraction, imply that these bodies too have undergone refrigeration—imply in each of them a primitive heat, such as the hypothesis necessitates. Lastly, we have in the Sun a still-continued production of this heat and light, which must result from the arrest of diffused matter moving towards a common centre of gravity. Here also, as before, a quantitative relation is traceable. Among the bodies which make up the Solar System, those containing comparatively small amounts of matter whose centripetal motion has been destroyed, have already lost nearly all the produced heat: a result which their relatively larger surfaces have facilitated. But the Sun, a thousand times as great in mass as the largest planet, and having therefore to give off an enormously greater quantity of heat and light due to arrest of moving matter, is still radiating with great intensity.

Thus we see that when, in pursuance of the doctrine of correlation, we ask whence come the forces which our Solar System displays, the hypothesis of Evolution gives us a proximate explanation. If the Solar System once existed in a state of indefinite, incoherent homogeneity, and has progressed to its present state of definite, coherent heterogeneity; then the Motion, Heat, and Light now exhibited by its members, are interpretable as the correlatives of pre-existing forces; and between them and their antecedents we may discern relations that are not only qualitative, but also rudely quantitative. How matter came to exist under the form assumed, is a mystery which we must regard as ultimate. But grant such a previous form of existence, and the hypothesis of Evolution interpreted by the laws of correlation, explains for us the forces as we now see them.

§ 80. If we inquire the origin of those forces which have wrought the surface of our planet into its present shape, we find them traceable to the same primordial source as that just assigned. Assuming the solar system to have been evolved, then geologic changes are either direct or indirect results of the unexpended heat caused by nebular condensation. These changes are commonly divided into igneous and aqueous:—heads under which we may most conveniently consider them.

All those periodic disturbances which we call earthquakes, all those elevations and subsidences which they severally produce, all those accumulated effects of many such elevations and subsidences exhibited in ocean-basins, islands, continents, table-lands, mountain-chains, and all those formations which are distinguished as volcanic, geologists now regard as modifications of the Earth’s crust produced by the still-molten matter occupying its interior. However untenable may be the details of M. Elie de Beaumont’s theory, there is good reason to accept the general proposition that the disruptions and variations of level which take place at intervals on the terrestrial surface, are due to the progressive collapse of the Earth’s solid envelope upon its cooling and contracting nucleus. Even supposing that volcanic eruptions, extrusions of igneous rock, and upheaved mountain-chains, could be otherwise satisfactorily accounted for, which they cannot; it would be impossible otherwise to account for those wide-spread elevations and depressions whence continents and oceans result. The conclusion to be drawn is, then, that the forces displayed in these so-called igneous changes, are derived positively or negatively from the unexpended heat of the Earth’s interior. Such phenomena as the fusion or agglutination of sedimentary deposits, the warming of springs, the sublimation of metals into the fissures where we find them as ores, may be regarded as positive results of this residuary heat; while fractures of strata and alterations of level are its negative results, since they ensue on its escape. The original cause of all these effects is still, however, as it has been from the first, the gravitating movement of the Earth’s matter towards the Earth’s centre; seeing that to this is due both the internal heat itself and the collapse which takes place as it is radiated into space.

When we inquire under what forms previously existed the force which works out the geological changes classed as aqueous, the answer is less obvious. The effects of rain, of rivers, of winds, of waves, of marine currents, do not manifestly proceed from one general source. Analysis, nevertheless, proves to us that they have a common genesis. If we ask,—Whence comes the power of the river-current, bearing sediment down to the sea? the reply is,—The gravitation of water throughout the tract which this river drains. If we ask,—How came the water to be dispersed over this tract? the reply is,—It fell in the shape of rain. If we ask,—How came the rain to be in that position whence it fell? the reply is,—The vapour from which it was condensed was drifted there by the winds. If we ask,—How came this vapour to be at that elevation? the reply is,—It was raised by evaporation. And if we ask,—What force thus raised it? the reply is,—The sun’s heat. Just that amount of gravitative force which the sun’s heat overcame in raising the atoms of water, is given out again in the fall of those atoms to the same level. Hence the denudations effected by rain and rivers, during the descent of this condensed vapour to the level of the sea, are indirectly due to the sun’s heat. Similarly with the winds that transport the vapours hither and thither. Consequent as atmospheric currents are on differences of temperature (either general, as between the equatorial and polar regions, or special as between tracts of the Earth’s surface of unlike physical characters) all such currents are due to that source from which the varying quantities of heat proceed. And if the winds thus originate, so too do the waves raised by them on the sea’s surface. Whence it follows that whatever changes waves produce—the wearing away of shores, the breaking down of rocks into shingle, sand, and mud—are also traceable to the solar rays as their primary cause. The same may be said of ocean-currents. Generated as the larger ones are by the excess of heat which the ocean in tropical climates continually acquires from the Sun; and generated as the smaller ones are by minor local differences in the quantities of solar heat absorbed; it follows that the distribution of sediment and other geological processes which these marine currents effect, are affiliable upon the force which the sun radiates. The only aqueous agency otherwise originating is that of the tides—an agency which, equally with the others, is traceable to unexpended astronomical motion. But making allowance for the changes which this works, we reach the conclusion that the slow wearing down of continents and gradual filling up of seas, by rain, rivers, winds, waves, and ocean-streams, are the indirect effects of solar heat.

Thus the implication forced on us by the doctrine of correlation, that the forces which have moulded and re-moulded the Earth’s crust must have pre-existed under some other shape, is quite in conformity with the theory of Evolution; since this pre-supposes certain forces that are both adequate to the results, and cannot be expended without producing the results. We see that while the geological changes classed as igneous, result from the still-progressing motion of the Earth’s substance to its centre of gravity; the antagonistic changes classed as aqueous, result from the still-progressing motion of the Sun’s substance towards its centre of gravity—a motion which, transformed into heat and radiated to us, is here re-transformed, directly into motions of the gaseous and liquid matters on the Earth’s surface, and indirectly into motions of the solid matters.

§ 81. That the forces exhibited in vital actions, vegetal and animal, are similarly derived, is so obvious a deduction from the facts of organic chemistry, that it will meet with ready acceptance from readers acquainted with these facts. Let us note first the physiological generalizations; and then the generalizations which they necessitate.

Plant-life is all directly or indirectly dependant on the heat and light of the sun—directly dependant in the immense majority of plants, and indirectly dependant in plants which, as the fungi, flourish in the dark: since these, growing as they do at the expense of decaying organic matter, mediately draw their forces from the same original source. Each plant owes the carbon and hydrogen of which it mainly consists, to the carbonic acid and water contained in the surrounding air and earth. The carbonic acid and water must, however, be decomposed before their carbon and hydrogen can be assimilated. To overcome the powerful affinities which hold their elements together, requires the expenditure of force; and this force is supplied by the Sun. In what manner the decomposition is effected we do not know. But we know that when, under fit conditions, plants are exposed to the Sun’s rays, they give off oxygen and accumulate carbon and hydrogen. In darkness this process ceases. It ceases too when the quantities of light and heat received are greatly reduced, as in winter. Conversely, it is active when the light and heat are great, as in summer. And the like relation is seen in the fact that while plant-life is luxuriant in the tropics, it diminishes in temperate regions, and disappears as we approach the poles. Thus the irresistible inference is, that the forces by which plants abstract the materials of their tissues from surrounding inorganic compounds—the forces by which they grow and carry on their functions, are forces that previously existed as solar radiations.

That animal life is immediately or mediately dependant on vegetal life is a familiar truth; and that, in the main, the processes of animal life are opposite to those of vegetal life is a truth long current among men of science. Chemically considered, vegetal life is chiefly a process of de-oxidation, and animal life chiefly a process of oxidation: chiefly, we must say, because in so far as plants are expenders of force for the purposes of organization, they are oxidizers (as is shown by the exhalation of carbonic acid during the night); and animals, in some of their minor processes, are probably de-oxidizers. But with this qualification, the general truth is that while the plant, decomposing carbonic acid and water and liberating oxygen, builds up the detained carbon and hydrogen (along with a little nitrogen and small quantities of other elements elsewhere obtained) into branches, leaves, and seeds; the animal, consuming these branches, leaves, and seeds, and absorbing oxygen, recomposes carbonic acid and water, together with certain nitrogenous compounds in minor amounts. And while the decomposition effected by the plant, is at the expense of certain forces emanating from the sun, which are employed in overcoming the affinities of carbon and hydrogen for the oxygen united with them; the recomposition effected by the animal, is at the profit of these forces, which are liberated during the combination of such elements. Thus the movements, internal and external, of the animal, are re-appearances in new forms of a power absorbed by the plant under the shape of light and heat. Just as, in the manner above explained, the solar forces expended in raising vapour from the sea’s surface, are given out again in the fall of rain and rivers to the same level, and in the accompanying transfer of solid matters; so, the solar forces that in the plant raised certain chemical elements to a condition of unstable equilibrium, are given out again in the actions of the animal during the fall of these elements to a condition of stable equilibrium.

Besides thus tracing a qualitative correlation between these two great orders of organic activity, as well as between both of them and inorganic agencies, we may rudely trace a quantitative correlation. Where vegetal life is abundant, we usually find abundant animal life; and as we advance from torrid to temperate and frigid climates, the two decrease together. Speaking generally, the animals of each class reach a larger size in regions where vegetation is abundant, than in those where it is sparse. And further, there is a tolerably apparent connexion between the quantity of energy which each species of animal expends, and the quantity of force which the nutriment it absorbs gives out during oxidation.

Certain phenomena of development in both plants and animals, illustrate still more directly the ultimate truth enunciated. Pursuing the suggestion made by Mr. Grove, in the first edition of his work on the “Correlation of the Physical Forces,” that a connexion probably exists between the forces classed as vital and those classed as physical, Dr. Carpenter has pointed out that such a connexion is clearly exhibited during incubation. The transformation of the unorganized contents of an egg into the organized chick, is altogether a question of heat: withhold heat and the process does not commence; supply heat and it goes on while the temperature is maintained, but ceases when the egg is allowed to cool. The developmental changes can be completed only by keeping the temperature with tolerable constancy at a definite height for a definite time; that is—only by supplying a definite quantity of heat. In the metamorphoses of insects we may discern parallel facts. Experiments show not only that the hatching of their eggs is determined by temperature, but also that the evolution of the pupa into the imago is similarly determined; and may be immensely accelerated or retarded according as heat is artificially supplied or withheld. It will suffice just to add that the germination of plants presents like relations of cause and effect—relations so similar that detail is superfluous.

Thus then the various changes exhibited to us by the organic creation, whether considered as a whole, or in its two great divisions, or in its individual members, conform, so far as we can ascertain, to the law of correlation. Where, as in the transformation of an egg into a chick, we can investigate the phenomena apart from all complications, we find that the re-arrangement of parts which constitutes evolution, involves expenditure of a pre-existing force. Where it is not, as in the egg or the chrysalis, merely the change of a fixed quantity of matter into a new shape, but where, as in the growing plant or animal, we have an incorporation of matter existing outside, there is still a pre-existing external force at the cost of which this incorporation is effected. And where, as in the higher division of organisms, there remain over and above the forces expended in organization, certain surplus forces expended in movement, these too are indirectly derived from this same pre-existing external force.

§ 82. Even after all that has been said in the foregoing part of this work, many will be alarmed by the assertion, that the forces which we distinguish as mental, come within the same generalization. Yet there is no alternative but to make this assertion: the facts which justify, or rather which necessitate it, being abundant and conspicuous. They fall into the following groups.

All impressions from moment to moment made on our organs of sense, stand in direct correlation with physical forces existing externally. The modes of consciousness called pressure, motion, sound, light, heat, are effects produced in us by agencies which, as otherwise expended, crush or fracture pieces of matter, generate vibrations in surrounding objects, cause chemical combinations, and reduce substances from a solid to a liquid form. Hence if we regard the changes of relative position, of aggregation, or of chemical state, thus arising, as being transformed manifestations of the agencies from which they arise; so must we regard the sensations which such agencies produce in us, as new forms of the forces producing them. Any hesitation to admit that, between the physical forces and the sensations there exists a correlation like that between the physical forces themselves, must disappear on remembering how the one correlation, like the other, is not qualitative only but quantitative. Masses of matter which, by scales or dynamometer, are shown to differ greatly in weight, differ as greatly in the feelings of pressure they produce on our bodies. In arresting moving objects, the strains we are conscious of are proportionate to the momenta of such objects as otherwise measured. Under like conditions the impressions of sounds given to us by vibrating strings, bells, or columns of air, are found to vary in strength with the amount of force applied. Fluids or solids proved to be markedly contrasted in temperature by the different degrees of expansion they produce in the mercurial column, produce in us correspondingly different degrees of the sensation of heat. And similarly unlike intensities in our impressions of light, answer to unlike effects as measured by photometers.

Besides the correlation and equivalence between external physical forces, and the mental forces generated by them in us under the form of sensations, there is a correlation and equivalence between sensations and those physical forces which, in the shape of bodily actions, result from them. The feelings we distinguish as light, heat, sound, odour, taste, pressure, &.c, do not die away without immediate results; but are invariably followed by other manifestations of force. In addition to the excitements of secreting organs, that are in some cases traceable, there arises a contraction of the involuntary muscles, or of the voluntary muscles, or of both. Sensations increase the action of the heart—slightly when they are slight; markedly when they are marked; and recent physiological inquiries imply not only that contraction of the heart is excited by every sensation, but also that the muscular fibres throughout the whole, vascular system, are at the same time more or less contracted. The respiratory muscles, too, are stimulated into greater activity by sensations. The rate of breathing is visibly and audibly augmented both by pleasurable and painful impressions on the nerves, when these reach any intensity. It has even of late been shown that inspiration becomes more frequent on transition from darkness into sunshine,—a result probably due to the increased amount of direct and indirect nervous stimulation involved. When the quantity of sensation is great, it generates contractions of the voluntary muscles, as well as of the involuntary ones. Unusual excitement of the nerves of touch, as by tickling, is followed by almost incontrollable movements of the limbs. Violent pains cause violent struggles. The start that succeeds a loud sound, the wry face produced by the taste of anything extremely disagreeable, the jerk with which the hand or foot is snatched out of water that is very hot, are instances of the transformation of feeling: into motion; and in these cases, as in all others, it is manifest that the quantity of bodily action is proportionate to the quantity of sensation. Even where from pride there is a suppression of the screams and groans expressive of great pain (also indirect results of muscular contraction), we may still see in the clenching of the hands, the knitting of the brows, and the setting of the teeth, that the bodily actions developed are as great, though less obtrusive in their results. If we take emotions instead of sensations, we find the correlation and equivalence equally manifest. Not only are the modes of consciousness directly produced in us by physical forces, re-transformable into physical forces under the form of muscular motions and the changes they initiate; but the like is true of those modes of consciousness which are not directly produced in us by the physical forces. Emotions of moderate intensity, like sensations of moderate intensity, generate little beyond excitement of the heart and vascular system, joined sometimes with increased action of glandular organs. But as the emotions rise in strength, the muscles of the face, body, and limbs, begin to move. Of examples may be mentioned the frowns, dilated nostrils, and stampings of anger; the contracted brows, and wrung hands, of grief; the smiles and leaps of joy; and the frantic struggles of terror or despair. Passing over certain apparent, but only apparent, exceptions, we see that whatever be the kind of emotion, there is a manifest relation between its amount, and the amount of muscular action induced: alike from the erect carriage and elastic step of exhilaration, up to the dancings of immense delight, and from the fidgetiness of impatience up to the almost convulsive movements accompanying great mental agony. To these several orders of evidence must be joined the further one, that between our feelings and those voluntary motions into which they are transformed, there comes the sensation of muscular tension, standing in manifest correlation with both—a correlation that is distinctly quantitative: the sense of strain varying, other things equal, directly as the quantity of momentum generated.

“But how,” it may be asked, “can we interpret by the law of correlation the genesis of those thoughts and feelings which, instead of following external stimuli, arise spontaneously? Between the indignation caused by an insult, and the loud sounds or violent acts that follow, the alleged connexion may hold; but whence come the crowd of ideas and the mass of feelings that expend themselves in these demonstrations? They are clearly not equivalents of the sensations produced by the words on the ears; for the same words otherwise arranged, would not have caused them. The thing said bears to the mental action it excites, much the same relation that the pulling of a trigger bears to the subsequent explosion—does not produce the power, but merely liberates it. Whence then arises this immense amount of nervous energy which a whisper or a glance may call forth?” The reply is, that the immediate correlates of these and other such modes of consciousness, are not to be found in the agencies acting on us externally, but in certain internal agencies. The forces called vital, which we have seen to be correlates of the forces called physical, are the immediate sources of these thoughts and feelings; and are expended in producing them. The proofs of this are various. Here are some of them. It is a conspicuous fact that mental action is contingent on the presence of a certain nervous apparatus; and that, greatly obscured as it is by numerous and involved conditions, a general relation may be traced between the size of this apparatus and the quantity of mental action as measured by its results. Further, this apparatus has a particular chemical constitution on which its activity depends; and there is one element in it between the amount of which and the amount of function performed, there is an ascertained connexion: the proportion of phosphorus present in the brain being the smallest in infancy, old age and idiotcy, and the greatest during the prime of life. Note next, that the evolution of thought and emotion varies, other things equal, with the supply of blood to the brain. On the one hand, a cessation of the cerebral circulation, from arrest of the heart’s action, immediately entails unconsciousness. On the other hand, excess of cerebral circulation (unless it is such as to cause undue pressure) results in an excitement rising finally to delirium. Not the quantity only, but also the condition of the blood passing through the nervous system, influences the mental manifestations. The arterial currents must be duly aerated, to produce the normal amount of cerebration. At the one extreme, we find that if the blood is not allowed to exchange its carbonic acid for oxygen, there results asphyxia, with its accompanying stoppage of ideas and feelings. While at the other extreme, we find that by the inspiration of nitrous oxide, there is produced an excessive, and indeed irrepressible, nervous activity. Besides the connexion between the development of the mental forces and the presence of sufficient oxygen in the cerebral arteries, there is a kindred connexion between the development of the mental forces and the presence in the cerebral arteries of certain other elements. There must be supplied special materials for the nutrition of the nervous centres, as well as for their oxidation. And how what we may call the quantity of consciousness, is, other things equal, determined by the constituents of the blood, is unmistakably seen in the exaltation that follows when certain chemical compounds, as alcohol and the vegeto-alkalies, are added to it. The gentle exhilaration which tea and coffee create, is familiar to all; and though the gorgeous imaginations and intense feelings of happiness produced by opium and hashish, have been experienced by few, (in this country at least,) the testimony of those who have experienced them is sufficiently conclusive. Yet another proof that the genesis of the mental energies is immediately dependent on chemical change, is afforded by the fact, that the effete products separated from the blood by the kidneys, vary in character with the amount of cerebral action. Excessive activity of mind is habitually accompanied by the excretion of an unusual quantity of the alkaline phosphates. Conditions of abnormal nervous excitement bring on analogous effects. And the “peculiar odour of the insane,” implying as it does morbid products in the perspiration, shows a connexion between insanity and a special composition of the circulating fluids—a composition which, whether regarded as cause or consequence, equally implies correlation of the mental and the physical forces. Lastly we have to note that this correlation too, is, so far as we can trace it, quantitative. Provided the conditions to nervous action are not infringed on, and the concomitants are the same, there is a tolerably constant ratio between the amounts of the antecedents and consequents. Within the implied limits, nervous stimulants and anÆsthetics produce effects on the thoughts and feelings, proportionate to the quantities administered. And conversely, where the thoughts and feelings form the initial term of the relation, the degree of reaction on the bodily energies is great, in proportion as they are great: reaching in extreme cases a total prostration of physique.

Various classes of facts thus unite to prove that the law of metamorphosis, which holds among the physical forces, holds equally between them and the mental forces. Those modes of the Unknowable which we call motion, heat, light, chemical affinity, &c., are alike transformable into each other, and into those modes of the Unknowable which we distinguish as sensation, emotion, thought: these, in their turns, being directly or indirectly re-transformable into the original shapes. That no idea or feeling arises, save as a result of some physical force expended in producing it, is fast becoming a common place of science; and whoever duly weighs the evidence will see, that nothing but an overwhelming bias in favour of a pre-conceived theory, can explain its non-acceptance. How this metamorphosis takes place—how a force existing as motion, heat, or light, can become a mode of consciousness—how it is possible for aerial vibrations to generate the sensation we call sound, or for the forces liberated by chemical changes in the brain to give rise to emotion—these are mysteries which it is impossible to fathom. But they are not profounder mysteries than the transformations of the physical forces into each other. They are not more completely beyond our comprehension than the natures of Mind and Matter. They have simply the same insolubility as all other ultimate questions. We can learn nothing more than that here is one of the uniformities in the order of phenomena.

§ 83. Of course if the law of correlation and equivalence holds of the forces we class as vital and mental, it must hold also of those which we class as social. Whatever takes place in a society is due to organic or inorganic agencies, or to a combination of the two—results either from the undirected physical forces around, from these physical forces as directed by men, or from the forces of the men themselves. No change can occur in its organization, its modes of activity, or the effects it produces on the face of the Earth, but what proceeds, mediately or immediately, from these. Let us consider first the correlation between the phenomena which societies display, and the vital phenomena.

Social power and life varies, other things equal, with the population. Though different races, differing widely in their fitness for combination, show us that the forces manifested in a society are not necessarily proportionate to the number of people; yet we see that under given conditions, the forces manifested are confined within the limits which the number of people imposes. A small society, no matter how superior the character of its members, cannot exhibit the same quantity of social action as a large one. The production and distribution of commodities must be on a comparatively small scale. A multitudinous press, a prolific literature, or a massive political agitation, is not possible. And there can be but a small total of results in the shape of art-products and scientific discoveries. The correlation of the social with the physical forces through the intermediation of the vital ones, is, however, most clearly shown in the different amounts of activity displayed by the same society according as its members are supplied with different amounts of force from the external world. In the effects of good and bad harvests, we yearly see this relation illustrated. A greatly deficient yield of wheat is soon followed by a diminution of business. Factories are worked half-time, or close entirely; railway traffic falls; retailers find their sales much lessened; house-building is almost suspended; and if the scarcity rises to famine, a thinning of the population still more diminishes the industrial vivacity. Conversely, an unusually abundant harvest, occurring under conditions not otherwise unfavourable, both excites the old producing and distributing agencies and sets up new ones. The surplus social energy finds vent in speculative enterprises. Capital seeking investment carries out inventions that have been lying unutilized. Labour is expended in opening new channels of communication. There is increased encouragement to those who furnish the luxuries of life and minister to the Æsthetic faculties. There are more marriages, and a greater rate of increase in population. Thus the social organism grows larger, more complex, and more active. When, as happens with most civilized nations, the whole of the materials for subsistence are not drawn from the area inhabited, but are partly imported, the people are still supported by certain harvests elsewhere grown at the expense of certain physical forces. Our own cotton-spinners and weavers supply the most conspicuous instance of a section in one nation living, in great part, on imported commodities, purchased by the labour they expend on other imported commodities. But though the social activities of Lancashire are due chiefly to materials not drawn from our own soil, they are none the less evolved from physical forces elsewhere stored up in fit forms and then brought here.

If we ask whence come these physical forces from which, through the intermediation of the vital forces, the social forces arise, the reply is of course as heretofore—the solar radiations. Based as the life of a society is on animal and vegetal products; and dependent as these animal and vegetal products are on the light and heat of the sun; it follows that the changes going on in societies are effects of forces having a common origin with those which produce all the other orders of changes that have been analyzed. Not only is the force expended by the horse harnessed to the plough, and by the labourer guiding it, derived from the same reservoir as is the force of the falling cataract and the roaring hurricane; but to this same reservoir are eventually traceable those subtler and more complex manifestations of force which humanity, as socially embodied, evolves. The assertion is a startling one, and by many will be thought ludicrous; but it is an unavoidable deduction which cannot here be passed over.

Of the physical forces that are directly transformed into social ones, the like is to be said. Currents of air and water, which before the use of steam were the only agencies brought in aid of muscular effort for the performance of industrial processes, are, as we have seen, generated by the heat of the sun. And the inanimate power that now, to so vast an extent, supplements human labour, is similarly derived. The late George Stephenson was one of the first to recognize the fact that the force impelling his locomotive, originally emanated from the sun. Step by step we go back—from the motion of the piston to the evaporation of the water; thence to the heat evolved during the oxidation of coal; thence to the assimilation of carbon by the plants of whose imbedded remains coal consists; thence to the carbonic acid from which their carbon was obtained; and thence to the rays of light that de-oxidized this carbonic acid. Solar forces millions of years ago expended on the Earth’s vegetation, and since locked up beneath its surface, now smelt the metals required for our machines, turn the lathes by which the machines are shaped, work them when put together, and distribute the fabrics they produce. And in so far as economy of labour makes possible the support of a larger population; gives a surplus of human power that would else be absorbed in manual occupations; and so facilitates the development of higher kinds of activity; it is clear that these social forces which are directly correlated with physical forces anciently derived from the sun, are only less important than those whose correlates are the vital forces recently derived from it.

§ 84. Regarded as an induction, the doctrine set forth in this chapter will most likely be met by a demurrer. Many who admit that among physical phenomena at least, the correlation of forces is now established, will probably say that inquiry has not yet gone far enough to enable us to predicate equivalence. And in respect of the forces classed as vital, mental, and social, the evidence assigned, however little to be explained away, they will consider by no means conclusive even of correlation, much less of equivalence.

To those who think thus, it must now however be pointed out, that the universal truth above illustrated under its various aspects, is a necessary corollary from the persistence of force. Setting out with the proposition that force can neither come into existence, nor cease to exist, the several foregoing general conclusions inevitably follow. Each manifestation of force can be interpreted only as the effect of some antecedent force: no matter whether it be an inorganic action, an animal movement, a thought, or a feeling. Either this must be conceded, or else it must be asserted that our successive states of consciousness are self-created. Either mental energies, as well as bodily ones, are quantitatively correlated to certain energies expended in their production, and to certain other energies which they initiate; or else nothing must become something and something must become nothing. The alternatives are, to deny the persistence of force, or to admit that every physical and psychial change is generated by certain antecedent forces, and that from given amounts of such forces neither more nor less of such physical and psychial changes can result. And since the persistence of force, being a datum of consciousness, cannot be denied, its unavoidable corollary must be accepted. This corollary cannot indeed be made more certain by accumulating illustrations. The truth as arrived at deductively, cannot be inductively confirmed. For every one of such facts as those above detailed, is established only through the indirect assumption of that persistence of force, from which it really follows as a direct consequence. The most exact proof of correlation and equivalence which it is possible to reach by experimental inquiry, is that based on measurement of the forces expended and the forces produced. But, as was shown in the last chapter, any such process of measurement implies the use of some unit of force which is assumed to remain constant; and for this assumption there can be no warrant but that it is a corollary from the persistence of force. How then can any reasoning based on this corollary, prove the equally direct corollary that when a given quantity of force ceases to exist under one form, an equal quantity must come into existence under some other form or forms? Clearly the À priori truth expressed in this last corollary, cannot be more firmly established by any À posteriori proofs which the first corollary helps us to.

“What then,” it may be asked, “is the use of these investigations by which the correlation and equivalence of forces is sought to be established as an inductive truth? Surely it will not be alleged that they are useless. Yet if this correlation cannot be made more certain by them than it is already, does not their uselessness necessarily follow?” No. They are of value as disclosing the many particular implications which the general truth does not specify. They are of value as teaching us how much of one mode of force is the equivalent of so much of another mode. They are of value as determining under what conditions each metamorphosis occurs. And they are of value as leading us to inquire in what shape the remnant of force has escaped, when the apparent results are not equivalent to the cause.

§ 85. The Absolute Cause of changes, inclusive of those constituting Evolution, is not less incomprehensible in respect of the unity or duality of its action, than in all other respects. We cannot decide between the alternative suppositions, that phenomena are due to the variously-conditioned workings of a single force, and that they are due to the conflict of two forces. Whether, as some contend, everything is explicable on the hypothesis of universal pressure, whence what we call tension results differentially from inequalities of pressure in opposite directions; or whether, as might be with equal propriety contended, things are to be explained on the hypothesis of universal tension, from which pressure is a differential result; or whether, as most physicists hold, pressure and tension everywhere co-exist; are questions which it is impossible to settle. Each of these three suppositions makes the facts comprehensible, only by postulating an inconceivability. To assume a universal pressure, confessedly requires us to assume an infinite plenum—an unlimited space full of something which is everywhere pressed by something beyond; and this assumption cannot be mentally realized. That universal tension is the immediate agency to which phenomena are due, is an idea open to a parallel and equally fatal objection. And however verbally intelligible may be the proposition that pressure and tension everywhere co-exist, yet we cannot truly represent to ourselves one ultimate unit of matter as drawing another while resisting it.

Nevertheless, this last belief is one which we are compelled to entertain. Matter cannot be conceived except as manifesting forces of attraction and repulsion. Body is distinguished in our consciousness from Space, by its opposition to our muscular energies; and this opposition we feel under the two-fold form of a cohesion that hinders our efforts to rend, and a resistance that hinders our efforts to compress. Without resistance there can be merely empty extension. Without cohesion there can be no resistance. Probably this conception of antagonistic forces, is originally derived from the antagonism of our flexor and extensor muscles. But be this as it may, we are obliged to think of all objects as made up of parts that attract and repel each other; since this is the form of our experience of all objects.

By a higher abstraction results the conception of attractive and repulsive forces pervading space. We cannot dissociate force from occupied extension, or occupied extension from force; because we have never an immediate consciousness of either in the absence of the other. Nevertheless, we have abundant proof that force is exercised through what appears to our senses a vacuity. Mentally to represent this exercise, we are hence obliged to fill the apparent vacuity with a species of matter—an etherial medium. The constitution we assign to this etherial medium, however, like the constitution we assign to solid substance, is necessarily an abstract of the impressions received from tangible bodies. The opposition to pressure which a tangible body offers to us, is not shown in one direction only, but in all directions; and so likewise is its tenacity. Suppose countless lines radiating from its centre on every side, and it resists along each of these lines and coheres along each of these lines. Hence the constitution of those ultimate units through the instrumentality of which phenomena are interpreted. Be they atoms of ponderable matter or molecules of ether, the properties we conceive them to possess are nothing else than these perceptible properties idealized. Centres of force attracting and repelling each other in all directions, are simply insensible portions of matter having the endowments common to sensible portions of matter—endowments of which we cannot by any mental effort divest them. In brief, they are the invariable elements of the conception of matter, abstracted from its variable elements—size, form, quality, &c. And so to interpret manifestations of force which cannot be tactually experienced, we use the terms of thought supplied by our tactual experiences; and this for the sufficient reason that we must use these or none.

After all that has been before shown, and after the hint given above, it needs scarcely be said that these universally co-existent forces of attraction and repulsion, must not be taken as realities, but as our symbols of the reality. They are the forms under which the workings of the Unknowable are cognizable by us—modes of the Unconditioned as presented under the conditions of our consciousness. But while knowing that the ideas thus generated in us are not absolutely true, we may unreservedly surrender ourselves to them as relatively true; and may proceed to evolve a series of deductions having a like relative truth.

§ 86. From universally co-existent forces of attraction and repulsion, there result certain laws of direction of all movement. Where attractive forces alone are concerned, or rather are alone appreciable, movement takes place in the direction of their resultant; which may, in a sense, be called the line of greatest traction. Where repulsive forces alone are concerned, or rather are alone appreciable, movement takes place along their resultant; which is usually known as the line of least resistance. And where both attractive and repulsive forces are concerned, or are appreciable, movement takes place along the resultant of all the tractions and resistances. Strictly speaking, this last is the sole law; since, by the hypothesis, both forces are everywhere in action. But very frequently the one kind of force is so immensely in excess that the effect of the other kind may be left out of consideration. Practically we may say that a body falling to the Earth, follows the line of greatest traction; since, though the resistance of the air must, if the body be irregular, cause some divergence from this line, (quite perceptible with feathers and leaves,) yet ordinarily the divergence is so slight that we may omit it. In the same manner, though the course taken by the steam from an exploding boiler, differs somewhat from that which it would take were gravitation out of the question; yet, as gravitation affects its course infinitesimally, we are justified in asserting that the escaping steam follows the line of least resistance. Motion then, we may say, always follows the line of greatest traction, or the line of least resistance, or the resultant of the two: bearing in mind that though the last is alone strictly true, the others are in many cases sufficiently near the truth for practical purposes.

Movement set up in any direction is itself a cause of further movement in that direction, since it is the embodiment of a surplus force in that direction. This holds equally with the transit of matter through space, the transit of matter through matter, and the transit through matter of any kind of vibration. In the case of matter moving through space, this principle is expressed in the law of inertia—a law on which the calculations of physical astronomy are wholly based. In the case of matter moving through matter, we trace the same truth under the familiar experience that any breach made by one solid through another, or any channel formed by a fluid through a solid, becomes a route along which, other things equal, subsequent movements of like nature take place. And in the case of motion passing through matter under the form of an impulse communicated from part to part, the facts of magnetization go to show that the establishment of undulations along certain lines, determines their continuance along those lines.

It further follows from the conditions, that the direction of movement can rarely if ever be perfectly straight. For matter in motion to pursue continuously the exact line in which it sets out, the forces of attraction and repulsion must be symmetrically disposed around its path; and the chances against this are infinitely great. The impossibility of making an absolutely true edge to a bar of metal—the fact that all which can be done by the best mechanical appliances, is to reduce the irregularities of such an edge to amounts that cannot be perceived without magnifiers—sufficiently exemplifies how, in consequence of the unsymmetrical distribution of forces around the line of movement, the movement is rendered more or less indirect. It may be well to add that in proportion as the forces at work are numerous and varied, the curve a moving body describes is necessarily complex: witness the contrast between the flight of an arrow and the gyrations of a stick tossed about by breakers.

We have now to trace these laws of direction of movement throughout the process of Evolution, under its various forms. We have to note how every change in the arrangement of parts, takes place along the line of greatest traction, of least resistance, or of their resultant; how the setting up of motion along a certain line, becomes a cause of its continuance along that line; how, nevertheless, change of relations to external forces, always renders this line indirect; and how the degree of its indirectness increases with every addition to the number of influences at work.

§ 87. If we assume the first stage in nebular condensation to be the precipitation into flocculi of denser matter previously diffused through a rarer medium, (a supposition both physically justified, and in harmony with certain astronomical observations,) we shall find that nebular motion is interpretable in pursuance of the above general laws. Each portion of such vapour-like matter must begin to move towards the common centre of gravity. The tractive forces which would of themselves carry it in a straight line to the centre of gravity, are opposed by the resistant forces of the medium through which it is drawn. The direction of movement must be the resultant of these—a resultant which, in consequence of the unsymmetrical form of the flocculus, must be a curve directed, not to the centre of gravity, but towards one side of it. And it may be readily shown that in an aggregation of such flocculi, severally thus moving, there must, by composition of forces, eventually result a rotation of the whole nebula in one direction.

Merely noting this hypothetical illustration for the purpose of showing how the law applies to the case of nebular evolution, supposing it to have taken place, let us pass to the phenomena of the Solar System as now exhibited. Here the general principles above set forth are every instant exemplified. Each planet and satellite has a momentum which would, if acting alone, carry it forward in the direction it is at any instant pursuing. This momentum hence acts as a resistance to motion in any other direction. Each planet and satellite, however, is drawn by a force which, if unopposed, would take it in a straight line towards its primary. And the resultant of these two forces is that curve which it describes—a curve manifestly consequent on the unsymmetrical distribution of the forces around its path. This path, when more closely examined, supplies us with further illustrations. For it is not an exact circle or ellipse; which it would be were the tangential and centripetal forces the only ones concerned. Adjacent members of the Solar System, ever varying in their relative positions, cause what we call perturbations; that is, slight divergences in various directions from that circle or ellipse which the two chief forces would produce. These perturbations severally show us in minor degrees, how the line of movement is the resultant of all the forces engaged; and how this line becomes more complicated in proportion as the forces are multiplied. If instead of the motions of the planets and satellites as wholes, we consider the motions of their parts, we meet with comparatively complex illustrations. Every portion of the Earth’s substance in its daily rotation, describes a curve which is in the main a resultant of that resistance which checks its nearer approach to the centre of gravity, that momentum which would carry it off at a tangent, and those forces of gravitation and cohesion which keep it from being so carried off. If this axial motion be compounded with the orbital motion, the course of each part is seen to be a much more involved one. And we find it to have a still greater complication on taking into account that lunar attraction which mainly produces the tides and the precession of the equinoxes.

§ 88. We come next to terrestrial changes: present ones as observed, and past ones as inferred by geologists. Let us set out with the hourly-occurring alterations in the Earth’s atmosphere; descend to the slower alterations in progress on its surface; and then to the still slower ones going on beneath.

Masses of air, absorbing heat from surfaces warmed by the sun, expand, and so lessen the weight of the atmospheric columns of which they are parts. Hence they offer to adjacent atmospheric columns, diminished lateral resistance; and these, moving in the directions of the diminished resistance, displace the expanded air; while this, pursuing an upward course, displays a motion along that line in which there is least pressure. When again, by the ascent of such heated masses from extended areas like the torrid zone, there is produced at the upper surface of the atmosphere, a protuberance beyond the limits of equilibrium—when the air forming this protuberance begins to overflow laterally towards the poles; it does so because, while the tractive force of the Earth is nearly the same, the lateral resistance is greatly diminished. And throughout the course of each current thus generated, as well as throughout the course of each counter-current flowing: into the vacuum that is left, the direction is always the resultant of the Earth’s tractive force and the resistance offered by the surrounding masses of air: modified only by conflict with other currents similarly determined, and by collision with prominences on the Earth’s crust. The movements of water, in both its gaseous and liquid states, furnish further examples. In conformity with the mechanical theory of heat, it may be shown that evaporation is the escape of particles of water in the direction of least resistance; and that as the resistance (which is due to the pressure of the water diffused in a gaseous state) diminishes, the evaporation increases. Conversely, that rushing together of particles called condensation, which takes place when any portion of atmospheric vapour has its temperature much lowered, may be interpreted as a diminution of the mutual pressure among the condensing particles, while the pressure of surrounding particles remains the same; and so is a motion taking place in the direction of lessened resistance. In the course followed by the resulting rain-drops, we have one of the simplest instances of the joint effect of the two antagonist forces. The Earth’s attraction, and the resistance of atmospheric currents ever varying in direction and intensity, give as their resultants, lines which incline to the horizon in countless different degrees and undergo perpetual variations. More clearly still is the law exemplified by these same rain-drops when they reach the ground. In the course they take while trickling over its surface, in every rill, in every larger stream, and in every river, we see them descending as straight as the antagonism of surrounding objects permits. From moment to moment, the motion of water towards the Earth’s centre is opposed by the solid matter around and under it; and from moment to moment its route is the resultant of the lines of greatest traction and least resistance. So far from a cascade furnishing, as it seems to do, an exception, it furnishes but another illustration. For though all solid obstacles to a vertical fall of the water are removed, yet the water’s horizontal momentum is an obstacle; and the parabola in which the stream leaps from the projecting ledge, is generated by the combined gravitation and momentum. It may be well just to draw attention to the degree of complexity here produced in the line of movement by the variety of forces at work. In atmospheric currents, and still more clearly in water-courses (to which might be added ocean-streams), the route followed is too complex to be defined, save as a curve of three dimensions with an ever varying equation.

The Earth’s solid crust undergoes changes that supply another group of illustrations. The denudation of lands and the depositing of the removed sediment in new strata at the bottoms of seas and lakes, is a process throughout which motion is obviously determined in the same way as is that of the water effecting the transport. Again, though we have no direct inductive proof that the forces classed as igneous, expend themselves along lines of least resistance; yet what little we know of them is in harmony with the belief that they do so. Earthquakes continually revisit the same localities, and special tracts undergo for long periods together successive elevations or subsidences,—facts which imply that already-fractured portions of the Earth’s crust are those most prone to yield under the pressure caused by further contractions. The distribution of volcanoes along certain lines, as well as the frequent recurrence of eruptions from the same vents, are facts of like meaning.

§ 89. That organic growth takes place in the direction of least resistance, is a proposition that has been set forth and illustrated by Mr. James Hinton, in the Medico-Chirurgical Review for October, 1858. After detailing a few of the early observations which led him to this generalization, he formulates it thus:—

“Organic form is the result of motion.”

“Motion takes the direction of least resistance.”

“Therefore organic form is the result of motion in the direction of least resistance.”

After an elucidation and defence of this position, Mr. Hinton proceeds to interpret, in conformity with it, sundry phenomena of development. Speaking of plants he says:—

“The formation of the root furnishes a beautiful illustration of the law of least resistance, for it grows by insinuating itself, cell by cell, through the interstices of the soil; it is by such minute additions that it increases, winding and twisting whithersoever the obstacles it meets in its path determine, and growing there most, where the nutritive materials are added to it most abundantly. As we look on the roots of a mighty tree, it appears to us as if they had forced themselves with giant violence into the solid earth. But it is not so; they were led on gently, cell added to cell, softly as the dews descended, and the loosened earth made way. Once formed, indeed, they expand with an enormous power, but the spongy condition of the growing radicles utterly forbids the supposition that they are forced into the earth. Is it not probable, indeed, that the enlargement of the roots already formed may crack the surrounding soil, and help to make the interstices into which the new rootlets grow?” ***

“Throughout almost the whole of organic nature the spiral form is more or less distinctly marked. Now, motion under resistance takes a spiral direction, as may be seen by the motion of a body rising or falling through water. A bubble rising rapidly in water describes a spiral closely resembling a corkscrew, and a body of moderate specific gravity dropped into water may be seen to fall in a curved direction, the spiral tendency of which may be distinctly observed. *** In this prevailing spiral form of organic bodies, therefore, it appears to me, that there is presented a strong prima facie case for the view I have maintained. *** The spiral form of the branches of many trees is very apparent, and the universally spiral arrangement of the leaves around the stem of plants needs only to be referred to. *** The heart commences as a spiral turn, and in its perfect form a manifest spiral may be traced through the left ventricle, right ventricle, right auricle, left auricle and appendix. And what is the spiral turn in which the heart commences but a necessary result of the lengthening, under a limit, of the cellular mass of which it then consists?” ***

“Every one must have noticed the peculiar curling up of the young leaves of the common fern. The appearance is as if the leaf were rolled up, but in truth this form is merely a phenomenon of growth. The curvature results from the increase of the leaf, it is only another form of the wrinkling up, or turning at right angles by extension under limit.”

“The rolling up or imbrication of the petals in many flower-buds is a similar thing; at an early period the small petals may be seen lying side by side, afterwards growing within the capsule, they become folded round one another.” ***

“If a flower-bud be opened at a sufficiently early period, the stamens will be found as if moulded in the cavity between the pistil and the corolla, which cavity the antlers exactly fill; the stalks lengthen at an after period. I have noticed also in a few instances, that in those flowers in which the petals are imbricated, or twisted together, the pistil is tapering as growing up between the petals; in some flowers which have the petals so arranged in the bud as to form a dome (as the hawthorn; e. g.), the pistil is flattened at the apex, and in the bud occupies a space precisely limited by the stamens below, and the enclosing petals above and at the sides. I have not, however, satisfied myself that this holds good in all cases.”

Without endorsing all Mr. Hinton’s illustrations, to some of which exception might be taken, his conclusion may be accepted as a large instalment of the truth. It is, however, to be remarked, that in the case of organic growth, as in all other cases, the line of movement is in strictness the resultant of tractive and resistant forces; and that the tractive forces here form so considerable an element that the formula is scarcely complete without them. The shapes of plants are manifestly modified by gravitation: the direction of each branch is not what it would have been were the tractive force of the Earth absent; and every flower and leaf is somewhat altered in the course of development by the weight of its parts. Though in animals such effects are less conspicuous, yet the instances in which flexible organs have their directions in great measure determined by gravity, justify the assertion that throughout the whole organism the forms of parts must be affected by this force.

The organic movements which constitute growth, are not, however, the only organic movements to be interpreted. There are also those which constitute function. And throughout these the same general principles are discernible. That the vessels along which blood, lymph, bile, and all the secretions, find their ways, are channels of least resistance, is a fact almost too conspicuous to be named as an illustration. Less conspicuous, however, is the truth, that the currents setting along these vessels are affected by the tractive force of the Earth: witness varicose veins; witness the relief to an inflamed part obtained by raising it; witness the congestion of head and face produced by stooping. And in the fact that dropsy in the legs gets greater by day and decreases at night, while, conversely, that oedematous fullness under the eyes common in debility, grows worse during the hours of reclining and decreases after getting up, shows us how the transudation of fluid through the walls of the capillaries, varies according as change of position changes the effect of gravity in different parts of the body.

It may be well in passing just to note the bearing of the principle on the development of species. From a dynamic point of view, “natural selection” is the evolution of Life along lines of least resistance. The multiplication of any kind of plant or animal in localities that are favourable to it, is a growth where the antagonistic forces are less than elsewhere. And the preservation of varieties that succeed better than their allies in coping with surrounding conditions, is the continuance of vital movement in those directions where the obstacles to it are most eluded.

§ 90. Throughout the phenomena of mind the law enunciated is not so readily established. In a large part of them, as those of thought and emotion, there is no perceptible movement. Even in sensation and volition, which show us in one part of the body an effect produced by a force applied to another part, the intermediate movement is inferential rather than visible. Such indeed are the difficulties that it is not possible here to do more than briefly indicate the proofs which might be given did space permit.

Supposing the various forces throughout an organism to be previously in equilibrium, then any part which becomes the seat of a further force, added or liberated, must be one from which the force, being resisted by smaller forces around, will initiate motion towards some other part of the organism. If elsewhere in the organism there is a point at which force is being expended, and which so is becoming minus a force which it before had, instead of plus a force which it before had not, and thus is made a point at which the re-action against surrounding forces is diminished; then, manifestly, a motion taking place between the first and the last of these points is a motion along the line of least resistance. Now a sensation implies a force added to, or evolved in, that part of the organism which is its seat; while a mechanical movement implies an expenditure or loss of force in that part of the organism which is its seat. Hence if, as we find to be the fact, motion is habitually propagated from those parts of an organism to which the external world adds forces in the shape of nervous impressions, to those parts of an organism which react on the external world through muscular contractions, it is simply a fulfilment of the law above enunciated. From this general conclusion we may pass to a more special one. When there is anything in the circumstances of an animal’s life, involving that a sensation in one particular place is habitually followed by a contraction in another particular place—when there is thus a frequently-repeated motion through the organism between these places; what must be the result as respects the line along which the motions take place? Restoration of equilibrium between the points at which the forces have been increased and decreased, must take place through some channel. If this channel is affected by the discharge—if the obstructive action of the tissues traversed, involves any reaction upon them, deducting from their obstructive power; then a subsequent motion between these two points will meet with less resistance along this channel than the previous motion met with; and will consequently take this channel still more decidedly. If so, every repetition will still further diminish the resistance offered by this route; and hence will gradually be formed between the two a permanent line of communication, differing greatly from the surrounding tissue in respect of the ease with which force traverses it. We see, therefore, that if between a particular impression and a particular motion associated with it, there is established a connexion producing what is called reflex action, the law that motion follows the line of least resistance, and that, if the conditions remain constant, resistance in any direction is diminished by motion occurring in that direction, supplies an explanation. Without further details it will be manifest that a like interpretation may be given to the succession of all other nervous changes. If in the surrounding world there are objects, attributes, or actions, that usually occur together, the effects severally produced by them in the organism will become so connected by those repetitions which we call experience, that they also will occur together. In proportion to the frequency with which any external connexion of phenomena is experienced, will be the strength of the answering internal connexion of nervous states. Thus there will arise all degrees of cohesion among nervous states, as there are all degrees of commonness among the surrounding co-existences and sequences that generate them: whence must result a general correspondence between associated ideas and associated actions in the environment.^[13]

The relation between emotions and actions may be similarly construed. As a first illustration let us observe what happens with emotions that are undirected by volitions. These, like feelings in general, expend themselves in generating organic changes, and chiefly in muscular contractions. As was pointed out in the last chapter, there result movements of the involuntary and voluntary muscles, that are great in proportion as the emotions are strong. It remains here to be pointed out, however, that the order in which these muscles are affected is explicable only on the principle above set forth. Thus, a pleasurable or painful state of mind of but slight intensity, does little more than increase the pulsations of the heart. Why? For the reason that the relation between nervous excitement and vascular contraction, being common to every genus and species of feeling, is the one of most frequent repetition; that hence the nervous connexion is, in the way above shown, the one which offers the least resistance to a discharge; and is therefore the one along which a feeble force produces motion. A sentiment or passion that is somewhat stronger, affects not only the heart but the muscles of the face, and especially those around the mouth. Here the like explanation applies; since these muscles, being both comparatively small, and, for purposes of speech, perpetually used, offer less resistance than other voluntary muscles to the nerve-motor force. By a further increase of emotion the respiratory and vocal muscles become perceptibly excited. Finally, under strong passion, the muscles in general of the trunk and limbs are violently contracted. Without saying that the facts can be thus interpreted in all their details (a task requiring data impossible to obtain) it may be safely said that the order of excitation is from muscles that are small and frequently acted on, to those which are larger and less frequently acted on. The single instance of laughter, which is an undirected discharge of feeling that affects first the muscles round the mouth, then those of the vocal and respiratory apparatus, then those of the limbs, and then those of the spine;^[14] suffices to show that when no special route is opened for it, a force evolved in the nervous centres produces motion along channels which offer the least resistance, and if it is too great to escape by these, produces motion along channels offering successively greater resistance.

Probably it will be thought impossible to extend this reasoning so as to include volitions. Yet we are not without evidence that the transition from special desires to special muscular acts, conforms to the same principle. It may be shown that the mental antecedents of a voluntary movement, are antecedents which temporarily make the line along which this movement takes place, the line of least resistance. For a volition, suggested as it necessarily is by some previous thought connected with it by associations that determine the transition, is itself a representation of the movements that are willed, and of their sequences. But to represent in consciousness certain of our own movements, is partially to arouse the sensations accompanying such movements, inclusive of those of muscular tension—is partially to excite the appropriate motor-nerves and all the other nerves implicated. That is to say, the volition is itself an incipient discharge along a line which previous experiences have rendered a line of least resistance. And the passing of volition into action is simply a completion of the discharge.

One corollary from this must be noted before proceeding; namely, that the particular set of muscular movements by which any object of desire is reached, are movements implying the smallest total of forces to be overcome. As each feeling generates motion along the line of least resistance, it is tolerably clear that a group of feelings, constituting a more or less complex desire, will generate motion along a series of lines of least resistance. That is to say, the desired end will be achieved with the smallest expenditure of effort. Should it be objected that through want of knowledge or want of skill, a man often pursues the more laborious of two courses, and so overcomes a larger total of opposing forces than was necessary; the reply is, that relatively to his mental state the course he takes is that which presents the fewest difficulties. Though there is another which in the abstract is easier, yet his ignorance of it, or inability to adopt it, is, physically considered, the existence of an insuperable obstacle to the discharge of his energies in that direction. Experience obtained by himself, or communicated by others, has not established in him such channels of nervous communication as are required to make this better course the course of least resistance to him.

§ 91. As in individual animals, inclusive of man, motion follows lines of least resistance, it is to be inferred that among aggregations of men, the like will hold good. The changes in a society, being due to the joint actions of its members, the courses of such changes will be determined as are those of all other changes wrought by composition of forces.

Thus when we contemplate a society as an organism, and observe the direction of its growth, we find this direction to be that in which the average of opposing forces is the least. Its units have energies to be expended in self-maintenance and reproduction. These energies are met by various environing energies that are antagonistic to them—those of geological origin, those of climate, of wild animals, of other human races with whom they are at enmity or in competition. And the tracts the society spreads over, are those in which there is the smallest total antagonism. Or, reducing the matter to its ultimate terms, we may say that these social units have jointly and severally to preserve themselves and their offspring from those inorganic and organic forces which are ever tending to destroy them (either indirectly by oxidation and by undue abstraction of heat, or directly by bodily mutilation); that these forces are either counteracted by others which are available in the shape of food, clothing, habitations, and appliances of defence, or are, as far as may be, eluded; and that population spreads in whichever directions there is the readiest escape from these forces, or the least exertion in obtaining the materials for resisting them, or both. For these reasons it happens that fertile valleys where water and vegetal produce abound, are early peopled. Sea-shores, too, supplying a large amount of easily-gathered food, are lines along which mankind have commonly spread. The general fact that, so far as we can judge from the traces left by them, large societies first appeared in those tropical regions where the fruits of the earth are obtainable with comparatively little exertion, and where the cost of maintaining bodily heat is but slight, is a fact of like meaning. And to these instances may be added the allied one daily furnished by emigration; which we see going on towards countries presenting the fewest obstacles to the self-preservation of individuals, and therefore to national growth. Similarly with that resistance to the movements of a society which neighbouring societies offer. Each of the tribes or nations inhabiting any region, increases in numbers until it outgrows its means of subsistence. In each there is thus a force ever pressing outwards on to adjacent areas—a force antagonized by like forces in the tribes or nations occupying those areas. And the ever-recurring wars that result—the conquests of weaker tribes or nations, and the over-running of their territories by the victors, are instances of social movements taking place in the directions of least resistance. Nor do the conquered peoples, when they escape extermination or enslavement, fail to show us movements that are similarly determined. For migrating as they do to less fertile regions—taking refuge in deserts or among mountains—moving in a direction where the resistance to social growth is comparatively great; they still do this only under an excess of pressure in all other directions: the physical obstacles to self-preservation they encounter, being really less than the obstacles offered by the enemies from whom they fly.

Internal social movements may also be thus interpreted. Localities naturally fitted for producing particular commodities—that is, localities in which such commodities are got at the least cost of force—that is, localities in which the desires for these commodities meet with the least resistance; become localities especially devoted to the obtainment of these commodities. Where soil and climate render wheat a profitable crop, or a crop from which the greatest amount of life-sustaining power is gained by a given quantity of effort, the growth of wheat becomes the dominant industry. Where wheat cannot be economically produced, oats, or rye, or maize, or rice, or potatoes, is the agricultural staple. Along sea-shores men support themselves with least effort by catching fish; and hence choose fishing as an occupation. And in places that are rich in coal or metallic ores, the population, finding that labour devoted to the raising of these materials brings a larger return of food and clothing than when otherwise directed, becomes a population of miners. This last instance introduces us to the phenomena of exchange; which equally illustrate the general law. For the practice of barter begins as soon as it facilitates the fulfilment of men’s desires, by diminishing the exertion needed to reach the objects of those desires. When instead of growing his own corn, weaving his own cloth, sewing his own shoes, each man began to confine himself to farming, or weaving, or shoemaking; it was because each found it more laborious to make everything he wanted, than to make a great quantity of one thing and barter the surplus for the rest: by exchange, each procured the necessaries of life without encountering so much resistance. Moreover, in deciding what commodity to produce, each citizen was, as he is at the present day, guided in the same manner. For besides those local conditions which determine whole sections of a society towards the industries easiest for them, there are also individual conditions and individual aptitudes which to each citizen render certain occupations preferable; and in choosing those forms of activity which their special circumstances and faculties dictate, these social units are severally moving towards the objects of their desires in the directions which present to them the fewest obstacles. The process of transfer which commerce pre-supposes, supplies another series of examples. So long as the forces to be overcome in procuring any necessary of life in the district where it is consumed, are less than the forces to be overcome in procuring it from an adjacent district, exchange does not take place. But when the adjacent district produces it with an economy that is not out-balanced by cost of transit—when the distance is so small and the route so easy that the labour of conveyance plus the labour of production is less than the labour of production in the consuming district, transfer commences. Movement in the direction of least resistance is also seen in the establishment of the channels along which intercourse takes place. At the outset, when goods are carried on the backs of men and horses, the paths chosen are those which combine shortness with levelness and freedom from obstacles—those which are achieved with the smallest exertion. And in the subsequent formation of each highway, the course taken is that which deviates horizontally from a straight line so far only as is needful to avoid vertical deviations entailing greater labour in draught. The smallest total of obstructive forces determines the route, even in seemingly exceptional cases; as where a detour is made to avoid the opposition of a landowner. All subsequent improvements, ending in macadamized roads, canals, and railways, which reduce the antagonism of friction and gravity to a minimum, exemplify the same truth. After there comes to be a choice of roads between one point and another, we still see that the road chosen is that along which the cost of transit is the least: cost being the measure of resistance. Even where, time being a consideration, the more expensive route is followed, it is so because the loss of time involves loss of force. When, division of labour having been carried to a considerable extent and means of communication made easy, there arises a marked localization of industries, the relative growths of the populations devoted to them may be interpreted on the same principle. The influx of people to each industrial centre, as well as the rate of multiplication of those already inhabiting it, is determined by the payment for labour; that is—by the quantity of commodities which a given amount of effort will obtain. To say that artisans flock to places where, in consequence of facilities for production, an extra proportion of produce can be given in the shape of wages; is to say that they flock to places where there are the smallest obstacles to the support of themselves and families. Hence, the rapid increase of number which occurs in such places, is really a social growth at points where the opposing forces are the least.

Nor is the law less clearly to be traced in those functional changes daily going on. The flow of capital into businesses yielding the largest returns; the buying in the cheapest market and selling in the dearest; the introduction of more economical modes of manufacture; the development of better agencies for distribution; and all those variations in the currents of trade that are noted in our newspapers and telegrams from hour to hour; exhibit movement taking place in directions where it is met by the smallest total of opposing forces. For if we analyze each of these changes—if instead of interest on capital we read surplus of products which remains after maintenance of labourers; if we so interpret large interest or large surplus to imply labour expended with the greatest results; and if labour expended with the greatest results means muscular action so directed as to evade obstacles as far as possible; we see that all these commercial phenomena are complicated motions set up along lines of least resistance.

Objections of two opposite kinds will perhaps be made to these sociological applications of the law. By some it may be said that the term force as here used, is used metaphorically—that to speak of men as impelled in certain directions by certain desires, is a figure of speech and not the statement of a physical fact. The reply is, that the foregoing illustrations are to be interpreted literally, and that the processes described are physical ones. The pressure of hunger is an actual force—a sensation implying some state of nervous tension; and the muscular action which the sensation prompts is really a discharge of it in the shape of bodily motion—a discharge which, on analyzing the mental acts involved, will be found to follow lines of least resistance. Hence the motions of a society whose members are impelled by this or any other desire, are actually, and not metaphorically, to be understood in the manner shown. An opposite objection may possibly be, that the several illustrations given are elaborated truisms; and that the law of direction of motion being once recognized, the fact that social movements, in common with all others, must conform to it, follows inevitably. To this it may be rejoined, that a mere abstract assertion that social movements must do this, would carry no conviction to the majority; and that it is needful to show how they do it. For social evolution to be interpreted after the method proposed, it is requisite that such generalisations as those of political economy shall be reduced to equivalent propositions expressed in terms of force and motion.

Social movements of these various orders severally conform to the two derivative principles named at the outset. In the first place we may observe how, once set up in given directions, such movements, like all others, tend to continue in these directions. A commercial mania or panic, a current of commodities, a social custom, a political agitation, or a popular delusion, maintains its course for a long time after its original source has ceased; and requires antagonistic forces to arrest it. In the second place it is to be noted that in proportion to the complexity of social forces is the tortuousness of social movements. The involved series of muscular contractions gone through by the artizan, that he may get the wherewithal to buy a loaf lying at the baker’s next door, show us how extreme becomes the indirectness of motion when the agencies at work become very numerous—a truth still better illustrated by the more public social actions; as those which end in bringing a successful man of business, towards the close of his life, into parliament.

§ 92. And now of the general truth set forth in this chapter, as of that dealt with in the last, let us ask—what is our ultimate evidence? Must we accept it simply as an empirical generalization? or is it to be established as a corollary from a still deeper truth? The reader will anticipate the answer. We shall find it deducible from that datum of consciousness which underlies all science.

Suppose several tractive forces, variously directed, to be acting on a given body. By what is known among mathematicians as the composition of forces, there may be found for any two of these, a single force of such amount and direction as to produce on the body an exactly equal effect. If in the direction of each of them there be drawn a straight line, and if the lengths of these two straight lines be made proportionate to the amounts of the forces; and if from the end of each line there be drawn a line parallel to the other, so as to complete a parallelogram; then the diagonal of this parallelogram represents the amount and direction of a force that is equivalent to the two. Such a resultant force, as it is called, may be found for any pair of forces throughout the group. Similarly, for any pair of such resultants a single resultant may be found. And by repeating this course, all of them may be reduced to two. If these two are equal and opposite—that is, if there is no line of greatest traction, motion does not take place. If they are opposite but not equal, motion takes place in the direction of the greater. And if they are neither equal nor opposite, motion takes place in the direction of their resultant. For in either of these cases there is an unantagonized force in one direction. And this residuary force that is not neutralized by an opposing one, must move the body in the direction in which it is acting. To assert the contrary is to assert that a force can be expended without effect—without generating an equivalent force; and by so implying that force can cease to exist, this involves a denial of the persistence of force. It needs scarcely be added that if in place of tractions we take resistances, the argument equally holds; and that it holds also where both tractions and resistances are concerned. Thus the law that motion follows the line of greatest traction, or the line of least resistance, or the resultant of the two, is a necessary deduction from that primordial truth which transcends proof.

Reduce the proposition to its simplest form, and it becomes still more obviously consequent on the persistence of force. Suppose two weights suspended over a pulley or from the ends of an equal-armed lever; or better still—suppose two men pulling against each other. In such cases we say that the heavier weight will descend, and that the stronger man will draw the weaker towards him. But now, if we are asked how we know which is the heavier weight or the stronger man; we can only reply that it is the one producing motion in the direction of its pull. Our only evidence of excess of force is the movement it produces. But if of two opposing tractions we can know one as greater than the other only by the motion it generates in its own direction, then the assertion that motion occurs in the direction of greatest traction is a truism. When, going a step further back, we seek a warrant for the assumption that of the two conflicting forces, that is the greater which produces motion in its own direction, we find no other than the consciousness that such part of the greater force as is unneutralized by the lesser, must produce its effect—the consciousness that this residuary force cannot disappear, but must manifest itself in some equivalent change—the consciousness that force is persistent. Here too, as before, it may be remarked that no amount of varied illustrations, like those of which this chapter mainly consists, can give greater certainty to the conclusion thus immediately drawn from the ultimate datum of consciousness. For in all cases, as in the simple ones just given, we can identify the greatest force only by the resulting motion. It is impossible for us ever to get evidence of the occurrence of motion in any other direction than that of the greatest force; since our measure of relative greatness among forces is their relative power of generating motion. And clearly, while the comparative greatness of forces is thus determined, no multiplication of instances can add certainty to a law of direction of movement which follows immediately from the persistence of force.

From this same primordial truth, too, may be deduced the principle that motion once set up along any line, becomes itself a cause of subsequent motion along that line. The mechanical axiom that, if left to itself, matter moving in any direction will continue in that direction with undiminished velocity, is but an indirect assertion of the persistence of force; since it is an assertion that the force manifested in the transfer of a body along a certain length of a certain line in a certain time, cannot disappear without producing some equal manifestation—a manifestation which, in the absence of conflicting forces, must be a further transfer in the same direction at the same velocity. In the case of matter traversing matter the like inference is necessitated. Here indeed the actions are much more complicated. A liquid that follows a certain channel through or over a solid, as water along the Earth’s surface, loses part of its motion in the shape of heat, through friction and collision with the matters forming its bed. A further amount of its motion may be absorbed in overcoming forces which it liberates; as when it loosens a mass which falls into, and blocks up, its channel. But after these deductions by transformation into other modes of force, any further deduction from the motion of the water is at the expense of a reaction on the channel, which by so much diminishes its obstructive power: such reaction being shown in the motion acquired by the detached portions which are carried away. The cutting out of river-courses is a perpetual illustration of this truth. Still more involved is the case of motion passing through matter by impulse from part to part; as a nervous discharge through animal tissue. Some chemical change may be wrought along the route traversed, which may render it less fit than before for conveying a current. Or the motion may itself be in part metamorphosed into some obstructive form of force; as in metals, the conducting power of which is, for the time, decreased by the heat which the passage of electricity itself generates. The real question is, however, what structural modification, if any, is produced throughout the matter traversed, apart from incidental disturbing forces—apart from everything but the necessary resistance of the matter: that, namely, which results from the inertia of its units. If we confine our attention to that part of the motion which, escaping transformation, continues its course, then it is a corollary from the persistence of force that as much of this remaining motion as is taken up in changing the positions of the units, must leave these by so much less able to obstruct subsequent motion in the same direction.

Thus in all the changes heretofore and at present displayed by the Solar System; in all those that have gone on and are still going on in the Earth’s crust; in all processes of organic development and function; in all mental actions and the effects they work on the body; and in all modifications of structure and activity in societies; the implied movements are of necessity determined in the manner above set forth. Every alteration in the arrangement of parts, constituting Evolution under each of its phases, must conform to this universal principle. Wherever we see motion, its direction must be that of the greatest force. And wherever we see the greatest force to be acting in a given direction, in that direction motion must ensue.

13.This paragraph is a re-statement, somewhat amplified, of an idea set forth in the Medico-Chirurgical Review for January, 1859 (pp. 189 and 190); and contains the germ of the intended fifth part of the Principles of Psychology, which was withheld for the reasons given in the preface to that work.

CHAPTER XI.
THE RHYTHM OF MOTION.

CHAPTER XII.
THE CONDITIONS ESSENTIAL TO EVOLUTION.

CHAPTER XIII.
THE INSTABILITY OF THE HOMOGENEOUS.^[16]