"Young men," said a wise physician in addressing a class of graduates in medicine, "you are about to enter the battle of life. Note that I say the 'battle' of life. Not a playground, but a battlefield is before you. It is a hard contest—a battle royal. Make no mistake as to that. Your studies here have furnished your equipment; now you must go forth each to fight for himself."

The same words might be said to every neophyte in whatever walk of life. The pursuit of every trade, every profession is a battle—a struggle for existence and for supremacy. Partly it is a battle against fellow men; partly against the contending powers of Nature. The physician meets rivalry from his brothers; but his chief battle is with disease. In the creative and manufacturing fields which will chiefly concern us in the following volumes, it is the powers of Nature that furnish an ever-present antagonism.

No stone can be lifted above another, to make the crudest wall or dwelling, but Nature—represented by her power of gravitation—strives at once to pull it down again. No structure is completed before the elements are at work defacing it, preparing its slow but certain ruin. Summer heat and winter cold expand and contract materials of every kind; rain and wind wear and warp and twist; the oxygen of the air gnaws into stone and iron alike;—in a word, all the elements are at work undoing what man has accomplished.

THE STRUGGLE FOR EXISTENCE

In the field of the agriculturist it is the same story. The earth which brings forth its crop of unwholesome weeds so bountifully, resists man's approaches when he strives to bring it under cultivation. Only by the most careful attention can useful grains be made to grow where the wildlings swarmed in profusion. Not only do wind and rain, blighting heat and withering cold menace the crops; but weeds invade the fields, the germs of fungoid pests lurk everywhere; and myriad insects attack orchard and meadow and grain field in devastating legions.

Similarly the beasts which were so rugged and resistant while in the wild state, become tender and susceptible to disease when made useful by domestication. Aforetime they roamed at large, braving every temperature and thriving in all weathers. But now they must be housed and cared for so tenderly that they become, as Thoreau said, the keepers of men, rather than kept by men, so much more independent are they than their alleged owners. Tender of constitution, domesticated beasts must be housed, to protect them from the blasts in which of yore their forebears revelled; and man must slave day in and day out to prepare food to meet the requirements of their pampered appetites.

He must struggle, too, to protect them from disease, and must care for them in time of illness as sedulously as he cares for his own kith and kin. Truly the ox is keeper of the man, and the seeming conquest that man has wrought has cost him dear.

But of course the story has another side. After all, Nature is not so malevolent as at first glance she seems. She has opposed man at every stage of his attempted progress; yet at the same time she has supplied him all his weapons for waging war upon her. Her great power of gravitation opposes every effort he makes; yet without that same power he could do nothing—he could not walk or stay upon the earth even; and no structure that he builds would hold in place for an instant.

So, too, the wind that smites him and tears at his handiwork, may be made to serve the purposes of turning his windmills and supplying him with power.

The water will serve a like purpose in turning his mills; and, changed to steam with the aid of Nature's store of coal, will make his steam engines and dynamos possible. Even the lightning he will harness and make subject to his will in the telegraphic currents and dynamos.

And in the fields, the grains which man struggles so arduously to produce are after all no thing of his creating. They are only adopted products of Nature, which he has striven to make serve his purpose by growing them under artificial conditions. So, too, the domesticated beasts are creatures that belong in the wilds and in distant lands. Man has brought them, in defiance of Nature, to uncongenial climes, and made them serve as workers and as food-suppliers where Nature alone could not support them. Turn loose the cow and the horse to forage for themselves here in the inhospitable north, and they would starve. They survive because man helps them to combat the adverse conditions imposed by Nature, yet no one of them could live for an hour were not the vital capacities supplied by Nature still in control.

Everywhere, then, it is the opposing of Nature, up to certain limits, with the aid of Nature's own tools, that constitutes man's work in the world. Just in proportion as he bends the elements to meet his needs, transforms the plants and animals, defies and exceeds the limitations of primeval Nature—just in proportion as he conquers Nature, in a word, is he civilized.

Barbaric man is called a child of Nature with full reason. He must accept what Nature offers. But civilized man is the child grown to adult stature, and able in a manner to control, to dominate—if you please to conquer—the parent.

If we were to seek the means by which developing man has gradually achieved this conquest, we should find it in the single word, Tools; that is to say, machines for utilizing the powers of Nature, and, as it were, multiplying them for man's benefit. So unique is the capacity that man exerts in this direction, that he has been described as "the tool-making animal." The description is absolutely accurate; it is inclusive and exclusive. No non-human animal makes any form of implement to aid it in performing its daily work; and contrariwise every human tribe, however low its stage of savagery, makes use of more or less crude forms of implements. There must have been a time, to be sure, when there existed a man so low in intelligence that he had not put into execution the idea of making even the simplest tool. But the period when such a man existed so vastly antedates all records that it need not here concern us. For the purpose of classifying all existing men, and all the tribes of men of which history and pre-historic archÆology give us any record, the definition of man as the tool-making animal is accurate and sufficient.

At first thought it might seem that an equally comprehensive definition might describe man as the working animal. But a moment's consideration shows the fallacy of such a suggestion. Man is, to be sure, the animal that works effectively, thanks to the implements with which he has learned to provide himself; but he shares with all animate creatures the task of laboring for his daily necessities. This is indeed a work-a-day world, and no creature can live in it without taking its share in that perpetual conflict which bodily necessities make imperative. Most lower animals confine their work to the mere securing of food, and to the construction of rude habitations. Some, indeed, go a step farther and lay up stores of food, in chance burrows or hollow trees; a few even manufacture relatively artistic and highly effective receptacles, as illustrated by the honeycomb made by the bees and their allies. Again, certain animals, of which the birds are the best representatives, construct temporary structures for the purpose of rearing their young that attain a relatively high degree of artistic perfection. The Baltimore oriole weaves a cloth of vegetable fibre that is certainly a wonderful texture to be made with the aid of claws and bill alone. It may be doubted whether human hands, unaided by implements, could duplicate it. But it is crude enough compared with even the coarsest cloth which barbaric races manufacture with the aid of implements.

So it is with any comparison of animal work with the work of man, in whatever field. The crudest human endeavor is superior to the best non-human efforts; and the explanation is found always in the fact that the ingenuity of man has enabled him to find artificial aids that add to his power of manipulation. So large a share have these artificial aids taken in man's evolution, that it has long been customary, in studying the development of civilization, to make the use of various types of implements a test of varying stages of human progress.

SCIENCE AND CIVILIZATION

The student of primitive life assures us, basing his statements on the archÆological records, that there was a time when the most advanced of mankind had no tools made of better material than chipped stone. By common consent that time is spoken of as the Rough Stone Age.

We are told that then in the course of immeasurable centuries man learned to polish his stone implements, doubtless by rubbing them against another stone, or perhaps with the aid of sand, thus producing a new type of implement which has given its name to the Age of Smooth or Polished Stone.

Then after other long centuries came a time when man had learned to smelt the softer metals, and the new civilization which now supplanted the old, and, thanks to the new implements, advanced upon it immeasurably, is called the Age of Bronze.

At last man learned to accomplish the wonderful feat of smelting the intractable metal, iron, and in so doing produced implements harder, sharper, and cheaper than his implements of bronze; and when this crowning feat had been accomplished, the Age of Iron was ushered in.

By common consent, students of the history of the evolution of society accept these successive ages, each designated by the type of implements with which the world's work was accomplished, as representing real and definite stages of human progress, and as needing no better definition than that supplied by the different types of implements.

Could the archÆologist trace the stream of human progress still farther back toward its source, he would find doubtless that there were several great epochal inventions preceding the time of the Rough Stone Age, each of which was in its way as definitive and as revolutionary in its effects upon society, as these later inventions which we have just named. To attempt to define them clearly is to enter the field of uncertainty, but two or three conjectures may be hazarded that cannot be very wide of the truth.

It is clear, for example, that if we go back in imagination to the very remotest ancestors of man that can be called human, we must suppose a vast and revolutionary stage of progress to have been ushered in by the first race of men that learned to make habitual use of the simplest implement, such as a mere club. When man had learned to wield a club and to throw a stone, and to use a stone held in the hand to break the shell of a nut, he had attained a stage of culture which augured great things for the future. Out of the idea of wielded club and hurled stone were to grow in time the ideas of hammer and axe and spear and arrow.

Then there came a time—no one dare guess how many thousands of years later—when man learned to cover his body with the skin of an animal, and thus to become in a measure freed from the thraldom of the weather. He completed his enfranchisement by learning to avail himself of the heat provided by an artificial fire. Equipped with these two marvelous inventions he was able to extend the hitherto narrow bounds of his dwelling-place, passing northward to the regions which at an earlier stage of his development he dared not penetrate. Under stress of more exhilarating climatic conditions, he developed new ideals and learned to overcome new difficulties; developing both a material civilization and the advanced mentality that is its counterpart, as he doubtless never would have done had he remained subject to the more pampering conditions of the tropics.

The most important, perhaps, of the new things which he was taught by the seemingly adverse conditions of an inhospitable climate, was to provide for the needs of a wandering life and of varying seasons by domesticating animals that could afford him an ever-present food supply. In so doing he ceased to be a mere fisher and hunter, and became a herdsman. One other step, and he had conceived the idea of providing for himself a supply of vegetable foods, to take the place of that which nature had provided so bountifully in his old home in the tropics. When this idea was put into execution man became an agriculturist, and had entered upon the high road to civilization.

All these stages of progress had been entered upon prior to the time of which the oldest known remains of the cave-dweller give us knowledge. It were idle to conjecture the precise sequence in which these earliest steps toward civilization were taken, and even more idle to conjecture the length of time which elapsed between one step and its successor. But all questions of precise sequence aside, it is clear that here were four or five great ages succeeding one to another, that marked the onward and upward progress of our primeval ancestor before he achieved the stage of development that enabled him to leave permanent records of his existence. And—what is particularly significant from our present standpoint—it is equally clear that each of the great ages thus vaguely outlined was dependent upon an achievement or an invention that facilitated the carrying out of that scheme of never-ending work which from first to last has been man's portion. How to labor more efficiently, more productively; how to produce more of the necessaries and of the luxuries that man's physical and mental being demands, with less expenditure of toil—that from first to last has been the ever-insistent problem. And the answer has been found always through the development of some new species of mechanism, some new labor-saving device, some ingenious manipulation of the powers of Nature.

If, turning from the hypothetical period of our primitive ancestor, we consider the sweep of secure and relatively recent history, we shall find that precisely the same thing holds. If we contrast the civilization of Old Egypt and Babylonia—the oldest civilizations of which we have any secure record—with the civilization of to-day, we shall find that the differences between the one and the other are such as are due to new and improved methods of accomplishing the world's work.

Indeed, if we view the subject carefully, it will become more and more evident that the only real progress that the historic period has to show is such as has grown directly from the development of new mechanical inventions. The more we study the ancient civilizations the more we shall be struck with their marvelous resemblance, as regards mental life, to the civilization of to-day. In their moral and spiritual ideals, the ancient Egyptians were as brothers to the modern Europeans. In philosophy, in art, in literature, the Age of Pericles established standards that still remain unexcelled. In all the subtleties of thought, we feel that the Greeks had reached intellectual bounds that we have not been able to extend.

But when, on the other hand, we consider the material civilization of the two epochs, we find contrasts that are altogether startling. The little world of the Greeks nestled about the Mediterranean, bounded on every side at a distance of a few hundred leagues by a terra incognita. The philosophers who had reached the confines of the field of thought, had but the narrowest knowledge of the geography of our globe. They traversed at best a few petty miles of its surface on foot or in carts; and they navigated the Mediterranean Sea, or at most coasted out a little way beyond the Pillars of Hercules in boats chiefly propelled by oars. By dint of great industry they produced a really astonishing number of books, but the production of each one was a long and laborious task, and the aggregate number indited during the Age of Pericles in all the world was perhaps not greater than an afternoon's output of a modern printing press.

In a word, these men of the classical period of antiquity, great as were their mental, artistic, and moral achievements, were as children in those matters of practical mechanics upon which the outward evidences of civilization depend. Should we find a race of people to-day in some hitherto unexplored portion of the earth—did such unexplored portions still exist—living a life comparable to that of the Age of Pericles, we should marvel no doubt at their artistic achievements, while at the same time regarding them as scarcely better than barbarians. Indeed this is more than unsupported hypothesis; for has it not been difficult for the Western world to admit the truly civilized condition of the Chinese, simply because that highly intellectual race of Orientals has not kept abreast of the Occidental changes in applied mechanics? Say what we will, this is the standard which we of the Western world apply as the test of civilization.

If, sweeping over in retrospect the history of the world since the time when the Egyptian and Babylonian civilizations were at their height, we attempt some such classification of the stages of progress as that which we a moment ago applied to pre-historic times, we shall be led to some rather startling conclusions. In the broadest view, it will appear that the age which ushered in the historic period continued unbroken by the advance of any great revolutionary invention throughout the long centuries of pre-Christian antiquity, and well into the so-called Middle Ages of our newer era. Then came the invention of gunpowder, or at least its introduction to the Western world—since the Chinaman here lays claim to vague centuries of precedence. Following hard upon the introduction of gunpowder, with its capacity to add to the destructive efficiency of man's most sinister form of labor, came a mechanism no less epoch-making in a far different field—the printing press.

But even these inventions, great as was their influence upon the progress of civilization, can scarcely be considered, it seems to me, as taking rank with the great epochal discoveries that gave their names to the preceding ages. Nor can any invention of the sixteenth or seventeenth century be hailed as really ushering in a new era. The invention for which that honor was reserved was a development of the eighteenth century; and did not come fully to its heritage until the early days of the nineteenth century. The invention was the application of steam to the purposes of mechanics. When this application was made, as wide a gap was crossed as that which separated the Stone Age from the Age of Metal; then the epoch in which the world was living when history begins was brought to a close, and a new era, the Age of Steam, was ushered in.

Scarcely had the world begun to adjust itself to the new conditions of the Age of Steam, when yet another power was made subservient to man's needs, and the Age of Steam was supplemented, not to say supplanted, by the Age of Electricity. Of course the new progressive movements did not necessarily imply elimination of old conditions; they imply merely the subordination of old powers to newer and better ones. Stone implements by no means ceased to have utility at once when metal implements came into vogue. Bronze long held its own against iron, and still has its utility. And iron itself finds but an added sphere of usefulness in the Age of Steam and Electricity.

All great changes are relatively slow. It is only as we look back upon them and view them in perspective that they seem cataclysmic. Gunpowder did not at once supplant the crossbow, and the cannon was long held to be inferior to the catapult. The printed book did not instantly make its way against the work of the scribe. Neither did the steam engine immediately supplant water power and the direct application of human labor. But in each case the new invention virtually rang the death knell of the old method from the hour of its inauguration, and the end was no less sure because it was delayed. And it requires no great powers of divination to foretell that in the coming age, the electric dynamo driven by water power may take the place of the steam engine. The Age of Steam may pass, with only at most a few generations of domination. And it is within the possibilities that the Age of Electricity will scarcely come into its own before it may be displaced by an Age of Radio-Activity. To press that point, however, would be to enter the field of prophecy, which is no part of my present purpose.

All that I have wished to point out is that for some thousands of years after man learned to make implements of iron, the industrial world and the human civilization that depends upon it, pursued a relatively static course, like a broad, sluggish current, with no new revolutionary discovery to impel it into new channels; and that then one revolutionary discovery succeeded another with bewildering suddenness, so that we of the early days of the twentieth century are farther removed, in an industrial way, from our forerunners of two hundred years ago, than those children of the eighteenth century were from the earliest civilization that ever developed on our globe. Indeed, this startling contrast would still hold true, were we to consider the newest era as compassing only the period of a single life. There are men living to-day who were born in that epoch when the steam engine was for the first time used to turn the wheels of factories. There are many men who can well remember the first practical application of steam to railway traffic. Hosts of men can remember when the first commercial message was transmitted by electricity along a wire. Even middle-aged men recall the first cable message that linked the old world with the new. And the application of the dynamo to the purposes of the world's work is an affair of but yesterday.

The historian of the future, casting his eye back across the long perspective of history, will find civilized man pursuing an even and unbroken course across the ages from the time of the pyramids of Egypt to about the time of the French Revolution. There will be no dearth of incident to claim his attention in the way of wars and conquests, and changing creeds, and the rise and fall of nations, each pursuing virtually the same course of growth and decay as all the others. But when he comes to the close of the eighteenth century, it will not be the social paroxysm of a nation, or the meteoric career of a Napoleon that will claim his attention so much as the introduction of that new method of utilizing the powers of Nature which found its expression in the mechanism called the steam engine.

If the name of any individual stands out as the great and memorable one of that epoch of transition, at which the static current of previous civilization changed suddenly to a Niagara-current of progress, it will be the name of the great scientific inventor, rather than that of the great military conqueror—the name of James Watt, rather than that of Napoleon.

The military conqueror had his day of surpassing glory and departed, to leave the world only a little worse than he found it. But the mechanical inventor left a heritage that was to add day by day to the wealth and happiness of humanity, supplying millions of artificial hands, and making possible such beneficent improvements as no previous age had dreamed of. Tasks that human hands had performed slowly, laboriously, and inadequately, were now to be performed swiftly, with ease, and well by the artificial hands provided with the aid of the new power. Where carts drawn by horses had toiled slowly across the land, and ships driven by the wind had drifted slowly through the waters, massive trains of cars were to hurtle to the four corners of the earth with inconceivable speed, and floating palaces were to course the waters with almost equal defiance to the limitations of time and space.

And then there came that still weirder conquest of time and space, wrought by the electric current. The moment when man first spoke with man from continent to continent in defiance of the oceans, marked the dawning of that larger day when all mankind shall constitute one brotherhood and all peoples but a single nation. Within a half century the sun of that new day has risen well above the horizon, and far sooner than even the optimist of to-day dare predict with certainty, it seems destined to reach its zenith.

But here again we verge upon the dangerous field of prophecy. Let us turn from it and cast an eye back across the most wonderful of centuries, contrasting the conditions of to-day in each of a half-dozen fields of the world's work, with the conditions that obtained at the close of the eighteenth century. Such a brief survey will show us perhaps more vividly than we could otherwise be shown, how vast has been the progress, how marvelous the development of civilization, in the short decades that have elapsed since the coming of the Age of Steam.

Let us pay heed first to the world of the agriculturist. Could we turn back to the days of our grandparents, we should find farming a very different employment from what it is to-day. For the most part the farmer operated but a few small fields; if he had thirty or forty acres of ploughed land, he found ample employment for his capacities. He ploughed his fields with the aid of either a yoke of oxen or a team of horses; he sowed his grain by hand; he cultivated his corn with a hoe; he reaped his oats and wheat with a cradle—a device but one step removed from a sickle; he threshed his grain with a flail; he ground such portion of it as he needed for his own use with the aid of water power at a neighboring mill; and such portion of it as he sold was transported to market, be it far or near, in wagons that compassed twenty or thirty miles a day at best. As regards live stock, each farmer raised a few cattle, sheep, and hogs, and butchered them to supply his own needs, selling the residue to a local dealer who supplied the non-agricultural portion of the neighborhood. Any live stock intended for a distant market was driven on foot across the country to its destination. Each town and city, therefore, drew almost exclusively for its supply from the immediately surrounding country.

To-day the small farmer has become almost obsolete, and the farms of the eastern states that were the nation's chief source of supply a century ago are largely allowed to lie fallow, it being no longer possible to cultivate them profitably in competition with the rich farm lands of the middle west. In that new home of agriculture, the farm that does not comprise two or three hundred acres is considered small; and large farms are those that number their acres by thousands. The soil is turned by steam ploughs; the grain is sown with mechanical seeders and planters; the corn is cultivated with a horse-drawn machine, having blades that do the work of a dozen men; harvesters drawn by three or four horses sweep over the fields and leave the grain mechanically tied in bundles; the steam thresher places the grain in sacks by hundreds of bushels a day; and this grain is hurried off in steam cars to distant mills and yet more distant markets.

Meantime the raising of live stock has become a special department, with which the farmer who deals in cereals often has no concern. The cattle roam over vast pastures and are herded in the winter for fattening in great droves, and protected from the cold in barns that, when contrasted with the sheds of the old-time farmer, seem almost palatial. When in marketable condition, cattle are no longer slaughtered at the farm, but are transported in cars to one of the few great centres, chief of which are the stock yards of Chicago and of Kansas City. At these centres, slaughter houses and meat-packing houses of stupendous magnitude have been developed, capable of handling millions of animals in a year. From these centres the meat is transported in refrigerator cars to the seaboards, and in refrigerator ships to all parts of the world. Beef that grew on the ranges of the far west may thus be offered for sale in the markets of New England villages, at a price that prohibits local competition.

A more radical metamorphosis in agricultural conditions than all this implies could not well be conceived. And when we recall once more that the agricultural conditions that obtained at the beginning of the nineteenth century were closely similar to those that obtained in each successive age for a hundred preceding centuries, we shall gain a vivid idea of the revolutionizing effects of new methods of work in the most important of industries. It is little wonder that in this short time the world has not solved to the satisfaction of the economists all the new problems thus so suddenly developed.

Turn now to the manufacturing world. In the days of our great-grandparents almost every household was a miniature factory where cotton and wool were spun and the products were woven into cloth. It was not till toward the close of the eighteenth century—just at the time when Watt was perfecting the steam engine—that Arkwright developed the spinning-frame, and his successors elaborated the machinery that made possible the manufacture of cloth in wholesale quantities; and the nineteenth century was well under way before the household production of cloth had been entirely supplanted by factory production. It is nothing less than pitiful to contemplate in imagination our great-great-grandmothers—and all their forebears of the long centuries—drudging away day after day, year in and year out, at the ceaseless task of spinning and weaving—only to produce, as the output of a lifetime of labor, a quantity of cloth equivalent perhaps to what our perfected machine, driven by steam, and manipulated by a factory girl, produces each working hour of every day. Similarly, carpets and quilts were of home manufacture; so were coats and dresses; and shoes were at most the product of the local shoemaker around the corner.

In the kitchen, food was cooked over the coals of a great fireplace or in the brick oven connected with that fireplace. Meat was supplied from a neighboring farm; eggs were the product of the housewife's own poultry yard; the son or daughter of the farmer milked the cow and drove her to and from the pasture; the milk was "set" in pans in the cellar—on a swinging shelf, preferably, to make it inaccessible to the rats; and twice a week the cream was made into butter in a primitive churn, the dasher of which was operated by the vigorous arm of the housewife herself, or by the unwilling arms of some one of her numerous progeny.

To give variety to the dietary, fruits grown in the local garden or orchard were preserved, each in its season, by the industrious housewife, and stored away in the capacious cellar; where also might be found the supply of home-grown potatoes, turnips, carrots, parsnips, and cabbages to provide for the needs of the winter. Fuel to supply the household needs, both for cooking and heating, was cut in the neighboring woodland, and carefully corded in the door-yard, where it provided most uncongenial employment for the youth of the family after school hours and of a Saturday afternoon.

The ashes produced when this wood was burned in the various fireplaces, were not wasted, but were carefully deposited in barrels, from which in due course lye was extracted by the simple process of pouring water over the contents of the barrel. Meantime scraps of fat from the table were collected throughout the winter and preserved with equal care; and in due course on some leisure day in the springtime—heaven knows how a leisure day was ever found in such a scheme of domestic economy!—the lye drawn from the ash-barrels and the scraps of fat were put into a gigantic kettle, underneath which a fire was kindled; with the result that ultimately a supply of soft soap was provided the housewife, with which her entire establishment, progeny included, could be kept in a state of relative cleanness.

The reader of these pages has but to cast his eye about him in the household in which he lives, and contrast the conditions just depicted with those of his every-day life, to realize what change has come over the aspects of household economy in the course of a short century. Nor need he be told in each of the various departments of which the activities are here outlined, that the changes which he observes have been due to the application of machinery in all the essential lines of work in question. We need not pause to detail the multitudinous devices for the economy of household labor which owe their origin to the same agency. There still remains, to be sure, enough of drudgery in the task of the housewife; yet her most strenuous day seems a mere playtime in comparison with the average day of her maternal forebear of three or four generations ago.

But we must not here pause for further outlines of a subject which it is the purpose of this and succeeding volumes to explicate in detail. All our succeeding chapters will but make it more clear how marvelous are the elaborations of method and of mechanism through which the world's work of to-day is accomplished. We shall consider first the mechanical principles that underlie work in general, passing on to some of the principal methods of application through which the powers of Nature are made available. We shall then take up in succession the different fields of industry. We shall ask how the work of the agriculturist is done in the modern world; how the multitudinous lines of manufacture are carried out; how transportation is effected; we shall examine the modus operandi of the transmission of ideas; we shall even consider that destructive form of labor which manifests itself in the production of mechanisms of warfare. As we follow out the stories of the all-essential industries we shall be led to realize more fully perhaps than we have done before, the meaning of work in its relations to human development; and in particular the meaning of modern work, as carried out with the aid of modern mechanical contrivances, in its relations to modern civilization.

The full force of these relations may best be permitted to unfold itself as the story proceeds. There is, however, one fundamental principle which I would ask the reader to bear constantly in mind, as an aid to the full appreciation of the importance of our subject. It is that in considering the output of the worker we have constantly to do with one form or another of property, and that property is the very foundation-stone of civilization. "It is impossible," says Morgan, in his work on Ancient Society, "to overestimate the influence of property in the civilization of mankind. It was the power that brought the Aryan and Semitic nations out of barbarism into civilization. The growth of the idea of property in the human mind commenced in feebleness and ended in becoming its master passion. Governments and laws are instituted with primary reference to its creation, protection, and enjoyment. It introduced human slavery in its production; and, after the experience of several thousand years, it caused the abolition of slavery upon the discovery that the freeman was a better property-making machine." If, then, we recall that without labor there is no property, we shall be in an attitude of mind to appreciate the importance of our subject; we shall realize, somewhat beyond the bounds of its more tangible and sordid relations, the essential dignity, the fundamental importance—in a word, the true meaning—of Work.

Undoubtedly there is a modern tendency to accept this view of the dignity of physical labor. At any rate, we differ from the savage in thinking it more fitting that man should toil than that his wife should labor to support him—though it cannot be denied that even now the number of physical toilers among women greatly exceeds the number of such toilers among men. But in whatever measure we admit this attitude of mind, there can be no question that it is exclusively a modern attitude. Time out of mind, physical labor has been distasteful to mankind, and it is a later development of philosophy that appreciates the beneficence of the task so little relished.

The barbarian forces his wife to do most of the work, and glories in his own freedom. Early civilization kept conquered foes in thraldom, developing an hereditary body of slaves, whose function it was to do the physical work.

The Hebrew explained the necessity for labor as a curse imposed upon Father Adam and Mother Eve. Plato and Aristotle, voicing the spirit of the Greeks, considered manual toil as degrading.

To-day we hear much of the dignity of labor; but if we would avoid cant we must admit that now—scarcely less than in all the olden days—the physical toiler is such because he cannot help himself. Few indeed are the manual laborers who know any other means of getting their daily bread than that which they employ. The most strenuous advocates of the strenuous life are not themselves tillers of the soil or workers in factories or machine shops.

The farm youth of intelligence does not remain a farmer; he goes to the city, and we find him presently at the head of a railroad or a bank, or practising law or medicine. The more intelligent laborer becomes finally a foreman, and no longer handles the axe or sledge. We should think it grotesque were we to see a man of intellectual power obstinately following a pursuit that cost him habitual physical toil. When now and then a Tolstoi offers an exception to this rule, we feel that he is at least eccentric; and we may be excused the doubt whether he would follow the manual task cheerfully if he did not know that he could at any moment abandon it. It is because he knows that the world understands him to be only a dilettante that he rejoices in his task.

After all, then, judged by the modern practice, rather than by the philosopher's precept, the old Hebrew and Greek ideas were not so far wrong. Using the poetical language which was so native to them, it might be said that the necessity for physical labor is a curse—a disgrace.

A partial explanation of this may be found in the fact that the most uncongenial tasks are also the worst paid, while the congenial tasks command the high emoluments. Generally speaking there is no distinction between one laborer and another in the same field—except where the eminently fair method of piece work can be employed. Even the skilled laborer is usually paid by the day, and the amount he is to receive is commonly fixed by a Union regardless of his efficiency as compared with other laborers of the same class. And there is no possibility of his receiving any such sums as the man who plans the work, but does nothing with his own hands.

It has always been so. Just as "those who think must govern those that toil," so the thinker must command the high reward. Partly this is because man, considered as a mere toiler, is so relatively inefficient a worker. When he strives to work with his hands, his effort is but a pitiful one; he can by no possibility compete (as regards mere quantity of labor) with the ox and the horse. He is impatient of his own puerile efforts. It is only when he brings the products of ingenuity to his aid that he is able to show his superiority, and to justify his own egotism. So it is that in every age he has striven to find means of adding to his feeble powers of body through the use of his relatively gigantic powers of mind. And in proportion as he thus is able to "make his head work for his hands" as the saying goes, he verges toward the heights of civilization. To accomplish this more and more fully has ever been the task of science as applied to the industries.

It will be our object in the ensuing chapters to inquire how far science has accomplished the protean task thus set for it. We shall see that much has been done; but that much still remains to be done. In proportion as the problems are unsolved, science is reproached for its shortcomings—and stimulated to new efforts.

In proportion as labor has been minimized and production increased—in just that proportion has science justified itself; and in the same proportion has the Conquest of Nature been carried toward completion.