United effort through geological time in front is but the beginning of
an idea. I am convinced that much more can be done, and that the length
of time may be almost immeasurably shortened. The general principles
that are now in operation are of the simplest and most elementary
character, yet they have already made considerable difference. I am not
content with these. There must be much more—there must be things which
are at present unknown by whose aid advance may be made. Research
proceeds upon the same old lines and runs in the ancient grooves.
Further, it is restricted by the ultra-practical views which are alone
deemed reasonable. But there should be no limit placed on the mind. The
purely ideal is as worthy of pursuit as the practical, and the mind is
not to be pinned to dogmas of science any more than to dogmas of
superstition. Most injurious of all is the continuous circling on the
same path, and it is from this that I wish to free my mind.
The pursuit of theory—the organon of pure thought—has led incidentally
to great discoveries, and for myself I am convinced it is of the
highest value. The process of experiment has produced much, and has
applied what was previously found. Empiricism is worthy of careful
re-working out, for it is a fact that most things are more or less
empirical, especially in medicine. Denial may be given to this
statement, nevertheless it is true, and I have had practical
exemplification of it in my own experience. Observation is perhaps more
powerful an organon than either experiment or empiricism. If the eye is
always watching, and the mind on the alert, ultimately chance supplies
the solution.
The difficulties I have encountered have generally been solved by
chance in this way. When I took an interest in archaeological
matters—an interest long since extinct—I considered that a part of an
army known to have marched in a certain direction during the Civil War
must have visited a town in which I was interested. But I exhausted
every mode of research in vain; there was no evidence of it. If the
knowledge had ever existed it had dropped again. Some years afterwards,
when my interest had ceased, and I had put such inquiries for ever
aside (being useless, like the Egyptian papyri), I was reading in the
British Museum. Presently I returned my book to the shelf, and then
slowly walked along the curving wall lined with volumes, looking to see
if I could light on anything to amuse me. I took out a volume for a
glance; it opened of itself at a certain page, and there was the
information I had so long sought—a reprint of an old pamphlet
describing the visit of the army to the town in the Civil War. So
chance answered the question in the course of time.
And I think that, seeing how great a part chance plays in human
affairs, it is essential that study should be made of chance; it seems
to me that an organon from experiment. Then there is the inner
consciousness—the psyche—that has never yet been brought to bear upon
life and its questions. Besides which there is a super-sensuous reason.
Often I have argued with myself that such and such a course was the
right one to follow, while in the intervals of thinking about it an
undercurrent of unconscious impulse has desired me to do the reverse or
to remain inactive. Sometimes it has happened that the supersensuous
reasoning has been correct, and the most faultless argument wrong. I
presume this supersensuous reasoning, preceeding independently in the
mind, arises from perceptions too delicate for analysis. From these
considerations alone I am convinced that, by the aid of ideas yet to be
discovered, the geological time in front may be immeasurably shortened.
These modes of research are not all. The psyche—the soul in me—tells me
that there is much more, that these are merely beginnings of the
crudest kind.
I fully recognise the practical difficulty arising from the ingrained,
hereditary, and unconscious selfishness which began before history, and
has been crossed and cultivated for twelve thousand years since. This
renders me less sanguine of united effort through geological time
ahead, unless some idea can be formed to give a stronger impulse even
than selfishness, or unless the selfishness can be utilised. The
complacency with which the mass of people go about their daily task,
absolutely indifferent to all other considerations, is appalling in its
concentrated stolidity. They do not intend wrong—they intend rightly:
in truth, they work against the entire human race. So wedded and so
confirmed is the world in its narrow groove of self, so stolid and so
complacent under the immense weight of misery, so callous to its own
possibilities, and so grown to its chains, that I almost despair to see
it awakened. Cemeteries are often placed on hillsides, and the white
stones are visible far off. If the whole of the dead in a hillside
cemetery were called up alive from their tombs, and walked forth down
into the valley, it would not rouse the mass of people from the dense
pyramid of stolidity which presses on them.
There would be gaping and marvelling and rushing about, and what then?
In a week or two the ploughman would settle down to his plough, the
carpenter to his bench, the smith to his anvil, the merchant to his
money, and the dead come to life would be utterly forgotten. No matter
in what manner the possibilities of human life are put before the
world, the crowd continues as stolid as before. Therefore nothing
hitherto done, or suggested, or thought of, is of much avail; but this
fact in no degree stays me from the search. On the contrary, the less
there has been accomplished the more anxious I am; the truth it teaches
is that the mind must be lifted out of its old grooves before anything
will be certainly begun. Erase the past from the mind—stand face to
face with the real now—and work out all anew. Call the soul to our
assistance; the soul tells me that outside all the ideas that have yet
occurred there are others, whole circles of others.
I remember a cameo of Augustus Cæsar—the head of the emperor is graven
in delicate lines, and shows the most exquisite proportions. It is a
balanced head, a head adjusted to the calmest intellect. That head when
it was living contained a circle of ideas, the largest, the widest, the
most profound current in his time. All that philosophy had taught, all
that practice, experiment, and empiricism had discovered, was familiar
to him. There was no knowledge in the ancient world but what was
accessible to the Emperor of Rome. Now at this day there are amongst us
heads as finely proportioned as that cut out in the cameo. Though these
living men do not possess arbitrary power, the advantages of arbitrary
power—as far as knowledge is concerned—are secured to them by
education, by the printing-press, and the facilities of our era. It is
reasonable to imagine a head of our time filled with the largest, the
widest, the most profound ideas current in the age. Augustus Cæsar,
however great his intellect, could not in that balanced head have
possessed the ideas familiar enough to the living head of this day. As
we have a circle of ideas unknown to Augustus Cæsar, so I argue there
are whole circles of ideas unknown to us. It is these that I am so
earnestly desirous of discovering.
For nothing has as yet been of any value, however good its intent.
There is no virtue, or reputed virtue, which has not been rigidly
pursued, and things have remained as before. Men and women have
practised self-denial, and to what end? They have compelled themselves
to suffer hunger and thirst; in vain. They have clothed themselves in
sack cloth and lacerated the flesh. They have mutilated themselves.
Some have been scrupulous to bathe, and some have been scrupulous to
cake their bodies with the foulness of years. Many have devoted their
lives to assist others in sickness or poverty. Chastity has been
faithfully observed, chastity both of body and mind. Self-examination
has been pursued till it ended in a species of sacred insanity, and all
these have been of no more value than the tortures undergone by the
Indian mendicant who hangs himself up by a hook through his back. All
these are pure folly.
Asceticism has not improved the form, or the physical well-being, or
the heart of any human being. On the contrary, the hetaira is often the
warmest hearted and the most generous. Casuistry and self-examination
are perhaps the most injurious of all the virtues, utterly destroying
independence of mind. Self-denial has had no result, and all the
self-torture of centuries has been thrown away. Lives spent in doing
good have been lives nobly wasted. Everything is in vain. The circle of
ideas we possess is too limited to aid us. We need ideas as far outside
our circle as ours are outside those that were pondered over by
Augustus Cæsar.
The most extraordinary spectacle, as it seems to me, is the vast
expenditure of labour and time wasted in obtaining mere subsistence. As
a man, in his lifetime, works hard and saves money, that his children
may be free from the cares of penury and may at least have sufficient
to eat, drink, clothe, and roof them, so the generations that preceded
us might, had they so chosen, have provided for our subsistence. The
labour and time of ten generations, properly directed, would sustain a
hundred generations succeeding to them, and that, too, with so little
self-denial on the part of the providers as to be scarcely felt. So men
now, in this generation, ought clearly to be laying up a store, or,
what is still more powerful, arranging and organising that the
generations which follow may enjoy comparative freedom from useless
labour. Instead of which, with transcendent improvidence, the world
works only for to-day, as the world worked twelve thousand years ago,
and our children’s children will still have to toil and slave for the
bare necessities of life. This is, indeed an extraordinary spectacle.
That twelve thousand written years should have elapsed, and the human
race—able to reason and to think, and easily capable of combination in
immense armies for its own destruction—should still live from hand to
mouth, like cattle and sheep, like the animals of the field and the
birds of the woods; that there should not even be roofs to cover the
children born, unless those children labour and expend their time to
pay for them; that there should not be clothes, unless, again, time and
labour are expended to procure them; that there should not be even food
for the children of the human race, except they labour as their fathers
did twelve thousand years ago; that even water should scarce be
accessible to them, unless paid for by labour! In twelve thousand
written years the world has not yet built itself a House, nor filled a
Granary, nor organised itself for its own comfort. It is so marvellous
I cannot express the wonder with which it fills me. And more wonderful
still, if that could be, there are people so infatuated, or, rather, so
limited of view, that they glory in this state of things, declaring
that work is the main object of man’s existence—work for
subsistence—and glorying in their wasted time. To argue with such is
impossible; to leave them is the only resource.
This our earth this day produces sufficient for our existence. This our
earth produces not only a sufficiency, but a superabundance, and pours
a cornucopia of good things down upon us. Further, it produces
sufficient for stores and granaries to be filled to the rooftree for
years ahead. I verily believe that the earth in one year produces
enough food to last for thirty. Why, then, have we not enough? Why do
people die of starvation, or lead a miserable existence on the verge of
it? Why have millions upon millions to toil from morning to evening
just to gain a mere crust of bread? Because of the absolute lack of
Organisation by which such labour should produce its effect, the
absolute lack of distribution, the absolute lack even of the very idea
that such things are possible. Nay, even to mention such things, to say
that they are possible, is criminal with many. Madness could hardly go
farther.
That selfishness has all to do with it I entirely deny. The human race
for ages upon ages has been enslaved by ignorance and by interested
persons whose object it has been to confine the minds of men, thereby
doing more injury than if with infected hands they purposely imposed
disease on the heads of the people. Almost worse than these, and at the
present day as injurious, are those persons incessantly declaring,
teaching, and impressing upon all that to work is man’s highest
condition. This falsehood is the interested superstition of an age
infatuated with money, which having accumulated it cannot even expend
it in pageantry. It is a falsehood propagated for the doubtful benefit
of two or three out of ten thousand, It is the lie of a morality
founded on money only, and utterly outside and having no association
whatever with the human being in itself. Many superstitions have been
got rid of in these days; time it is that this, the last and worst,
were eradicated.
At this hour, out of thirty-four millions who inhabit this country,
two-thirds—say twenty-two millions—live within thirty years of that
abominable institution the poorhouse. That any human being should dare
to apply to another the epithet “pauper” is, to me, the greatest, the
vilest, the most unpardonable crime that could be committed. Each human
being, by mere birth, has a birthright in this earth and all its
productions; and if they do not receive it, then it is they who are
injured, and it is not the “pauper”—oh, inexpressibly wicked word!—it
is the well-to-do, who are the criminal classes. It matters not in the
least if the poor be improvident, or drunken, or evil in any way. Food
and drink, roof and clothes, are the inalienable right of every child
born into the light. If the world does not provide it freely—not as a
grudging gift but as a right, as a son of the house sits down to
breakfast—then is the world mad. But the world is not mad, only in
ignorance—an interested ignorance, kept up by strenuous exertions, from
which infernal darkness it will, in course of time, emerge, marvelling
at the past as a man wonders at and glories in the light who has
escaped from blindness.