Well, in the evolution of a society, we see a primary differentiation of

analogous kind; which similarly underlies the whole future structure. As

already pointed out, the only manifest contrast of parts in primitive

societies, is that between the governing and the governed. In the least

organized tribes, the council of chiefs may be a body of men distinguished

simply by greater courage or experience. In more organized tribes, the

chief-class is definitely separated from the lower class, and often

regarded as different in nature--sometimes as god-descended. And later, we

find these two becoming respectively freemen and slaves, or nobles and

serfs. A glance at their respective functions, makes it obvious that the

great divisions thus early formed, stand to each other in a relation

similar to that in which the primary divisions of the embryo stand to each

other. For, from its first appearance, the class of chiefs is that by which

the external acts of the society are controlled: alike in war, in

negotiation, and in migration. Afterwards, while the upper class grows

distinct from the lower, and at the same time becomes more and more

exclusively regulative and defensive in its functions, alike in the persons

of kings and subordinate rulers, priests, and military leaders; the

inferior class becomes more and more exclusively occupied in providing the

necessaries of life for the community at large. From the soil, with which

it comes in most direct contact, the mass of the people takes up and

prepares for use, the food and such rude articles of manufacture as are

known; while the overlying mass of superior men, maintained by the working

population, deals with circumstances external to the

community--circumstances with which, by position, it is more immediately

concerned. Ceasing by-and-by to have any knowledge of, or power over, the

concerns of the society as a whole, the serf-class becomes devoted to the

processes of alimentation; while the noble class, ceasing to take any part

in the processes of alimentation, becomes devoted to the co-ordinated

movements of the entire body politic.

Equally remarkable is a further analogy of like kind. After the mucous and

serous layers of the embryo have separated, there presently arises between

the two, a third, known to physiologists as the vascular layer--a layer out

of which are developed the chief blood-vessels. The mucous layer absorbs

nutriment from the mass of yelk it encloses; this nutriment has to be

transferred to the overlying serous layer, out of which the nervo-muscular

system is being developed; and between the two arises a vascular system by

which the transfer is effected--a system of vessels which continues ever

after to be the transferrer of nutriment from the places where it is

absorbed and prepared, to the places where it is needed for growth and

repair. Well, may we not trace a parallel step in social progress?

Between the governing and the governed, there at first exists no

intermediate class; and even in some societies that have reached

considerable sizes, there are scarcely any but the nobles and their kindred

on the one hand, and the serfs on the other: the social structure being

such, that the transfer of commodities takes place directly from slaves to

their masters. But in societies of a higher type, there grows up between

these two primitive classes, another--the trading or middle class. Equally,

at first as now, we may see that, speaking generally, this middle class is

the analogue of the middle layer in the embryo. For all traders are

essentially distributors. Whether they be wholesale dealers, who collect

into large masses the commodities of various producers; or whether they be

retailers, who divide out to those who want them, the masses of commodities

thus collected together; all mercantile men are agents of transfer from the

places where things are produced to the places where they are consumed.

Thus the distributing apparatus of a society, answers to the distributing

apparatus of a living body; not only in its functions, but in its

intermediate origin and subsequent position, and in the time of its

appearance.

Without enumerating the minor differentiations which these three great

classes afterwards undergo, we will merely note that throughout, they

follow the same general law with the differentiations of an individual

organism. In a society, as in a rudimentary animal, we have seen that the

most general and broadly contrasted divisions are the first to make their

appearance; and of the subdivisions it continues true in both cases, that

they arise in the order of decreasing generality.

Let us observe next, that in the one case as in the other, the

specializations are at first very incomplete; and become more complete as

organization progresses. We saw that in primitive tribes, as in the

simplest animals, there remains much community of function between the

parts that are nominally different--that, for instance, the class of chiefs

long remain industrially the same as the inferior class; just as in a

_Hydra_, the property of contractility is possessed by the units of the

endoderm as well as by those of the ectoderm. We noted also how, as the

society advanced, the two great primitive classes partook less and less of

each other's functions. And we have here to remark, that all subsequent

specializations are at first vague, and gradually become distinct. "In the

infancy of society," says M. Guizot, "everything is confused and uncertain;

there is as yet no fixed and precise line of demarcation between the

different powers in a state." "Originally kings lived like other

landowners, on the incomes derived from their own private estates." Nobles

were petty kings; and kings only the most powerful nobles. Bishops were

feudal lords and military leaders. The right of coining money was possessed

by powerful subjects, and by the Church, as well as by the king. Every

leading man exercised alike the functions of landowner, farmer, soldier,

statesman, judge. Retainers were now soldiers, and now labourers, as the

day required. But by degrees the Church has lost all civil jurisdiction;

the State has exercised less and less control over religious teaching; the

military class has grown a distinct one; handicrafts have concentrated in

towns; and the spinning-wheels of scattered farmhouses have disappeared

before the machinery of manufacturing districts. Not only is all progress

from the homogeneous to the heterogeneous; but at the same time it is from

the indefinite to the definite.

Another fact which should not be passed over, is that in the evolution of a

large society out of an aggregation of small ones, there is a gradual

obliteration of the original lines of separation--a change to which, also,

we may see analogies in living bodies. Throughout the sub-kingdom

_Annulosa_, this is clearly and variously illustrated. Among the lower

types of this sub-kingdom, the body consists of numerous segments that are

alike in nearly every particular. Each has its external ring; its pair of

legs, if the creature has legs; its equal portion of intestines, or else

its separate stomach; its equal portion of the great blood-vessel, or, in

some cases, its separate heart; its equal portion of the nervous cord, and,

perhaps, its separate pair of ganglia. But in the highest types, as in the

large _Crustacea_, many of the segments are completely fused together; and

the internal organs are no longer uniformly repeated in all the segments.

Now the segments of which nations at first consist, lose their separate

external and internal structures in a similar manner. In feudal times, the

minor communities governed by feudal lords, were severally organized in the

same rude way; and were held together only by the fealty of their

respective rulers to some suzerain. But along with the growth of a central

power, the demarcations of these local communities disappeared; and their

separate organizations merged into the general organization. The like is

seen on a larger scale in the fusion of England, Wales, Scotland, and

Ireland; and, on the Continent, in the coalescence of provinces into

kingdoms. Even in the disappearance of law-made divisions, the process is

analogous. Among the Anglo-Saxons, England was divided into tithings,

hundreds, and counties: there were county courts, courts of hundred, and

courts of tithing. The courts of tithing disappeared first; then the courts

of hundred, which have, however, left traces; while the county-jurisdiction

still exists.

But chiefly it is to be noted, that there eventually grows up an

organization which has no reference to these original divisions, but

traverses them in various directions, as is the case in creatures belonging

to the sub-kingdom just named; and, further, that in both cases it is the

sustaining organization which thus traverses old boundaries, while in both

cases it is the governmental, or co-ordinating organization in which the

original boundaries continue traceable. Thus, in the highest _Annulosa_,

the exo-skeleton and the muscular system, never lose all traces of their

primitive segmentation; but throughout a great part of the body, the

contained viscera do not in the least conform to the external divisions.

Similarly, with a nation, we see that while, for governmental purposes,

such divisions as counties and parishes still exist, the structure

developed for carrying on the nutrition of society, wholly ignores these

boundaries: our great cotton-manufacture spreads out of Lancashire into

North Derbyshire; Leicestershire and Nottinghamshire have long divided the

stocking-trade between them; one great centre for the production of iron

and iron-goods, includes parts of Warwickshire, Staffordshire,

Worcestershire; and those various specializations of agriculture which have

made different parts of England noted for different products, show no more

respect to county-boundaries than do our growing towns to the boundaries of

parishes.

If, after contemplating these analogies of structure, we inquire whether

there are any such analogies between the processes of organic change, the

answer is--yes. The causes which lead to increase of bulk in any part of

the body politic, are of like nature with those which lead to increase of

bulk in any part of an individual body. In both cases the antecedent is

greater functional activity, consequent on greater demand. Each limb,

viscus, gland, or other member of an animal, is developed by exercise--by

actively discharging the duties which the body at large requires of it; and

similarly, any class of labourers or artisans, any manufacturing centre, or

any official agency, begins to enlarge when the community devolves on it an

increase of work. In each case, too, growth has its conditions and its

limits. That any organ in a living being may grow by exercise, there needs

a due supply of blood: all action implies waste; blood brings the materials

for repair; and before there can be growth, the quantity of blood supplied

must be more than that requisite for repair.

So is it in a society. If to some district which elaborates for the

community particular commodities--say the woollens of Yorkshire--there

comes an augmented demand; and if, in fulfilment of this demand, a certain

expenditure and wear of the manufacturing organization are incurred; and

if, in payment for the extra supply of woollens sent away, there comes back

only such quantity of commodities as replaces the expenditure, and makes

good the waste of life and machinery; there can clearly be no growth. That

there may be growth, the commodities obtained in return must be more than

sufficient for these ends; and just in proportion as the surplus is great

will the growth be rapid. Whence it is manifest that what in commercial

affairs we call _profit_, answers to the excess of nutrition over waste in

a living body. Moreover, in both cases, when the functional activity is

high and the nutrition defective, there results not growth but decay. If in

an animal, any organ is worked so hard that the channels which bring blood

cannot furnish enough for repair, the organ dwindles; and if in the body

politic, some part has been stimulated into great productivity, and cannot

afterwards get paid for all its produce, certain of its members become

bankrupt, and it decreases in size.

One more parallelism to be here noted, is, that the different parts of the

social organism, like the different parts of an individual organism,

compete for nutriment; and severally obtain more or less of it according as

they are discharging more or less duty. If a man's brain be overexcited, it

will abstract blood from his viscera and stop digestion; or digestion

actively going on, will so affect the circulation through the brain as to

cause drowsiness; or great muscular exertion will determine such a quantity

of blood to the limbs, as to arrest digestion or cerebral action, as the

case may be. So, likewise, in a society, it frequently happens that great

activity in some one direction, causes partial arrests of activity

elsewhere, by abstracting capital, that is commodities: as instance the way

in which the sudden development of our railway-system hampered commercial

operations; or the way in which the raising of a large military force

temporarily stops the growth of leading industries.

* * * * *

The last few paragraphs introduce the next division of our subject. Almost

unawares we have come upon the analogy which exists between the blood of a

living body, and the circulating mass of commodities in the body politic.

We have now to trace out this analogy from its simplest to its most complex

manifestations.

In the lowest animals there exists no blood properly so called. Through the

small aggregation of cells which make up a _Hydra_, permeate the juices

absorbed from the food. There is no apparatus for elaborating a

concentrated and purified nutriment, and distributing it among the

component units; but these component units directly imbibe the unprepared

nutriment, either from the digestive cavity or from each other. May we not

say that this is what takes place in an aboriginal tribe? All its members

severally obtain for themselves the necessaries of life in their crude

states; and severally prepare them for their own uses as well as they can.

When there arises a decided differentiation between the governing and the

governed, some amount of transfer begins between those inferior

individuals, who, as workers, come directly in contact with the products of

the earth, and those superior ones who exercise the higher functions--a

transfer parallel to that which accompanies the differentiation of the

ectoderm from the endoderm. In the one case, as in the other, however, it

is a transfer of products that are little if at all prepared; and takes

place directly from the unit which obtains to the unit which consumes,

without entering into any general current.

Passing to larger organisms--individual and social--we find the first

advance upon this arrangement. Where, as among the compound _Hydrozoa_,

there is an aggregation of many such primitive groups as form _Hydrae_; or

where, as in a _Medusa_, one of these groups has become of great size;

there exist rude channels running throughout the substance of the body: not

however, channels for the conveyance of prepared nutriment, but mere

prolongations of the digestive cavity, through which the crude

chyle-aqueous fluid reaches the remoter parts, and is moved backwards and

forwards by the creature's contractions. Do we not find in some of the more

advanced primitive communities, an analogous condition? When the men,

partially or fully united into one society, become numerous--when, as

usually happens, they cover a surface of country not everywhere alike in

its products--when, more especially, there arise considerable classes that

are not industrial; some process of exchange and distribution inevitably

arises. Traversing here and there the earth's surface, covered by that

vegetation on which human life depends, and in which, as we say, the units

of a society are imbedded, there are formed indefinite paths, along which

some of the necessaries of life occasionally pass, to be bartered for

others which presently come back along the same channels. Note, however,

that at first little else but crude commodities are thus

transferred--fruits, fish, pigs or cattle, skins, etc.: there are few, if

any, manufactured products or articles prepared for consumption. And note

further, that such distribution of these unprepared necessaries of life as

takes place, is but occasional--goes on with a certain slow, irregular

rhythm.

Further progress in the elaboration and distribution of nutriment, or of

commodities, is a necessary accompaniment of further differentiation of

functions in the individual body or in the body politic. As fast as each

organ of a living animal becomes confined to a special action, it must

become dependent on the rest for all those materials which its position and

duty do not permit it to obtain for itself; in the same way that, as fast

as each particular class of a community becomes exclusively occupied in

producing its own commodity, it must become dependent on the rest for the

other commodities it needs. And, simultaneously, a more

perfectly-elaborated blood will result from a highly-specialized group of

nutritive organs, severally adapted to prepare its different elements; in

the same way that the stream of commodities circulating throughout a

society, will be of superior quality in proportion to the greater division

of labour among the workers. Observe, also, that in either case the

circulating mass of nutritive materials, besides coming gradually to

consist of better ingredients, also grows more complex. An increase in the

number of the unlike organs which add to the blood their waste matters, and

demand from it the different materials they severally need, implies a blood

more heterogeneous in composition--an _a priori_ conclusion which,

according to Dr. Williams, is inductively confirmed by examination of the

blood throughout the various grades of the animal kingdom. And similarly,

it is manifest that as fast as the division of labour among the classes of

a community, becomes greater, there must be an increasing heterogeneity in

the currents of merchandise flowing throughout that community.

The circulating mass of nutritive materials in individual organisms and in

social organisms, becoming alike better in the quality of its ingredients

and more heterogeneous in composition, as the type of structure becomes

higher; eventually has added to it in both cases another element, which is

not itself nutritive, but facilitates the process of nutrition. We refer,

in the case of the individual organism, to the blood-discs; and in the case

of the social organism, to money. This analogy has been observed by Liebig,

who in his "Familiar Letters on Chemistry," says:

"Silver and gold have to perform in the organization of the State,

the same function as the blood corpuscles in the human organization.

As these round discs, without themselves taking an immediate share in

the nutritive process, are the medium, the essential condition of the

change of matter, of the production of the heat, and of the force by

which the temperature of the body is kept up and the motions of the

blood and all the juices are determined, so has gold become the

medium of all activity in the life of the State."

And blood-corpuscles being like money in their functions, and in the fact

that they are not consumed in nutrition, he further points out, that the

number of them which in a considerable interval flows through the great

centres, is enormous when compared with their absolute number; just as the

quantity of money which annually passes through the great mercantile

centres, is enormous when compared with the total quantity of money in the

kingdom. Nor is this all. Liebig has omitted the significant circumstance,

that only at a certain stage of organization does this element of the

circulation make its appearance. Throughout extensive divisions of the

lower animals, the blood contains no corpuscles; and in societies of low

civilization, there is no money.

Thus far, we have considered the analogy between the blood in a living body

and the consumable and circulating commodities in the body politic. Let us

now compare the appliances by which they are respectively distributed. We

shall find in the development of these appliances, parallelisms not less

remarkable than those above set forth. Already we have shown that, as

classes, wholesale and retail distributors discharge in a society, the

office which the vascular system discharges in an individual creature; that

they come into existence later than the other two great classes, as the

vascular layer appears later than the mucous and serous layers; and that

they occupy a like intermediate position. Here, however, it remains to be

pointed out that a complete conception of the circulating system in a

society, includes not only the active human agents who propel the currents

of commodities, and regulate their distribution; but includes, also, the

channels of communication. It is the formation and arrangement of these, to

which we now direct attention.

Going back once more to those lower animals in which there is found nothing

but a partial diffusion, not of blood, but only of crude nutritive fluids,

it is to be remarked that the channels through which the diffusion takes

place, are mere excavations through the half-organized substance of the

body: they have no lining membranes, but are mere _lacunae_ traversing a

rude tissue. Now countries in which civilization is but commencing, display

a like condition: there are no roads properly so called; but the wilderness

of vegetal life covering the earth's surface, is pierced by tracks, through

which the distribution of crude commodities takes place. And while in both

cases, the acts of distribution occur only at long intervals (the currents,

after a pause, now setting towards a general centre, and now away from it),

the transfer is in both cases slow and difficult. But among other

accompaniments of progress, common to animals and societies, comes the

formation of more definite and complete channels of communication.

Blood-vessels acquire distinct walls; roads are fenced and gravelled. This

advance is first seen in those roads or vessels that are nearest to the

chief centres of distribution; while the peripheral roads and peripheral

vessels, long continue in their primitive states. At a yet later stage of

development, where comparative finish of structure is found throughout the

system as well as near the chief centres, there remains in both cases the

difference, that the main channels are comparatively broad and straight,

while the subordinate ones are narrow and tortuous in proportion to their

remoteness.

Lastly, it is to be remarked that there ultimately arise in the higher

social organisms, as in the higher individual organisms, main channels of

distribution still more distinguished by their perfect structures, their

comparative straightness, and the absence of those small branches which the

minor channels perpetually give off. And in railways we also see, for the

first time in the social organism, a specialization with respect to the

directions of the currents--a system of double channels conveying currents

in opposite directions, as do the arteries and veins of a well-developed

animal.

These parallelisms in the evolutions and structures of the circulating

systems, introduce us to others in the kinds and rates of the movements

going on through them. In the lowest societies, as in the lowest creatures,

the distribution of crude nutriment is by slow gurgitations and

regurgitations. In creatures that have rude vascular systems, as in

societies that are beginning to have roads and some transfer of commodities

along them, there is no regular circulation in definite courses; but

instead, periodical changes of the currents--now towards this point, and

now towards that. Through each part of an inferior mollusk's body, the

blood flows for a while in one direction, then stops, and flows in the

opposite direction; just as through a rudely-organized society, the

distribution of merchandise is slowly carried on by great fairs, occurring

in different localities, to and from which the currents periodically set.

Only animals of tolerably complete organizations, like advanced

communities, are permeated by constant currents that are definitely

directed. In living bodies, the local and variable currents disappear when

there grow up great centres of circulation, generating more powerful

currents, by a rhythm which ends in a quick, regular pulsation. And when in

social bodies, there arise great centres of commercial activity, producing

and exchanging large quantities of commodities, the rapid and continuous

streams drawn in and emitted by these centres, subdue all minor and local

circulations: the slow rhythm of fairs merges into the faster one of weekly

markets, and in the chief centres of distribution, weekly markets merge

into daily markets; while in place of the languid transfer from place to

place, taking place at first weekly, then twice or thrice a week, we

by-and-by get daily transfer, and finally transfer many times a day--the

original sluggish, irregular rhythm, becomes a rapid, equable pulse.

Mark, too, that in both cases the increased activity, like the greater

perfection of structure, is much less conspicuous at the periphery of the

vascular system. On main lines of railway, we have, perhaps, a score trains

in each direction daily, going at from thirty to fifty miles an hour; as,

through the great arteries, the blood rushes rapidly in successive gushes.

Along high roads, there move vehicles conveying men and commodities with

much less, though still considerable, speed, and with a much less decided

rhythm; as, in the smaller arteries, the speed of the blood is greatly

diminished, and the pulse less conspicuous. In parish-roads, narrow, less

complete, and more tortuous, the rate of movement is further decreased and

the rhythm scarcely traceable; as in the ultimate arteries. In those still

more imperfect by-roads which lead from these parish-roads to scattered

farmhouses and cottages, the motion is yet slower and very irregular; just

as we find it in the capillaries. While along the field-roads, which, in

their unformed, unfenced state, are typical of _lacunae_, the movement is

the slowest, the most irregular, and the most infrequent; as it is, not

only in the primitive _lacunae_ of animals, and societies, but as it is also

in those _lacunae_ in which the vascular system ends among extensive

families of inferior creatures.

Thus, then, we find between the distributing systems of living bodies and

the distributing systems of bodies politic, wonderfully close parallelisms.

In the lowest forms of individual and social organisms, there exist neither

prepared nutritive matters nor distributing appliances; and in both, these,

arising as necessary accompaniments of the differentiation of parts,

approach perfection as this differentiation approaches completeness. In

animals, as in societies, the distributing agencies begin to show

themselves at the same relative periods, and in the same relative

positions. In the one, as in the other, the nutritive materials circulated,

are at first crude and simple, gradually become better elaborated and more

heterogeneous, and have eventually added to them a new element facilitating

the nutritive processes. The channels of communication pass through similar

phases of development, which bring them to analogous forms. And the

directions, rhythms, and rates of circulation, progress by like steps to

like final conditions.

* * * * *

We come at length to the nervous system. Having noticed the primary

differentiation of societies into the governing and governed classes, and

observed its analogy to the differentiation of the two primary tissues

which respectively develope into organs of external action and organs of

alimentation; having noticed some of the leading analogies between the

development of industrial arrangements and that of the alimentary

apparatus; and having, above, more fully traced the analogies between the

distributing systems, social and individual; we have now to compare the

appliances by which a society, as a whole, is regulated, with those by

which the movements of an individual creature are regulated. We shall find

here, parallelisms equally striking with those already detailed.

The class out of which governmental organization originates, is, as we have

said, analogous in its relations to the ectoderm of the lowest animals and

of embryonic forms. And as this primitive membrane, out of which the

nervo-muscular system is evolved, must, even in the first stage of its

differentiation, be slightly distinguished from the rest by that greater

impressibility and contractility characterizing the organs to which it

gives rise; so, in that superior class which is eventually transformed into

the directo-executive system of a society (its legislative and defensive

appliances), does there exist in the beginning, a larger endowment of the

capacities required for these higher social functions. Always, in rude

assemblages of men, the strongest, most courageous, and most sagacious,

become rulers and leaders; and, in a tribe of some standing, this results

in the establishment of a dominant class, characterized on the average by

those mental and bodily qualities which fit them for deliberation and

vigorous combined action. Thus that greater impressibility and

contractility, which in the rudest animal types characterize the units of

the ectoderm, characterize also the units of the primitive social ectoderm;

since impressibility and contractility are the respective roots of

intelligence and strength.

Again, in the unmodified ectoderm, as we see it in the _Hydra_, the units

are all endowed both with impressibility and contractility; but as we

ascend to higher types of organization, the ectoderm differentiates into

classes of units which divide those two functions between them: some,

becoming exclusively impressible, cease to be contractile; while some,

becoming exclusively contractile, cease to be impressible. Similarly with

societies. In an aboriginal tribe, the directive and executive functions

are diffused in a mingled form throughout the whole governing class. Each

minor chief commands those under him, and if need be, himself coerces them

into obedience. The council of chiefs itself carries out on the

battle-field its own decisions. The head chief not only makes laws, but

administers justice with his own hands. In larger and more settled

communities, however, the directive and executive agencies begin to grow

distinct from each other. As fast as his duties accumulate, the head chief

or king confines himself more and more to directing public affairs, and

leaves the execution of his will to others: he deputes others to enforce

submission, to inflict punishments, or to carry out minor acts of offence

and defence; and only on occasions when, perhaps, the safety of the society

and his own supremacy are at stake, does he begin to act as well as direct.

As this differentiation establishes itself, the characteristics of the

ruler begin to change. No longer, as in an aboriginal tribe, the strongest

and most daring man, the tendency is for him to become the man of greatest

cunning, foresight, and skill in the management of others; for in societies

that have advanced beyond the first stage, it is chiefly such qualities

that insure success in gaining supreme power, and holding it against

internal and external enemies. Thus that member of the governing class who

comes to be the chief directing agent, and so plays the same part that a

rudimentary nervous centre does in an unfolding organism, is usually one

endowed with some superiorities of nervous organization.

In those somewhat larger and more complex communities possessing, perhaps,

a separate military class, a priesthood, and dispersed masses of population

requiring local control, there necessarily grow up subordinate governing

agents; who as their duties accumulate, severally become more directive and

less executive in their characters. And when, as commonly happens, the king

begins to collect round himself advisers who aid him by communicating

information, preparing subjects for his judgment, and issuing his orders;

we may say that the form of organization is comparable to one very general

among inferior types of animals, in which there exists a chief ganglion

with a few dispersed minor ganglia under its control.

The analogies between the evolution of governmental structures in

societies, and the evolution of governmental structures in living bodies,

are, however, more strikingly displayed during the formation of nations by

the coalescence of small communities--a process already shown to be, in

several respects, parallel to the development of those creatures that

primarily consist of many like segments. Among other points of community

between the successive rings which make up the body in the lower

_Articulata_, is the possession of similar pairs of ganglia. These pairs of

ganglia, though united together by nerves, are very incompletely dependent

on any general controlling power. Hence it results that when the body is

cut in two, the hinder part continues to move forward under the propulsion

of its numerous legs; and that when the chain of ganglia has been divided

without severing the body, the hind limbs may be seen trying to propel the

body in one direction, while the fore limbs are trying to propel it in

another. Among the higher _Articulata_, however, a number of the anterior

pairs of ganglia, besides growing larger, unite in one mass; and this great

cephalic ganglion, becoming the co-ordinator of all the creature's

movements, there no longer exists much local independence.

Now may we not in the growth of a consolidated kingdom out of petty

sovereignties or baronies, observe analogous changes? Like the chiefs and

primitive rulers above described, feudal lords, exercising supreme power

over their respective groups of retainers, discharge functions analogous to

those of rudimentary nervous centres; and we know that at first they, like

their analogues, are distinguished by superiorities of directive and

executive organization. Among these local governing centres, there is, in

early feudal times, very little subordination. They are in frequent

antagonism; they are individually restrained chiefly by the influence of

large parties in their own class; and are but imperfectly and irregularly

subject to that most powerful member of their order who has gained the

position of head suzerain or king. As the growth and organization of the

society progresses, these local directive centres fall more and more under

the control of a chief directive centre. Closer commercial union between

the several segments, is accompanied by closer governmental union; and

these minor rulers end in being little more than agents who administer, in

their several localities, the laws made by the supreme ruler: just as the

local ganglia above described, eventually become agents which enforce, in

their respective segments, the orders of the cephalic ganglion.

The parallelism holds still further. We remarked above, when speaking of

the rise of aboriginal kings, that in proportion as their territories and

duties increase, they are obliged not only to perform their executive

functions by deputy, but also to gather round themselves advisers to aid

them in their directive functions; and that thus, in place of a solitary

governing unit, there grows up a group of governing units, comparable to a

ganglion consisting of many cells. Let us here add, that the advisers, and

chief officers who thus form the rudiment of a ministry, tend from the

beginning to exercise a certain control over the ruler. By the information

they give and the opinions they express, they sway his judgment and affect

his commands. To this extent he therefore becomes a channel through which

are communicated the directions originating with them; and in course of

time, when the advice of ministers becomes the acknowledged source of his

actions, the king assumes very much the character of an automatic centre,

reflecting the impressions made on him from without.

Beyond this complication of governmental structure, many societies do not

progress; but in some, a further development takes place. Our own case best

illustrates this further development, and its further analogies. To kings

and their ministries have been added, in England, other great directive

centres, exercising a control which, at first small, has been gradually

becoming predominant: as with the great governing ganglia that especially

distinguish the highest classes of living beings. Strange as the assertion

will be thought, our Houses of Parliament discharge in the social economy,

functions that are in sundry respects comparable to those discharged by the

cerebral masses in a vertebrate animal. As it is in the nature of a single

ganglion to be affected only by special stimuli from particular parts of

the body; so it is in the nature of a single ruler to be swayed in his acts

by exclusive personal or class interests. As it is in the nature of an

aggregation of ganglia, connected with the primary one, to convey to it a

greater variety of influences from more numerous organs, and thus to make

its acts conform to more numerous requirements; so it is in the nature of a

king surrounded by subsidiary controlling powers, to adapt his rule to a

greater number of public exigencies. And as it is in the nature of those

great and latest-developed ganglia which distinguish the higher animals, to

interpret and combine the multiplied and varied impressions conveyed to

them from all parts of the system, and to regulate the actions in such way

as duly to regard them all; so it is in the nature of those great and

latest-developed legislative bodies which distinguish the most advanced

societies, to interpret and combine the wishes and complaints of all

classes and localities, and to regulate public affairs as much as possible

in harmony with the general wants.

The cerebrum co-ordinates the countless heterogeneous considerations which

affect the present and future welfare of the individual as a whole; and the

legislature co-ordinates the countless heterogeneous considerations which

affect the immediate and remote welfare of the whole community. We may

describe the office of the brain as that of _averaging_ the interests of

life, physical, intellectual, moral, social; and a good brain is one in

which the desires answering to these respective interests are so balanced,

that the conduct they jointly dictate, sacrifices none of them. Similarly,

we may describe the office of a Parliament as that of _averaging_ the

interests of the various classes in a community; and a good Parliament is

one in which the parties answering to these respective interests are so

balanced, that their united legislation concedes to each class as much as

consists with the claims of the rest. Besides being comparable in their

duties, these great directive centres, social and individual, are

comparable in the processes by which their duties are discharged.

It is now an acknowledged truth in psychology, that the cerebrum is not

occupied with direct impressions from without, but with the ideas of such

impressions: instead of the actual sensations produced in the body, and

directly appreciated by the sensory ganglia or primitive nervous centres,

the cerebrum receives only the representations of these sensations; and its

consciousness is called _representative_ consciousness, to distinguish it

from the original or _presentative_ consciousness. Is it not significant

that we have hit on the same word to distinguish the function of our House

of Commons? We call it a _representative_ body, because the interests with

which it deals--the pains and pleasures about which it consults--are not

directly presented to it, but represented to it by its various members; and

a debate is a conflict of representations of the evils or benefits likely

to follow from a proposed course--a description which applies with equal

truth to a debate in the individual consciousness. In both cases, too,

these great governing masses take no part in the executive functions. As,

after a conflict in the cerebrum, those desires which finally predominate,

act on the subjacent ganglia, and through their instrumentality determine

the bodily actions; so the parties which, after a parliamentary struggle,

gain the victory, do not themselves carry out their wishes, but get them

carried out by the executive divisions of the Government. The fulfilment of

all legislative decisions still devolves on the original directive

centres--the impulse passing from the Parliament to the Ministers, and from

the Ministers to the King, in whose name everything is done; just as those

smaller, first-developed ganglia, which in the lowest vertebrata are the

chief controlling agents, are still, in the brains of the higher

vertebrata, the agents through which the dictates of the cerebrum are

worked out.

Moreover, in both cases these original centres become increasingly

automatic. In the developed vertebrate animal, they have little function

beyond that of conveying impressions to, and executing the determinations

of, the larger centres. In our highly organized government, the monarch has

long been lapsing into a passive agent of Parliament; and now, ministers

are rapidly falling into the same position.

Nay, between the two cases there is a parallelism, even in respect of the

exceptions to this automatic action. For in the individual creature, it

happens that under circumstances of sudden alarm, as from a loud sound

close at hand, an unexpected object starting up in front, or a slip from

insecure footing, the danger is guarded against by some quick involuntary

jump, or adjustment of the limbs, that takes place before there is time to

consider the impending evil, and take deliberate measures to avoid it: the

rationale of which is, that these violent impressions produced on the

senses, are reflected from the sensory ganglia to the spinal cord and

muscles, without, as in ordinary cases, first passing through the cerebrum.

In like manner, on national emergencies, calling for prompt action, the

King and Ministry, not having time to lay the matter before the great

deliberative bodies, themselves issue commands for the requisite movements

or precautions: the primitive, and now almost automatic, directive centres,

resume for a moment their original uncontrolled power. And then, strangest

of all, observe that in either case there is an afterprocess of approval or

disapproval. The individual on recovering from his automatic start, at once

contemplates the cause of his fright; and, according to the case, concludes

that it was well he moved as he did, or condemns himself for his groundless

alarm. In like manner, the deliberative powers of the State, discuss, as

soon as may be, the unauthorized acts of the executive powers; and,

deciding that the reasons were or were not sufficient, grant or withhold a

bill of indemnity.[V]

[V] It may be well to warn the reader against an error fallen into by

one who criticised this essay on its first publication--the error

of supposing that the analogy here intended to be drawn, is a

specific analogy between the organization of society in England,

and the human organization. As said at the outset, no such

specific analogy exists. The above parallel, is one between the

most-developed systems of governmental organization, individual

and social; and the vertebrate type is instanced, merely as

exhibiting this most-developed system. If any specific comparison

were made, which it cannot rationally be, it would be to some

much lower vertebrate form than the human.

Thus far in comparing the governmental organization of the body politic

with that of an individual body, we have considered only the respective

co-ordinating centres. We have yet to consider the channels through which

these co-ordinating centres receive information and convey commands. In the

simplest societies, as in the simplest organisms, there is no "internuncial

apparatus," as Hunter styled the nervous system. Consequently, impressions

can be but slowly propagated from unit to unit throughout the whole mass.

The same progress, however, which, in animal-organization, shows itself in

the establishment of ganglia or directive centres, shows itself also in the

establishment of nerve-threads, through which the ganglia receive and

convey impressions, and so control remote organs. And in societies the like

eventually takes place.

After a long period during which the directive centres communicate with

various parts of the society through other means, there at last comes into

existence an "internuncial apparatus," analogous to that found in

individual bodies. The comparison of telegraph-wires to nerves, is familiar

to all. It applies, however, to an extent not commonly supposed. We do not

refer to the near alliance between the subtle forces employed in the two

cases; though it is now held that the nerve-force, if not literally

electric, is still a special form of electric action, related to the

ordinary form much as magnetism is. But we refer to the structural

arrangements of our telegraph-system. Thus, throughout the vertebrate

sub-kingdom, the great nerve-bundles diverge from the vertebrate axis, side

by side with the great arteries; and similarly, our groups of

telegraph-wires are carried along the sides of our railways. The most

striking parallelism, however, remains. Into each great bundle of nerves,

as it leaves the axis of the body along with an artery, there enters a

branch of the sympathetic nerve; which branch, accompanying the artery

throughout its ramifications, has the function of regulating its diameter

and otherwise controlling the flow of blood through it according to the

local requirements. Analogously, in the group of telegraph-wires running

alongside each railway, there is one for the purpose of regulating the

traffic--for retarding or expediting the flow of passengers and

commodities, as the local conditions demand. Probably, when our now

rudimentary telegraph-system is fully developed, other analogies will be

traceable.

Such, then, is a general outline of the evidence which justifies, in

detail, the comparison of societies to living organisms. That they

gradually increase in mass; that they become little by little more complex;

that at the same time their parts grow more mutually dependent; and that

they continue to live and grow as wholes, while successive generations of

their units appear and disappear; are broad peculiarities which bodies

politic display, in common with all living bodies; and in which they and

living bodies differ from everything else. And on carrying out the

comparison in detail, we find that these major analogies involve many minor

analogies, far closer than might have been expected. To these we would

gladly have added others. We had hoped to say something respecting the

different types of social organization, and something also on social

metamorphoses; but we have reached our assigned limits.

XI. USE AND BEAUTY

In one of his essays, Emerson remarks, that what Nature at one time

provides for use, she afterwards turns to ornament; and he cites in

illustration the structure of a sea-shell, in which the parts that have for

a while formed the mouth are at the next season of growth left behind, and

become decorative nodes and spines.

It has often occurred to me that this same remark might be extended to the

progress of Humanity. Here, too, the appliances of one era serve as

embellishments to the next. Equally in institutions, creeds, customs, and

superstitions, we may trace this evolution of beauty out of what was once

purely utilitarian.

The contrast between the feeling with which we regard portions of the

Earth's surface still left in their original state, and the feeling with

which the savage regarded them, is an instance that naturally comes first

in order of time. If any one walking over Hampstead Heath, will note how

strongly its picturesqueness is brought out by contrast with the

surrounding cultivated fields and the masses of houses lying in the

distance; and will further reflect that, had this irregular gorse-covered

surface extended on all sides to the horizon, it would have looked dreary

and prosaic rather than pleasing; he will see that to the primitive man a

country so clothed presented no beauty at all. To him it was merely a haunt

of wild animals, and a ground out of which roots might be dug. What have

become for us places of relaxation and enjoyment--places for afternoon

strolls and for gathering flowers--were his places for labour and food,

probably arousing in his mind none but utilitarian associations.

Ruined castles afford an obvious instance of this metamorphosis of the

useful into the beautiful. To feudal barons and their retainers, security

was the chief, if not the only end, sought in choosing the sites and styles

of their strongholds. Probably they aimed as little at the picturesque as

do the builders of cheap brick houses in our modern towns. Yet what where

erected for shelter and safety, and what in those early days fulfilled an

important function in the social economy, have now assumed a purely

ornamental character. They serve as scenes for picnics; pictures of them

decorate our drawing-rooms; and each supplies its surrounding districts

with legends for Christmas Eve.

Following out the train of thought suggested by this last illustration, we

may see that not only do the material exuviae of past social states become

the ornaments of our landscapes; but that past habits, manners, and

arrangements, serve as ornamental elements in our literature. The tyrannies

that, to the serfs who bore them, were harsh and dreary facts; the feuds

which, to those who took part in them, were very practical life-and-death

affairs; the mailed, moated, sentinelled security that was irksome to the

nobles who needed it; the imprisonments, and tortures, and escapes, which

were stern and quite prosaic realities to all concerned in them; have

become to us material for romantic tales--material which when woven into

Ivanhoes and Marmions, serves for amusement in leisure hours, and become

poetical by contrast with our daily lives.

Thus, also, is it with extinct creeds. Stonehenge, which in the hands of

the Druids had a governmental influence over men, is in our day a place for

antiquarian excursions; and its attendant priests are worked up into an

opera. Greek sculptures, preserved for their beauty in our galleries of

art, and copied for the decoration of pleasure grounds and entrance halls,

once lived in men's minds as gods demanding obedience; as did also the

grotesque idols that now amuse the visitors to our museums.

Equally marked is this change of function in the case of minor

superstitions. The fairy lore, which in past times was matter of grave

belief, and held sway over people's conduct, has since been transformed

into ornament for _A Midsummer Night's Dream_, _The Tempest_, _The Fairy

Queen_, and endless small tales and poems; and still affords subjects for

children's story-books, themes for ballets, and plots for Planche's

burlesques. Gnomes, and genii, and afrits, losing all their terrors, give

piquancy to the woodcuts in our illustrated edition of the _Arabian

Nights_. While ghost-stories, and tales of magic and witchcraft, after

serving to amuse boys and girls in their leisure hours, become matter for

jocose allusions that enliven tea-table conversation.

Even our serious literature and our speeches are very generally relieved by

ornaments drawn from such sources. A Greek myth is often used as a parallel

by which to vary the monotony of some grave argument. The lecturer breaks

the dead level of his practical discourse by illustrations drawn from

bygone customs, events, or beliefs. And metaphors, similarly derived, give

brilliancy to political orations, and to _Times_ leading articles.

Indeed, on careful inquiry, I think it will be found that we turn to

purposes of beauty most bygone phenomena that are at all conspicuous. The

busts of great men in our libraries, and their tombs in our churches; the

once useful but now purely ornamental heraldic symbols; the monks, nuns,

and convents, that give interest to a certain class of novels; the bronze

mediaeval soldiers used for embellishing drawing-rooms; the gilt Apollos

that recline on time-pieces; the narratives that serve as plots for our

great dramas; and the events that afford subjects for historical

pictures;--these and such like illustrations of the metamorphosis of the

useful into the beautiful, are so numerous as to suggest that, did we

search diligently enough, we should find that in some place, or under some

circumstances, nearly every notable product of the past has assumed a

decorative character.

And here the mention of historical pictures reminds me that an inference

may be drawn from all this, bearing directly on the practice of art. It has

of late years been a frequent criticism upon our historical painters, that

they err in choosing their subjects from the past; and that, would they

found a genuine and vital school, they must render on canvas the life and

deeds and aims of our own time. If, however, there be any significance in

the foregoing facts, it seems doubtful whether this criticism is a just

one. For if it be the process of things, that what has performed some

practical function in society during one era, becomes available for

ornament in a subsequent one; it almost follows that, conversely, whatever

is performing some practical function now, or has very recently performed

one, does not possess the ornamental character; and is, consequently,

inapplicable to any purpose of which beauty is the aim, or of which it is a

needful ingredient.

Still more reasonable will this conclusion appear, when we consider the

nature of this process by which the useful is changed into the ornamental.

An essential pre-requisite to all beauty is _contrast_. To obtain artistic

effect, light must be put in juxtaposition with shade, bright colours with

dull colours, a fretted surface with a plain one. _Forte_ passages in music

must have _piano_ passages to relieve them; concerted pieces need

interspersing with solos; and rich chords must not be continuously

repeated. In the drama we demand contrast of characters, of scenes, of

sentiment, of style. In prose composition an eloquent passage should have a

comparatively plain setting; and in poems great effect is obtained by

occasional change of versification. This general principle will, I think,

explain the transformation of the bygone useful into the present beautiful.

It is by virtue of their contrast with our present modes of life, that past

modes of life look interesting and romantic. Just as a picnic, which is a

temporary return to an aboriginal condition, derives, from its

unfamiliarity, a certain poetry which it would not have were it habitual;

so, everything ancient gains, from its relative novelty to us, an element

of interest. Gradually as, by the growth of society, we leave behind the

customs, manners, arrangements, and all the products, material and mental,

of a bygone age--gradually as we recede from these so far that there arises

a conspicuous difference between them and those we are familiar with; so

gradually do they begin to assume to us a poetical aspect, and become

applicable for ornament. And hence it follows that things and events which

are close to us, and which are accompanied by associations of ideas not

markedly contrasted with our ordinary associations are relatively

inappropriate for purposes of art.

XII. THE SOURCES OF ARCHITECTURAL TYPES.

When lately looking through the gallery of the Old Water-Colour Society, I

was struck with the incongruity produced by putting regular architecture

into irregular scenery. In one case, where the artist had introduced a

perfectly symmetrical Grecian edifice into a mountainous and somewhat wild

landscape, the discordant effect was particularly marked. "How very

unpicturesque," said a lady to her friend, as they passed; showing that I

was not alone in my opinion. Her phrase, however, set me speculating. Why

unpicturesque? Picturesque means, like a picture--like what men choose for

pictures. Why then should this be not fit for a picture?

Thinking the matter over, it seemed to me that the artist had sinned

against that unity which is essential to a good picture. When the other

constituents of a landscape have irregular forms, any artificial structure

introduced must have an irregular form, that it may seem _part_ of the

landscape. The same general character must pervade it and surrounding

objects; otherwise it, and the scene amid which it stands, become not _one_

thing but _two_ things; and we say it looks out of place. Or, speaking

psychologically, the associated ideas called up by a building with its

wings, windows, and all its parts symmetrically disposed, differ widely

from the ideas associated with an entirely irregular landscape; and the one

set of ideas tends to banish the other.

Pursuing the train of thought, sundry illustrative facts came to my mind. I

remembered that a castle, which is more irregular in outline than any other

kind of building, pleases us most when seated amid crags and precipices;

while a castle on a plain seems an incongruity. The partly-regular and

partly-irregular forms of our old farm-houses, and our gabled gothic manors

and abbeys, appear quite in harmony with an undulating, wooded country. In

towns we prefer symmetrical architecture; and in towns it produces in us no

feeling of incongruity, because all surrounding things--men, horses,

vehicles--are symmetrical also.

And here I was reminded of a notion that has frequently recurred to me;

namely, that there is some relationship between the several kinds of

architecture and the several classes of natural objects. Buildings in the

Greek and Roman styles seem, in virtue of their symmetry, to take their

type from animal life. In the partly-irregular Gothic, ideas derived from

the vegetable world appear to predominate. And wholly irregular buildings,

such as castles, may be considered as having inorganic forms for their

basis.

Whimsical as this speculation looks at first sight, it is countenanced by

numerous facts. The connexion between symmetrical architecture and animal

forms, may be inferred from the _kind_ of symmetry we expect, and are

satisfied with, in regular buildings. Thus in a Greek temple we require

that the front shall be symmetrical in itself, and that the two flanks

shall be alike; but we do not look for uniformity between the flanks and

the front, nor between the front and the back. The identity of this

symmetry with that found in animals is obvious. Again, why is it that a

building making any pretension to symmetry displeases us if not quite

symmetrical? Probably the reply will be--Because we see that the designer's

idea is not fully carried out; and that hence our love of completeness is

offended. But then there come the further questions--How do we know that

the architect's conception was symmetrical? Whence comes this notion of

symmetry which we have, and which we attribute to him? Unless we fall back

upon the old doctrine of innate ideas, we must admit that the idea of

bilateral symmetry is derived from without; and to admit this is to admit

that it is derived from the higher animals.

That there is some relationship between Gothic architecture and vegetable

forms is a position generally admitted. The often-remarked analogy between

a groined nave and an avenue of trees with interlacing branches, shows that

the fact has forced itself on men's observation. It is not only in this

analogy, however, that the kinship is seen. It is seen still better in the

essential characteristic of Gothic; namely, what is termed its _aspiring_

tendency. That predominance of vertical lines which so strongly

distinguishes Gothic from other styles, is the most marked peculiarity of

trees, when compared with animals or rocks. To persons of active

imagination, a tall Gothic tower, with its elongated apertures and clusters

of thin projections running from bottom to top, suggests a vague notion of

growth.

Of the alleged connexion between inorganic forms and the wholly irregular

and the castellated styles of building, we have, I think, some proof in the

fact that when an edifice is irregular, the _more_ irregular it is the more

it pleases us. I see no way of accounting for this fact, save by supposing

that the greater the irregularity the more strongly are we reminded of the

inorganic forms typified, and the more vividly are aroused the agreeable

ideas of rugged and romantic scenery associated with those forms.

Further evidence of these several relationships of styles of architecture

to classes of natural objects, is supplied by the kinds of decoration they

respectively represent. The public buildings of Greece, while characterized

in their outlines by the bilateral symmetry seen in the higher animals,

have their pediments and entablatures covered with sculptured men and

beasts. Egyptian temples and Assyrian palaces, while similarly symmetrical

in their general plan, are similarly ornamented on their walls and at their

doors. In Gothic, again, with its grove-like ranges of clustered columns,

we find rich foliated ornaments abundantly employed. And accompanying the

totally irregular, inorganic outlines of old castles, we see neither

vegetable nor animal decorations. The bare, rock-like walls are surmounted

by battlements, consisting of almost plain blocks, which remind us of the

projections on the edge of a rugged cliff.

But perhaps the most significant fact is the harmony that may be observed

between each type of architecture and the scenes in which it is indigenous.

For what is the explanation of this harmony, unless it be that the

predominant character of surrounding things has, in some way, determined

the mode of building adopted?

That the harmony exists is clear. Equally in the cases of Egypt, Assyria,

Greece, and Rome, town life preceded the construction of the symmetrical

buildings that have come down to us. And town life is one in which, as

already observed, the majority of familiar objects are symmetrical. We

instinctively feel the naturalness of this association. Out amid the

fields, a formal house, with a central door flanked by an equal number of

windows to right and left, strikes us as unrural--looks as though

transplanted from a street; and we cannot look at one of those stuccoed

villas, with mock windows carefully arranged to balance the real ones,

without being reminded of the suburban residence of a retired tradesman.

In styles indigenous in the country, we not only find the general

irregularity characteristic of surrounding things, but we may trace some

kinship between each kind of irregularity and the local circumstances. We

see the broken rocky masses amid which castles are commonly placed,

mirrored in their stern, inorganic forms. In abbeys, and such-like

buildings, which are commonly found in comparatively sheltered districts,

we find no such violent dislocations of masses and outlines; and the

nakedness appropriate to the fortress is replaced by decorations reflecting

the neighbouring woods. Between a Swiss cottage and a Swiss view there is

an evident relationship. The angular roof, so bold and so

disproportionately large when compared to other roofs, reminds one of the

adjacent mountain peaks; and the broad overhanging eaves have a sweep and

inclination like those of the lower branches of a pine tree. Consider, too,

the apparent kinship between the flat roofs that prevail in Eastern cities,

interspersed with occasional minarets, and the plains that commonly

surround them, dotted here and there by palm trees. You cannot contemplate

a picture of one of these places, without being struck by the predominance

of horizontal lines, and their harmony with the wide stretch of the

landscape.

That the congruity here pointed out should hold in every case must not be

expected. The Pyramids, for example, do not seem to come under this

generalization. Their repeated horizontal lines do indeed conform to the

flatness of the neighbouring desert; but their general contour seems to

have no adjacent analogue. Considering, however, that migrating races,

carrying their architectural systems with them, would naturally produce

buildings having no relationship to their new localities; and that it is

not always possible to distinguish styles which are indigenous, from those

which are naturalized; numerous anomalies must be looked for.

The general idea above illustrated will perhaps be somewhat misinterpreted.

Possibly some will take the proposition to be that men _intentionally_ gave

to their buildings the leading characteristics of neighbouring objects. But

this is not what is meant. I do not suppose that they did so in times past,

any more than they do so now. The hypothesis is, that in their choice of

forms men are unconsciously influenced by the forms encircling them. That

flat-roofed, symmetrical architecture should have originated in the East,

among pastoral tribes surrounded by their herds and by wide plains, seems

to imply that the builders were swayed by the horizontality and symmetry to

which they were habituated. And the harmony which we have found to exist in

other cases between indigenous styles and their localities, implies the

general action of like influences. Indeed, on considering the matter

psychologically, I do not see how it could well be otherwise. For as all

conceptions must be made up of images, and parts of images, received

through the senses--as it is impossible for a man to conceive any design

save one of which the elements have come into his mind from without; and as

his imagination will most readily run in the direction of his habitual

perceptions; it follows, almost necessarily, that the characteristic which

predominates in these habitual perceptions must impress itself on his

design.

XIII. THE USE OF ANTHROPOMORPHISM.

That long fit of indignation which seizes all generous natures when in

youth they begin contemplating human affairs, having fairly spent itself,

there slowly grows up a perception that the institutions, beliefs, and

forms so vehemently condemned are not wholly bad. This reaction runs to

various lengths. In some, merely to a comparative contentment with the

arrangements under which they live. In others to a recognition of the

fitness that exists between each people and its government, tyrannical as

that may be. In some, again, to the conviction, that hateful though it is

to us, and injurious as it would be now, slavery was once beneficial--was

one of the necessary phases of human progress. Again, in others, to the

suspicion that great benefit has indirectly arisen from the perpetual

warfare of past times; insuring as this did the spread of the strongest

races, and so providing good raw material for civilization. And in a few

this reaction ends in the generalization that all modes of human thought

and action subserve, in the times and places in which they occur, some

useful function: that though bad in the abstract, they are relatively

good--are the best which the then existing conditions admit of.

A startling conclusion to which this faith in the essential beneficence of

things commits us, is that the religious creeds through which mankind

successively pass, are, during the eras in which they are severally held,

the best that could be held; and that this is true, not only of the latest

and most refined creeds, but of all, even to the earliest and most gross.

Those who regard men's faiths as given to them from without--as having

origins either directly divine or diabolical, and who, considering their

own as the sole example of the one, class all the rest under the other,

will think this a very shocking opinion. I can imagine, too, that many of

those who have abandoned current theologies, and now regard religions as so

many natural products of human nature--men who, having lost that antagonism

towards their old creed which they felt while shaking themselves free from

it, can now see that it was highly beneficial to past generations, and is

beneficial still to a large part of mankind;--I can imagine even these

hardly prepared to admit that all religions, down to the lowest Fetichism,

have, in their places, fulfilled useful functions. If such, however, will

consistently develop their ideas, they will find this inference involved.

For if it be true that humanity in its corporate as well as in its

individual aspect, is a growth and not a manufacture, it is obvious that

during each phase men's theologies, as well as their political and social

arrangements, must be determined into such forms as the conditions require.

In the one case as in the other, by a tentative process, things from time

to time re-settle themselves in a way that best consists with national

equilibrium. As out of plots and the struggles of chieftains, it

continually results that the strongest gets to the top, and by virtue of

his proved superiority ensures a period of quiet, and gives society time to

grow; as out of incidental expedients there periodically arise new

divisions of labour, which get permanently established only by serving

men's wants better than the previous arrangements did; so, the creed which

each period evolves is one more in conformity with the needs of the time

than the creed which preceded it. Not to rest in general statements,

however, let us consider why this must be so. Let us see whether, in the

genesis of men's ideas of deity, there is not involved a necessity to

conceive of deity under the aspect most influential with them.

It is now generally admitted that a more or less idealized humanity is the

form which every conception of a personal God must take. Anthropomorphism

is an inevitable result of the laws of thought. We cannot take a step

towards constructing an idea of God without the ascription of human

attributes. We cannot even speak of a divine will without assimilating the

divine nature to our own; for we know nothing of volition save as a

property of our own minds.

While this anthropomorphic tendency, or rather necessity, is manifested by

themselves with sufficient grossness--a grossness that is offensive to

those more advanced--Christians are indignant at the still grosser

manifestations of it seen among uncivilized men. Certainly, such

conceptions as those of some Polynesians, who believe that their gods feed

on the souls of the dead, or as those of the Greeks, who ascribed to the

personages of their Pantheon every vice, from domestic cannibalism

downward, are repulsive enough. But if, ceasing to regard these notions

from the outside, we more philosophically regard them from the inside--if

we consider how they looked to believers, and observe the relationships

they bore to the natures and needs of such; we shall begin to think of them

with some tolerance. The question to be answered is, whether these beliefs

were beneficent in their effects on those who held them; not whether they

would be beneficent for us, or for perfect men; and to this question the

answer must be that while absolutely bad, they were relatively good.

For is it not obvious that the savage man will be most effectually

controlled by his fears of a savage deity? Must it not happen, that if his

nature requires great restraint, the supposed consequences of

transgression, to be a check upon him, must be proportionately terrible;

and for these to be proportionately terrible, must not his god be conceived

as proportionately cruel and revengeful? Is it not well that the

treacherous, thievish, lying Hindoo should believe in a hell where the

wicked are boiled in cauldrons, rolled down mountains bristling with

knives, and sawn asunder between flaming iron posts? And that there may be

provided such a hell, is it not needful that he should believe in a

divinity delighting in human immolations and the self-torture of fakirs?

Does it not seem clear that during the earlier ages in Christendom, when

men's feelings were so hard that a holy father could describe one of the

delights of heaven to be the contemplation of the torments of the

damned--does it not seem clear that while the general nature was so

unsympathetic, there needed, to keep men in order, all the prospective

tortures described by Dante, and a deity implacable enough to inflict them?

And if, as we thus see, it is well for the savage man to believe in a

savage god, then we may also see the great usefulness of this

anthropomorphic tendency; or, as before said, necessity. We have in it

another illustration of that essential beneficence of things visible

everywhere throughout nature. From this inability under which we labour to

conceive of a deity save as some idealization of ourselves, it inevitably

results that in each age, among each people, and to a great extent in each

individual, there must arise just that conception of deity best adapted to

the needs of the case. If, being violent and bloodthirsty, the nature be

one calling for stringent control, it evolves the idea of a ruler still

more violent and bloodthirsty, and fitted to afford this control. When, by

ages of social discipline, the nature has been partially humanized, and the

degree of restraint required has become less, the diabolical

characteristics before ascribed to the deity cease to be so predominant in

the conception of him. And gradually, as all need for restraint disappears,

this conception approximates towards that of a purely beneficent necessity.

Thus, man's constitution is in this, as in other respects, self-adjusting,

self-balancing. The mind itself evolves a compensating check to its own

movements; varying always in proportion to the requirement. Its centrifugal

and its centripetal forces are necessarily in correspondence, because the

one generates the other. And so we find that the forms of both religious

and secular rule follow the same law. As an ill-controlled national

character produces a despotic terrestrial government, so also does it

produce a despotic celestial government--the one acting through the senses,

the other through the imagination; and in the converse case the same

relationship holds good.

Organic as this relationship is in its origin, no artificial interference

can permanently affect it. Whatever perturbations an external agency may

seem to produce, they are soon neutralized in fact, if not in appearance. I

was recently struck with this in reading a missionary account of the

"gracious visitations of the Holy Spirit at Vewa," one of the Feejee

islands. Describing a "penitent meeting," the account says:--

"Certainly the feelings of the Vewa people were not ordinary. They

literally roared for hours together for the disquietude of their

souls. This frequently terminated in fainting from exhaustion, which

was the only respite some of them had till they found peace. They no

sooner recovered their consciousness than they prayed themselves

first into an agony, then again into a state of entire

insensibility."

Now these Feejee islanders are the most savage of all the uncivilized

races. They are given to cannibalism, infanticide, and human sacrifices;

they are so bloodthirsty and so treacherous, that members of the same

family dare not trust each other; and, in harmony with these

characteristics, they have for their aboriginal god, a serpent. Is it not

clear then, that these violent emotions which the missionaries describe,

these terrors and agonies of despair which they rejoiced over, were nothing

but the worship of the old god under a new name? Is it not clear that these

Feejees had simply understood those parts of the Christian creed which

agree in spirit with their own--the vengeance, the perpetual torments, the

diabolism of it; that these, harmonizing with their natural conceptions of

divine rule, were realized by them with extreme vividness; and that the

extremity of the fear which made them "literally roar for hours together,"

arose from the fact that while they could fully take in and believe the

punitive element, the merciful one was beyond their comprehension? This is

the obvious inference. And it carries with it the further one, that in

essence their new belief was merely their old one under a new form--the

same substantial conception with a different history and different names.

However great, therefore, may be the seeming change adventitiously produced

in a people's religion, the anthropomorphic tendency prevents it from being

other than a superficial change--insures such modifications of the new

religion as to give it all the potency of the old one--obscures whatever

higher elements there may be in it until the people have reached the

capability of being acted upon by them: and so, re-establishes the

equilibrium between the impulses and the control they need. If any one

requires detailed illustrations of this, he will find them in abundance in

the history of the modifications of Christianity throughout Europe.

Ceasing then to regard heathen theologies from the personal point of view,

and considering them solely with reference to the function they fulfil

where they are indigenous, we must recognise them in common with all

theologies, as good for their time and places; and this mental necessity

which disables us from conceiving a deity save as some idealization of

ourselves, we must recognise as the agency by which harmony is produced and

maintained between every phase of human character and its religious creed.

INDEX.

A

Abstract and concrete, relations of, 174.

Actions, voluntary and involuntary, 319.

Analogies of the rudest societies to the lowest forms of life, 398,

402.

Analogies of function between living beings and societies, 410.

Annulosa, structure of compared to that of nations, 408, 422.

Anthropomorphism, necessity of, 422.

Architectural ideas, origin of, 439.

Architecture, relationship to natural objects, 435; illustrations of,

435-437; town, why symmetrical, 435; country, why irregular, 437.

Arts, interconnexion of, 187.

Astronomic influences upon climate produce breaks in geological

succession, 356.

Automatic actions of men and governments, 426.

Australia, fauna of, 350.

B

Bain "On the Emotions and Will," estimate of, 302.

Beauty, its evolution from utility, 429, 433.

Beliefs, how to judge of them, 442.

Bow, derivation of the, 78.

Breaks in the geological record, Hugh Miller upon, 355; produced by

astronomic causes, 356; by re-distributions of land and sea, 359.

Buildings related to landscape, 438; cause of incongruities in, 438;

relation unintentional, 439.

C

Cambrian rocks, inference from their thickness, 366.

Calculus, origin of, 158.

Castles, built with no reference to art, 430.

Cause, single, produces more than one effect, 32; illustrated in

geological phenomena, 35; in chemical, 40; in organic evolution,

42; in social progress, 50; in use of locomotive engine, 53.

Central America, effects of subsidence of, 38.

Centrifugal force and condensation, 287.

Cerebrum, analogy of to houses of parliament, 423, 426.

Circulation in animal bodies and bodies politic, 410, 411; rates of

movement in, 417; of money and blood-discs, 414.

Classifications of science, progress of, 183; what they indicate,

125; Oken's, 125; Hegel's, 128; Comte's, 131; serial arrangement

vicious, 144.

Classification, the mental process in, 147; advances with

rationality, 157; how it has aided science, 182; of the cognitions,

321; of the feelings, 323; in Psychology, for the present must be

provisional, 300, 301.

Climate, changes in, produced by astronomic rhythm, 356; by

re-distributions of land and sea, 359.

Comets, formation of, 256; orbits of, 258; distribution of, 259, 261.

Common knowledge, nature of, 117; relation of, to science, 118, 122.

Comte's hierarchy of the sciences, 131.

Consciousness, mystery of, 197.

Condensation of nebula, 250.

Contrast, its relation to beauty, 432.

Creeds suited to the age that holds them, 441, 443.

Curtsy, origin of, 79.

D

Densities of the planets, 278-280.

Development hypothesis, neither proved nor disproved by Paleontology,

367, 376; defense of, 379.

Direct creation inconceivable, 378; no examples of, 377; origin of

the notion, 383.

E

Earth, internal constitution of, 290.

Earth's crust, 5; contraction of, 35.

Ectoderm social and embryonic, 419.

Education, bearing of evolution of science upon, 193.

Emotions in animals, genesis of, 315.

Emotional language, 232; importance of, 235, 238.

Engine, locomotive, results of invention of, 53.

Equality, origin of notion of, 152,158; of things and relations, 153.

Evolution of the emotions, 311.

Evolution of governmental and nervous structures, 420.

F

Fashion, origin of, 90; corruption of, 91.

Feeling and action, relation of, 199, 208.

Feeling, mystery of, 197; effects of surplus in producing laughter,

201; why it disturbs the intellect, 207.

Feeling a stimulus to muscular action, 211, 220; shown in loudness of

voice, 215; in quality or timbre, 215; in pitch, 216; in intervals,

217; in variability of pitch, 219; relation of, to vocal sounds in

ourselves, 220; in others, 220; causes prostration, 222;

classification of the feelings, 323.

Feejee islanders, penitent meeting among, 444.

Final cause, 262, 272, 275, 293.

Fossils as tests of age and position, 339, 347.

Function of music, 231-235.

G

Generalizations, premature, use of, 323; as seen in history of

Astronomy, 326; in Geology, 327.

Genesis of new emotions in civilization, 313; in animals, 315.

Geological evidence, value of, 8.

Geologic "systems," are they universal? 335-339.

Geometry, origin of, 158, 167.

God, origin of the conception of, 65.

Gothic architecture, source of, 435, 436.

Government, rise of, 12, 69, 92; three-fold nature of, 13, 65, 83;

separation of civil from religious, 69; early need of severe, 85;

progressive amelioration of, 88; course of all, 114; results from

national character, 387.

Great men, relation of to social changes, 388.

Greek and Roman architecture, derivation of, 435.

H

Heathen theologies, estimate of, 44.

Heat of heavenly bodies, source of, 292.

Hegel's classification of philosophy, 128.

History as commonly studied, small, value of, 385.

Hobb's parallelism of society and the human body, 389.

Homogeneous, change of to heterogeneous, 3; seen in genesis of solar

system, 3; in phenomena of earth's crust, 5; in the advance of life

in general, 7; in the progress of man, 10; in growth of

civilization, 12; in government, 13; in language, 17; in painting

and sculpture, 20; in poetry, music, and dancing, 24; cause of this

universal change, 32.

Hutton's geological system, 327; contrast of the modern with, 330.

Hydra compared with primitive tribes, 401, 407, 412, 420.

Hydrozoa, analogies of, 401, 403, 412.

I

Industrial organization, 385.

Industrial arrangements, development of compared with that of the

alimentary organs, 410.

Insensible modifications effect great changes, 379; illustrated by

geometrical curves, 318; by physiological development, 382.

Internal structure of sun and planets, 281-286.

K

King's councils compared to ganglia, 421, 423.

Knowledge, experience the source of all, 126; relations of various

kinds of, 167.

L

Language, differentiation of, 17; origin of written, 18; origin of

verbal, 149; origin of emotional, 220.

La Place's theory of planetary evolution, 263-265.

Laughter, common explanations of, 194; movements in, 200; groups of

muscles successively affected in, 201; caused by incongruities,

203; facilitates digestion, 207.

Law, origin of, 70.

Likeness and unlikeness, recognition of, the basis of classification,

147; the basis of language, 149; of reasoning, 150; of art, 151;

leads to science, 152.

Logic, how evolved, 158.

Lyell, Sir Charles, criticism upon, 338, 342.

M

Man, progress of, 10.

Manners, genesis of, 77; decline of the influence of, 89; conformity

in manners leads to extravagance, 99; conformity in, decreases

social intercourse, 100; defeats the true end of social life, 102,

107.

Mathematics, how evolved, 158.

Mechanics, rise of science of, 168.

Mineral qualities of rocks untrustworthy tests of age or position,

332.

Miller Hugh, estimate of, 352.

Motion of nebulous matter, 251-253.

Morality, origin of, 70.

Muscular movements, cause of, 195; arrested by feeling, 199; in

laughter purposeless, 201; of animals when excited, 211; variations

of, produce changes of voice, 214.

Music, increasing heterogeneity of, 26; relation of mental to

muscular excitement, the source of, 214; theory of, 221-224; its

history confirms the theory, 224-228; negative proof of theory of,

228-231.

Murchison Sir R. I., criticism upon his "Siluria," 332, 340, 363,

366.

N

Nebula, are they parts of our siderial system? 243, 249; condensation

of, 250; motion in, 251; significance of forms of, 254; structure

of spiral, 254.

Nebular hypothesis, 3, 34; its high derivation, 239; it explains

cometary phenomena, 262.

Negative facts in geology, small value of, 362-365.

Nervous system, effects of excitement in, 195; directions of

discharge of excitement in, 197; course of discharge unguided by

purpose, 201.

Number, origin of conception of, 154.

O

Oken's classification of knowledge, 125.

P

Painting and sculpture, origin of, 20.

Paleontology neither proves nor disproves development, 367, 376.

Picturesque, meaning of, 433.

Planetoids, origin of 289.

Plato's model republic, central idea of, 388.

Previsions and ordinary knowledge, 117; previsions known as science,

118; common and scientific, 123; when quantitative arose, 158;

increase in precision, 171.

Primary divisions of a germ and of a society, 404-407.

Progress, current meaning of, 1; present inquiry concerning, 2; law

of progress exemplified in the genesis of solar system, 3; in the

phenomena of the earth's crust, 5; in the advance of life in

general, 7; in the history of man, 10; in the growth of

civilization, 12; in government, 13; in language, 17; in painting

and sculpture, 20; in poetry, music, and dancing, 24; statement of

the principle which determines progress of every kind, 32; the

principle of progress illustrated in geological phenomena, 35; in

chemical, 40; in organic evolution, 42; in social advancement, 50;

in use of locomotive engine, 54; this principle does not explain

things in themselves, 58; progress of science, 141; of astronomical

discovery, 165, 171.

Progress of animals and societies in forming channels of

communication, 416.

Psychology, relation of English thought to, 301; classification in,

for the present, must be provisional, 300, 301.

R

Reasoning, nature of, 150; basis of, 154; advances with

classification, 157.

Reformers, eccentricities of, 61; why necessary, 93; not selfish, 95,

97; difficulties of social, 110.

Reform, how is it to be effected? 111.

Religion aided by inquiry, 58.

Religious ideas, account of primitive, 66.

S

Saturn, rings of, 276.

Satellites, distribution of, 272-276.

Savage men need a savage deity, 443.

Science, limits of, 58; definition of, 119; when complete, 120; test

of the depth of, 122; slow growth of, 123; duplex progress of, 141;

ultimate analysis of exact, 160.

Sciences, early simultaneous advance of, 165; not independent of each

other, 186; aid each other by analogies, 181; mutual influence of

modern, 178.

Sculpture and painting, origin of, 20.

Solar System, movements of planets on their axes in, 267-271.

Strata now forming, lithological differences in, 347; differences in

the order of superposition of, 348; differences in the organic

remains of, 349.

Societies and individual organisms, points of agreement between,

391-393; differences of, examined, 393-397.

Social intercourse, philosophy of, 105.

Social changes, true source of, 386.

Spectrum analysis, 295.

Spiral nebula, 255.

Steam-engine, multiplied effects of, 53.

Sun, constitution of, 294, 296; relation of plane of its equator to

plane of planetary orbits, 266.

T

Telegraph wires, comparison of to nerves, 427.

Titles, derivation of, 72; depreciation of, 74.

Truth, ultimate test of, 130.

U

Useful passes into the beautiful, 430, 433.

V

Voice, cause of loudness of, 215; cause of quality of, 215; of pitch

of, 216; intervals in, 217; variability of the pitch of, 219.

Voluntary and involuntary actions, 319.

W

Werner's system of Geology, 328; contrast of, with the modern system,

330.

THE END.