have, I fear, puzzled the public by their titles. _Ioläus_ has been much
of an offender in this way. The uncertainty as to who or what Ioläus
might be, the difficulty of knowing how to spell the word, and the
impossibility of pronouncing it, proved at one time such obstacles that
they quite adversely affected the sales. On one occasion I received a
telegram from a firm asking me to send at once two hundred Oil-cans. My
puzzlement was great, as I had indeed never embarked in the oil trade,
nor in my wildest dreams thought of doing so—till suddenly it flashed
upon me that the message, having had to pass through a rustic
post-office, had been transformed on the way, and that the romantic
friend and companion of Hercules had been turned into a paraffin tin!
After that I modified the title so as to avoid any such sacrilege in the
future.
Coming back to _Towards Democracy_ again, I do not know that I have ever
seen a very serious estimate or criticism of that book in any well-known
literary paper. Like others of my works it has come into the literary
sheep-fold not through the accepted gate but “some other way, like a
thief or a robber.” It has been generally ignored—as already
explained—by the guardians of the gate, yet it has quietly and
decisively established itself, and the ‘sheep’ somehow have taken kindly
to the ‘robber.’ And perhaps the matter is best so. A book of that kind
is not easy to criticize; it cannot be dispatched by a snap phrase; it
does not belong to any distinct class or school; its form is open to
question; its message is at once too simple and too intricate for public
elucidation—even if really understood by the interpreter. That it should
go its own way quietly, neither applauded by the crowd, nor barked at by
the dogs, but knocking softly here and there at a door and finding
friendly hospitality—is surely its most gracious and satisfying destiny.
But though the ignoring by the critics of _Towards Democracy_ has seemed
natural and proper, I confess I have been somewhat surprised by their
non-recognition or non-discussion of the questions dealt with in the
other books; because, as I have said these books are on a different
plane from _Towards Democracy_. They deal with theories or views which
flow (as I think) perfectly logically from the central idea of _Towards
Democracy_—just as the different views or aspects of a mountain flow
perfectly logically from the mountain-fact itself. We cannot discuss the
central idea, but we can discuss the aspects, because they come within
the range of intellectual apprehension and definition. If the world—it
seems to me—should ever seize the central fact of such books as _Leaves
of Grass_ and _Towards Democracy_, it must inevitably formulate new
views of life on almost every conceivable subject: the aspects of all
life will be changed. And the discussion and definition of these views
ought to be extraordinarily interesting. It is therefore surprising I
say that no serious discussion of the underlying or implicit assumptions
of these two books has yet taken place. It is true, of course, that
to-day the world is witnessing a strange change of attitude on almost
all questions, and a vague feeling after the new aspects to which I am
alluding; but it does not concatenate these views on to any central
fact, and therefore cannot deal with them adequately or effectively. It
is as if people, having taken drawings of a hitherto undiscovered
mountain from many different sides, and comparing them together, should
not realize that it is the _same_ mountain which they have been
observing all the time, and that there _is_ a unity and a reality there
which will explain and concatenate all the outlines. I say it is a
little disappointing that this point has not yet been reached, because
it would make the discussion and definition of the new views so
wonderfully interesting. On the other hand it is obvious that in the
midst of the enormous output and rush of modern literature, critics
generally have thrown up the sponge, and are content to get through
their work perfunctorily or as best they can, without the added labour
of tackling, or attempting to tackle, a great new synthesis.
The attempt made a quarter of a century ago—in _Civilization: its Cause
and Cure_—to define the characteristics of (modern) civilization, and to
show the civilization-period as a distinct stage in social evolution,
destined to pass away and to be succeeded by a later stage—of which
later stage even now some of the features may be indicated—has never as
far as I know been seriously taken up and worked out. The Socialists of
course have certain views on the subject, but they are limited to the
economic field, and do not by any means cover the whole ground; and
various doctrinaire sets and sects are nibbling at the problem from
different sides; but a real statement and investigation of the whole
question, and a linking of it up to deepest spiritual facts, would
obviously be absorbingly interesting. I first read the paper which bears
the above name at the Fabian Society (? in 1888), and, needless to say,
it was jeered at on all sides; but since then, somehow, a change has
come, and even Sidney Webb and Bernard Shaw, who most attacked me at the
time, have ceased to use the word ‘Civilization’ in its old optimistic
and mid-Victorian sense. What we want now is a real summing-up and
settling of what the word connotes—both from the historical point of
view, and with regard to the future.
Another paper in the same book, which shocked a good many of my
Cambridge friends, was my “Criticism of Modern Science.” The Victorian
age glorified modern Science—not only in respect of its patient and
assiduous observation of facts, which every one allows, but also on
account of the supposed Laws of Nature which it had discovered, and
which were accounted immutable and everlasting. A light arising from
some quite other source convinced me that this infallibility of the
scientific “Laws” was an entire illusion. I had been brought up on
mathematics and physical science. I had lectured for years on the
latter. But now the reaction set in; and—rather rudely and crudely it
must be confessed—I turned on my old teacher to rend her! I published in
1885, and in Manchester, a shilling pamphlet called _Modern Science: A
Criticism_, and sent it round to my mathematical and scientific friends.
I think most of them thought I had gone daft! But, after all, the
whirligig of Time has brought its revenge, and the inevitable evolution
of human thought has done its work; and now, one may ask, where _are_
the airy fairy laws and theories of the Science of the last century? The
great stores of observations and facts are certainly there, and so are
the marvellous applications of these things to practical life—but where
are the immutable Laws?—where are the clean-cut systems of the families
and species of plants and animals? where is Boyle’s law of gases? where
the stability of the planetary orbits? where the permanence and
indestructibility of the atom? where is the theory of gravitation, where
the theory of light, the theory of electricity? the law of supply and
demand in Political Economy, of Natural Selection in Biology? of the
fixity of the Elements in Chemistry, or the succession of the strata in
Geology? All gone into the melting-pot—and quickly losing their
outlines!
It is true that in the great brew which is being thus formed, rags and
chunks of the old “Laws of Nature” are still discernible; but no one
supposes they are there for long, and on all sides it is obvious that
the scientific world is giving up the search for them, and the
expectation (in the face of such things as radium, Hertzian waves,
Karyokinesis and so forth) of ever reconstituting Science again on the
old Victorian basis. These fixed ‘Laws,’ it is pretty evident, and their
remaining débris, will melt away, till out of the seething brew
something entirely different and unexpected emerges. And that will
be?... Yes, what indeed out of such a Cauldron _might_ be expected to
emerge—a strange and wonderful Figure, a living Form!
Yet the curious thing is that while this process of the dissolution of
scientific theory is going on before our eyes, and on all sides, no one
seems to be aware of it—at any rate no one sums it up, gives it outline
and definition, or tackles its meaning and result. Tolstoy was pleased
with the attacks on Modern Science contained in _Civilization: its Cause
and Cure_, wrote to me about it, and had the chapter printed in Russian,
with a preface by himself. But his point of view was that Science being
a serious enemy to Religion anything which bombarded and crippled
Science would help to free Religion. That was not my point of view. I do
not regard Science—or rather Intellectualism—as the foe of Religion, but
more as a stage which _has to be passed through_ on the way to a higher
order of perception or consciousness—which might possibly be termed
Religion—only the word religion is too vague to be very applicable here.
Another airy castle which is obviously fading away before our eyes
is that of the “Laws” of Morality. The whole structure of
civilization-morality is being rapidly undermined. The moral
aspects of Property, Commerce, Class-relations, Sex-relations,
Marriage, Patriotism, and so forth, are shifting like dissolving
views. Nietzsche has scorched up the old Christian altruism;
Bernard Shaw has burned the Decalogue. Yet (in this country and
according to our custom) we jog along and pretend not to see what
is happening. No body of people faces out the situation, or
attempts to foretell its future. The Ethical society professes to
substitute Ethics for Religion, as a basis of social life; yet
never once has it informed us what it means by Ethics! The Law
courts go mumbling on over ancient measures of right and wrong
which the man in the street has long ago discarded. Much less has
any group attempted to foreshadow the new Morality, and
concatenate it on to the great root-fact of existence. In my
“Defence of Criminals: a Criticism of Morality,”[20] I gave an
outline and an indication of what was happening, and of the way
out into the future; but that paper, as far as I know, has never
been seriously discussed.
Nevertheless under the surface new ideas are forming, the lines of the
coming life are spreading. The book _Civilization_—first published by
Sonnenschein, in 1889—has had a good circulation, and been translated
into many languages. Though somewhat hastily and crudely put together,
yet owing to a certain _élan_ about it, and probably largely owing to
the fact that it gives expression to the main issues above-mentioned, it
has been well received.
One idea, which runs all through the book—namely, that of there being
three great stages of Consciousness: the simple consciousness (of the
animal or of primitive man), the self-consciousness (of the civilized or
intellectual man), and the mass-consciousness or cosmic consciousness of
the coming man, is only roughly sketched there, but is developed more
fully in _The Art of Creation_. It is of course deeply germane to
_Towards Democracy_. And though we may not yet be in a position to
define the conception very exactly, still it is quite evident, I think,
that some such evolution into a further order of consciousness is the
key to the future, and that many æons to come (of human progress) will
be ruled by it. Dr. Richard Bucke, by the publication (in 1901) of his
book _Cosmic Consciousness_ made a great contribution to the cause of
humanity. The book was a bit casual, hurried, doctrinaire, un-literary,
and so forth, but it brought together a mass of material, and did the
inestimable service of being the first to systematically consider and
analyse the subject. Strangely here again we find that his book—though
always spreading and circulating about the world, beneath the
surface—has elicited no serious recognition or response from the
accredited authorities, philosophers, psychologists, and so forth; and
the subject with which it deals is in such circles practically
ignored—though in comparatively unknown coteries it may be warmly
discussed. So the world goes on—the real expanding vital forces being
always beneath the surface and hidden, as in a bud, while the accepted
forms and conclusions are little more than a vari-coloured husk, waiting
to be thrown off.
Relating itself closely and logically with the idea (1) of the three
stages of Consciousness is that (2) of the Berkeleyan view of matter—the
idea that matter in itself is an illusion, being only a film between
soul and soul: _called_ matter when the film is opaque to the perceiving
soul, but called mind when the latter sees through to the intelligence
behind it. And these stages again relate logically to the idea (3) of
the Universal or Omnipresent Self. The _Art of Creation_ was written to
give expression to these three ideas and the natural deductions from
them.
The doctrine of the Universal Self is obviously fundamental; and it is
clear that once taken hold of and adopted it must inevitably
revolutionize all our views of Morality—since current morality is
founded on the separation of self from self; and must revolutionize too
all our views of Science. Such matters as the Transmutation of Chemical
Elements, the variation of biological Species, the unity of Health, the
unity of Disease, our views of Political Economy and Psychology;
Production for Use instead of for Profit, Communism, Telepathy; the
relation between Psychology and Physiology, and so forth, must take on
quite a new complexion when the idea which lies at the root of them is
seized. This idea must enable us to understand the continuity of Man
with the Protozoa, the relation of the physiological centres, on the one
hand to the individual Man and on the other to the Race from which he
springs, the meaning of Reincarnation, and the physical conditions of
its occurrence. It must have eminently practical applications; as in the
bringing of the Races of the world together, the gradual evolution of a
Non-governmental form of Society, the Communalization of Land and
Capital, the freeing of Woman to equality with Man, the extension of the
monogamic Marriage into some kind of group-alliance, the restoration and
full recognition of the heroic friendships of Greek and primitive times;
and again in the sturdy Simplification and debarrassment of daily life
by the removal of those things which stand between us and Nature,
between ourselves and our fellows—by plain living, friendship with the
Animals, open-air habits, fruitarian food, and such degree of Nudity as
we can reasonably attain to.
These mental and social changes and movements and many others which are
all around us waiting for recognition, will clearly, when they ripen,
constitute a revolution in human life deeper and more far-reaching than
any which we know of belonging to historical times. Even any _one_ of
them, worked out practically, would be fatal to most of our existing
institutions. Together they would form a revolution so great that to
call it a mere extension or outgrowth of Civilization would be quite
inadequate. Rather we must look upon them as the preparation for a stage
entirely different from and beyond Civilization. To tackle these things
in advance, to prepare for them, study them, understand them is clearly
absolutely necessary. It is a duty which—however burked or ignored for a
time—will soon be forced upon us by the march of events. And it is a
duty which cannot effectively be fulfilled piecemeal, but only by
regarding all these separate movements of the human mind, and of
society, as part and parcel of one great underlying movement—one great
new disclosure of the human Soul.
[Illustration:
Self in Porch
1905
]
My little covey of books, dating from _Towards Democracy_, has been
hatched mainly for the purpose of giving expression to these and other
various questions which—raised in my mind by the writing of _Towards
Democracy_—demanded clearer statement than they could find there.
_Towards Democracy_ came first, as a Vision, so to speak, and a
revelation—as a great body of feeling and intuition which I _had_ to put
into words as best I could. It carried with it—as a flood carries trees
and rocks from the mountains where it originates—all sorts of
assumptions and conclusions. Afterwards—for my own satisfaction as much
as for the sake of others—I had to examine and define these assumptions
and conclusions.
That was the origin of my prose writings—most of them—of _England’s
Ideal_, _Civilization_, _The Art of Creation_, _Love’s Coming-of-Age_,
_The Intermediate Sex_, _The Drama of Love and Death_, _Angels’ Wings_,
_Non-governmental Society_,[21] _A Visit to a Gñani_,[22] and so forth.
They, like the questions they deal with, have led a curious underground
life in the literary world, spreading widely as a matter of fact, yet
not on the surface. Like old moles they have worked away unseen and
unobserved, yet in such a manner as to throw up heaps here and there and
in the most unlikely places, and bring back friends to me on all
sides—lovely and beautiful friends for whom I cannot sufficiently thank
them.
XII
PERSONALITIES—I
It is curious that, with my somewhat antinomian tendencies, I should
have gone to Trinity Hall—which was, and is, before all a Law
College—and should thus have been thrown into close touch with the
_legal_ element in life. As an undergraduate, whose days were consumed
in boating and mathematics, this was not noticeable; but it was not
entirely after my heart when I became a Fellow, to find myself in a
society which was almost wholly composed of barristers; and in after
life to discover that my friends of early days had nearly all become
eminent K.C.’s and Judges!
Just before my entering Trinity Hall, an undergraduate of that College,
Robert Romer, had become Senior Wrangler—and I really believe this had
something to do with my selecting the College for myself. The ‘Hall’ men
were hugely delighted, as this distinction in the Tripos had never come
to the College before—the more so, because Romer was a boating man and
rowed in the First Boat; and a myth grew up (possibly encouraged by the
subject himself, and in order to show how easily a real boating man can
do anything he turns himself to!) that he passed his examinations by the
light of nature, and never needed to ‘swot’ like an ordinary mortal.
Others however said—and this was a more likely explanation—that he used
to sit at his study table with a pot of beer and a sporting journal
before him, while in the open drawer of the table lay his mathematical
books and papers. When a knock came at the door it was the simplest
thing in the world to close the drawer, and be found consuming his ale!
After his degree he remained at Cambridge for a time as mathematical
coach, but was by no means a success in that line. He could not
sympathize with a learner’s difficulties; and when a pupil came to him
with a problem which he could not understand, Romer would say “What? You
can’t understand that? You can’t understand that?—then God help you, I
can’t!” Naturally he soon gave up teaching and took to the Bar. After
_my_ degree—when we were Fellows of the College together—I saw quite a
little of him: a rough, muscular-brained, “damn-your-eyes” type of man,
and as may be imagined quite ignorant of art and literature, but
good-natured and healthy. Later however the sheer physical force of his
mentality took him to the highest reaches of the legal profession (Lord
Justice of Appeal) and he passed out of my sphere.
Another Senior Wrangler whom I knew fairly well, as he headed the Tripos
in my own year (1868), and who afterwards became Lord Justice (in the
Court of Patents) was J. Fletcher Moulton. He was one of those people
who without any great depth of intellect or even of character possessed
an extraordinary rapidity of mind. His information was encyclopædic, and
in examinations he threw off his papers with the airy ease of a tree
throwing off its dead leaves in autumn; to the wonderment indeed both of
examiners and fellow-students. Yet I am not aware that he ever
contributed anything very original in the study of mathematics or law—or
in any other department of human thought.
Great success in examinations does naturally not as a rule go with
originality of thought. W. K. Clifford who had undoubtedly one of the
finest mathematical, scientific, and philosophical minds of the period
of which I am speaking was only Second Wrangler; and my friend Robert F.
Muirhead who, as Smith’s Prizeman and later, has contributed important
papers on mathematical subjects, was nowhere to speak of in his Tripos.
One could hardly of course expect that originality and the pigeon-hole
mind should go together.
To return to our Judges. That men like Romer and Moulton should attain
the highest places in their profession is natural; but I confess I have
been surprised (having known them so well in boating days) at the kind
of men who are commonly made High Court or County Court Judges. I will
not mention names (!)—but here is one, for instance, who was Captain of
the boat-club in my time—a physically powerful, but mentally quite
muddle-headed person; here is another, whose _forte_ was _boxing_ (no
harm in that, but one might have wished that he had other interests
besides)—a rather brutish and decidedly illiterate type; a third, whose
constitution, both physical and mental, was feeble, but who had powerful
relatives in the legal profession. All these were of the kind that have
considerable difficulty in passing their elementary examinations. And
there were many more of the same kind. Nevertheless, having once got
their feet on the ladder, they have slowly and gradually—by family
influence or sheer physical health (an important thing)—climbed nearly
to the top. No blame to them, certainly; but one cannot help asking—and
I put the question especially to Labour M.P.’s: Are these the sort of
men we really require for such posts? Let alone their want of bookish
culture—which perhaps does not so much matter—we cannot but ask: What do
men of this class—who have been brought up at a public school, who have
worked hard at boating or cricket at the University, who afterwards have
buried themselves in law-chambers and the purlieus of the Courts—and
whose acquaintance with manual workers is pretty well confined to
‘scouts’ and ‘gyps’ and an occasional gamekeeper in the country—what do
they know about the great mass-people on whom they have to sit in
judgment, about the habits and temperament and customs of life of the
latter? and how on earth are they qualified to bring order and good
sense and real sympathy and understanding into that most important
branch of public life—the administration of the law? These are indeed
questions to which serious answers will have to be given ere long.