— believe me, who know him better, that if anything is to come of it, it must be done by you and me."

"I do not understand, Mr. Molyneux"

"I quite believe it," he said, relapsing into carelessness just touched with contempt. "Ladies seldom understand such matters. If you will tell me the name of your solicitor, perhaps it would be better for me to talk the matter over with him."

"What is there to talk over?" said Mrs. Eastwood, once more roused into indignation. "I think, Mr. Molyneux, that we are speaking different languages. Nelly has her little fortune—as you know — and I am willing to allow her to wait till Ernest is in a position to claim her. I should not allow this without your approval, as his father. But as, so far, you have given your approval, what more does there remain to say?"

The great lawyer looked at his simple antagonist with a kind of stupefaction.

"We are indeed talkirtg two different languages," he said. "Tell me who is your solicitor, my dear lady, and he and I will talk it over"

"In a matter so important," said Mrs. Eastwood, plucking firmness from the emergency, " I prefer to act for myself."

Perhaps at this moment she achieved the greatest success of her life, though she did not know it. Mr. Molyneux was struck dumb. He stared at her, and he scratched his head like any bumpkin. He could not swear, nor storm, nor threaten, as he would sometimes do with the hapless people in the witness-box. He was obliged to be civil, and smooth-spoken, and to treat her with a certain degree of politeness; for though he believed that Ernest might have done better, he had no desire to defy his son, who was, in his way, a formidable opponent, and he did not quite venture, knowing the sort of young man he had to deal with, to break off the match, or do anything violent tending that way.

"Then I must try what can be done by plainer language," he said, hiding his bewilderment under a specious appearance of candour. "We must throw away all circumlocution. Let us be reasonable. I will give my son so much a year, if you will give your daughter so much a year. That is what it comes to. If we do this, there may be some possibility for them; but without this, nothing can be done; and of course, the allowance which you might be able to give her would deter

mine to some extent what I should give him."

"What I might be able to give my daughter?" said Mrs. Eastwood, in surprise; "but I have nothing to do with it I give her nothing —she comes into it by her grandfather's will."

"The five thousand pounds — yes, yes, I understand all about that," said Mr. Molyneux, with a mixture of disgust and weariness. This infinitesimal, but always recurring, morsel of money bored him. But he tried to keep his temper. He explained the duty of parents in such an emergency with great fulness. If a sacrifice had to be made, it must, he pointed out, be a mutual sacrifice. The question was not of five thousand pounds, or five thousand pence, but how to "make up an income " for the young people. Without an income there could be no marriage : it was not a matter of feeling, but of arrangement; if the one side did so much, the other side would do so much more. The great man explained the position with all his natural wealth of words, and with all the ease of wealth, to which a hundred or two more of expenditure in a year mattered comparatively little. But Mrs. Eastwood, who, as the reader is aware, had enough, but not too much, listened with a dismay which she could scarcely disguise. She, who had been obliged to put down her carriage, in order to free her son, was not in a position to give large allowances to either son or daughter. She made the best effort she could to maintain her ground.

"I should have thought that your son, in your profession, in which you are so

eminent "she began with an attempt

to propitiate her amicable adversary, who had changed the question so entirely from what appeared to her its natural aspect.

"In my profession, ma'am, a man stands on his own merits, not his father's," Mr. Molyneux answered, interrupting her with brusque decision. What was poor Mrs. Eastwood to do? She could not give to Nelly without being unjust to her other children, and yet how was she to have the heart to crush Nelly's happiness by refusing? A vision of her child, hollow-eyed and pale, casting pathetic glances at her, which would be worse than reproaches, flitted before her eyes. Girls have died ere now of separation from their lovers, and Nelly (the mother thought) was the kind of girl to break her heart without a complaint Could she risk the breaking of Nelly's heart for a miserable question of money? This was an influence infinitely more subtle and potent than Mr. Molyneux's eloquence. While he talked the good mother fought it out in her own bosom. She gave her consent that he should see her solicitor and talk over the matter with a sort of despairing acquiescence and that desperate trust in Providence which springs up in an oppressed soul when driven to its last resources. Something might "come in the way." Nothing could be resolved upon at once; neither to-day nor to-morrow could call for immediate action, and something might come in the way.

Mr. Molyneux saw Nelly before he went away, and was kind and fatherly, kissing her on the forehead, an act which Mrs. Eastwood half resented, as somehow interfering with her absolute property in her child. The lover she tolerated, but the lover's father was odious to her. And this trial of her patience was all the more hard that she had to put the best face upon it before Nelly, and to say that Mr. Molyneux and she did not quite agree on some points, but that everything would come right by-and-by. Nelly had always been her mother's confidant, knowing everything and thrusting her ready youthful opinion and daring undoubting advice into whatever was going on, and to shut her out now from all participation in this crowning care was unspeakably hard.

And then the nature of the vexation which she had thus to conceal within herself was so doubly odious—a question of money, which made her appear even to herself as if she was a niggard where her child's happiness was involved, she who had never grudged Nelly anything all her life! Other disagreeables, too, mingled in the matter. To be roused from the pleasant confidence that all your friends think well of you by the sudden discovery that some of them, at least, hold very lightly the privilege of your special alliance, is not in itself consolatory. Everything connected with the subject turned somehow into pain. Since the time when the carriage was put down, no such incident had occurred in the family, and Frederick's debts, which were a kind of natural grief in their way (for has not every man debts ?), were not half so overwhelming as this, nor did they bring half so many troubles in their train.

When the love of lovers comes into a house which has hitherto been kept warm and bright by the loves of parent LIVING AGE. VOL. II. 95

and children, brother and sister, the first thing it does in most cases is to make a rent and division. It calls out the sense of self and personal identity, it breaks the soft silken bonds of nature, and turns the hands a little while ago so closely linked almost against each other. Nelly thought her mother was hard to her Ernest, and Ernest thought his future mother-in-law was already developing the true mother-in-law character, and was about to become his natural enemy. He could not help giving hints of this to his betrothed, which made Nelly unhappy. And then her mother would find her crying, and on asking why, would be assailed with pitiful remonstrances.

"Dear mamma, why should you turn against Ernest? You used to like him well enough. Is it because I am fond of him that you turn against him?" Thus Nelly would moan, rending her mother's heart.

All this introduced the strangest new commotion into the peaceful household, and the reader will not wonder that poor Mrs. Eastwood, thus held on the rack, was a little impatient of other annoyances. On the very evening of the day on which she had the interview with Mr. Molyneux above recorded, when she was going through the hall on her way upstairs, another vexing and suggestive incident disturbed her. The hall was square, with one little deep window on one side of the door, the recess of which was filled with a window seat. Here some one was seated, half-visible in the darkness, with a head pressed against the window, gazing out. Nothing could be more unlike the large window of the Palazzo Scaramucci, but the attitude and act were the same. Mrs. Eastwood stopped, half alarmed, and watched the motionless figure. Then she went forward with a wondering uneasiness.

"Is it you, Innocent ?" she said.


"What are you doing here? It is too cold to stand about in the hall, and besides it is not a proper place for you. Go into the drawing-room dear, or come upstairs with me. What are you doing here?"

"I am waiting," said Innocent.

"For what, for whom?" said the mother, alarmed.

"For Frederick," said the girl, with a long drawing out of the breath, which was almost a sigh.




Dbliverrd At The Koval Institution,
March 22, 1873.

Philosophy is not, as is sometimes supposed, a mere intellectual luxury; it is, under varying disguises, the daily bread of the whole world. Though the workers and speakers must always be few, those for whom they work and speak are many; and though the waves run highest in the centres of literary life, the widening circles of philosophic thought reach in the end to the most distant shores. What is thought-out and written down in the study, is soon taught in the schools, preached from the pulpits, and discussed at the corners of the streets. There are at the present moment materialists and spiritualists, realists and idealists, postivists and mystics, evolutionists and specialists to be met with in the workshops as well as in the lecturerooms, and it may safely be asserted that the intellectual vigour and moral health of a nation depend no more on the established religion than on the dominant philosophy of the realm.

No one who at the present moment watches the state of the intellectual atmosphere of Europe, can fail to see that we are on the eve of a storm which will shake the oldest convictions of the world, and upset everything that is not firmly rooted. Whether we look to England, France, or Germany, everywhere we see, in the recent manifestoes of their philosophers, the same thoughts struggling for recognition — thoughts not exactly new, but presented in a new and startling form. There is everywhere the same desire to explain the universe, such as we know it, without the admission of any plan, any object, any superintendence; a desire to remove all specific barriers, not only those which separate man from the animal, and the animal from the plant, but those also which separate organic from inorganic bodies ; lastly, a desire to explain life as a mode of chemical action, and thought as a movement of nervous molecules.

It is difficult to find a general name for these philosophic tendencies, particularly as their principal representatives differ widely from each other. It would be unfair to class the coarse materialism of Buchner with the thoughtful realism of

Spencer. Nor does it seem right to use the name of Darwinism in that vague and undefined sense in which it has been used so frequently of late, compre'ienuing under that title not only the carefully worded conclusions of that great observer and thinker, but likewise the bold generalizations of his numerous disciples. I shall mention only one, but a most important point, on which so-called Darwinism has evidently gone far beyond Mr. Darwin. It is well known that, according to Mr. Darwin, all animals and plants have descended from about eight or ten progenitors. He is satisfied with this and declines to follow the deceitful guidance of analogy, which would lead us to the admission of but one prototype. And he adds that even if he were to infer from analogy that all the organic beings which had ever lived on this earth had descended from some one primordial form, he would hold that life was first breathed into that primordial form by the Creator. Very different from this is the conclusion proclaimed by Professor Haeckel, the most distinguished and most streuuous advocate of Mr. Darwin's opinions in Germany. He maintains that in the present state of physiological knowledge, the idea of a Creator, a Maker, a Lifegiver has become unscientific; that the admission t>f one primordial form is sufficient; and that that first primordial form was a Moneres, produced by selfgerle ration.

I know, indeed, of no name sufficiently comprehensive for this broad stream of philosophic thought, but the name of "Evolutionary Materialism" is perhaps the best that can be framed. 1 am afraid that it will be objected to by those who imagine that materialism is a term of reproach. It is so in a moral sense, but no real student of the history of philosophy would use the word for such a purpose. In the historical evolution of philosophy, materialism has as much right as spiritualism, and it has taught us many lessons for which we ought to be most grateful. To say that materialism degrades mind to the level of matter is a false accusation, because what the materialist means by matter is totally different from what the spriritualist means by it, and from what it means in common parlance. The matter of the materialist contains, at least potentially, the highest attributes that can be assigned to any object of knowledge; the matter of the spiritualists is simply an illusion; while, in common parlance, matter is hardly more than I

stuff and rubbish. Let each system of philosophy be judged out of its own mouth, and let us not wrangle about words more than we can help. Philosophical progress, like political progress, prospers best under party government, and the history of philosophy would lose half its charm and half its usefulness, if the struggle between the two great parties in the realm of thought, the spiritualist and the materialist, the idealist and the realist, were ever to cease. As thunderstorms are wanted in nature to clear the air and give us breath, the human mind, too, stands in need of its tempests, and never does it display greater vigour and freshness than after it has passed through one of the decisive battles in the world of thought.

But though allowing to the materialist philosophers all the honour that is due to a great and powerful party, the spiritualist may hate and detect materialism with the same hatred with which the conservative hates radicalism, or at all events wtih such a modicum of hatred as a philosopher is capable of; and he has a perfect right to oppose, by all the means at his disposal, the exclusive sway of materialistic opinions. Though from a purely philosophical point of view, we may admit that spiritualism is as one-sided as materialism, that they are both but two faces of the same head, that each can see but one half of the world, yet no one who has worked his way honestly through the problems of materialism and spiritualism would deny that the conclusions of Hume are more disheartening than those of Berkeley, and that the strongest natures only can live under the pressure of such opinions as those which were held by Lametrie or Schopenhauer. To some people, I know, such considerations will seem beside the point. They hold that scientific research, whatever its discoveries may be, is never to be allowed to touch the deeper convictions of our souls. They seem to hold that the world may have been created twice, once according to Moses, and once according to Darwin. I confess I cannot adopt this artificial distinction, and I feel tempted to ask those cold-blooded philosophers the same question which the German peasant asked his bishop, who, as a prince, was amusing himself on week-days, and, as a bishop, praying on Sundays. "Your Highness, what will become of the bishop, if the Devil comes and takes the prince?" Scientific research is not intended for intellectual exercise and amusement only,

and our scientific convictions will not submit to being kept in quarantine. If we once embark on board the Challenger, we cannot rest with one foot on dry land. Wherever it leads us, we must follow; wherever it lands us there we must try to live. Now, it does make a difference whether we live in the atmosphere of Africa or of Europe, and it makes the same difference whether we live in the atmosphere of spiritualism or materialism. The view of the world and of our place in it, as indicated by Mr. Darwin, and more sharply defined by some of his followers, does not touch scientific interests only; it cuts to the very heart, and must become to every man to whom truth, whether you call it scientific or religious, is sacred, a question of life and death, in the deepest and fullest sense of the word.

In the short course of three Lectures which I have undertaken to give this year in this Institution, I do not intend to grapple with the whole problem of Evolutionary Materialism. My object is simply to point out a strange omission, and to call attention to one kind of evidence— I mean the evidence of language — which has been most unaccountably neglected, both in studying the development of the human intellect, and in determining the position which man holds in the system of the world. Is it not extraordinary, for instance, that in the latest work on Psychology, language should hardly ever be mentioned, language without which no thought can exist, or at all events, without which no thought has ever been realized or expressed? It does not matter what view of language we take; under all circumstances its intimate connection with thought cannot be doubted. Call language a mass of imitative cries, or a heap of conventional signs; let it be the tool or the work of thought; let it be the mere garment or the very embodiment of mind — whatever it is, surely it has something to do with the historical or pala?ontological, and with the individual or embryological evolution of the human self. It may be very interesting to the psychologist to know the marvellous machinery of the senses, beginning with the first formation of nervous channels, tracing the process in which the reflex action of the molecules of the afferent nerves produces a reaction in the molecules of the efferent nerves, following up the establishment of nervous centres and nervous plexuses, and laying bare the whole network of the telegraphic wires through which messages are flashed from station to station. Yet much of that network and its functions admits, and can admit, of an hypothetical interpretation only; while we have before us another network — I mean language — in its endless variety, where every movement of the mind, from the first tremor to the last calm utterance of our philosophy, may be studied as in a faithful photograph. And while we know thp nervous system only such as it is, or, if we adopt the system of evolution, such as it has gradually been brought from the lowest to the highest state of organization, but are never able to watch the actual historical or palaeontological process of its formation, we know language, not only as it is, but can watch it in its constant genesis, and in its historical progress from simplicity to complexity, and again from complexity to simplicity. For let us not forget that language has two aspects. We, the historical races of mankind, use it, we speak and think it, but we do not make it. Though the faculty of language may be congenital, all languages are traditional. The words in which we think are channels of thought which we have not dug ourselves, but which we found readymade for us. The work of making language belongs to a period in the history of mankind beyond the reach of tradition, and of which we, in our advanced state of mental development, can hardly form a conception. Yet that period must have had an historical reality as much as the period during which small annual deposits formed the strata of the globe on which we live. As during enormous periods of time the Earth was absorbed in producing the abundant carboniferous vegetation which still supplies us with the means of warmth, light, and life, there must have been a period during which the human mind had no other work but that of linguistic vegetation, the produce of which still supplies the stores of our grammars and dictionaries. After the great bulk of language was finished, a new work began, that of arranging and defining it, and of now and then coining a new word for a new thought. And all this we can still see with our own eyes, as it were, in the quarries opened by the Science of Language. No microscope will ever enable us to watch the formation of a new nervous ganglion, while the Science of Language shows us the formation of new mental ganglia in the formation of every new word. Besides, let us

not forget that the whole network of the nerves is outside the mind. A state of nervous action may be parallel, but it never is identical with a state of consciousness (Priticiples of Psychology, II. 592), and even the parallelism between nervous states and states of consciousness is, when we come to details, beyond all comprehension (lb. I. 140). Language, on the contrary, is not outside the mind, but is the outside of the mind. Language without thought is as impossible as thought without language; and although we may by abstraction distinguish between what the Greeks called inward and outward Logos, yet in reality and full actuality language is one and indivisible — language is very thought. On this more hereafter.

Just at the end of his interesting work on the Principles of Psychology, Mr. Herbert Spencer shows, by one remark, that he is well aware of the importance of language for a proper studv of psychology.* "Whether it be or 1>c not a true saying," he writes, " that mythology is a disease of language, it may be said with truth that metaphysics, in all its anti-realistic developments, is a disease of language." No doubt it is; but think of the consequences that flow from this view of language for a proper study of psychology! If a disease of language can produce such hallucinations as mythology and metaphysics, what then is the health of language, and what its bearing on the healthy functions of the mind? Is this no problem for the psychologist? Nervous or cerebral disorders occupy a large portion in every work on psychology; yet they are in their nature obscure, and must always remain so. Why a hardening or softening of the brain should interfere with thought will never be explained, beyond the fact that the wires are somehow damaged, and do not properly receive and convey the nervous currents. But what we call a disease of language is perfectly intelligible; nay, it has been proved to be natural, and almost inevitable. In a lecture delivered in this Institution some time ago, I endeavoured to show that mythology, in the widest sense of the word, is the power exercised by language on thought in every possible sphere of mental activity, including metaphysics as well as religion ; and I called the whole history of philosophy, from Thales down to Hegel, one uninterrupted battle against mythology, a coa

* Spencer, PrincipUs of Psychology, VoL II. p. 500.

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