We must now pass on to the view which Mr. Darwin takes of the origin of our moral sense; the noblest attribute of our being, summed up in the short, but imperious word, ought, so full of high significance. He approaches this most difficult problem partly because it is a stumbling-block in the way of the theory of natural selection, and partly because no one has examined it exclusively from the side of natural history:

"The following proposition seems to me in a high degree probable— namely, that any animal whatever, endowed with well-marked social instincts, would inevitably acquire a moral sense or conscience, as soon as its intellectual powers had become as well developed, or nearly as well developed, as in man. For, firstly, the social instincts lead an animal to take pleasure in the society of its fellows, to feel a certain amount of sympathy with them, and to perform various services for them. The services may be of a definite and evident instinctive nature, or there may be only a wish and readiness, as with most of the higher social animals, to aid their fellows in certain general ways. But these feelings and services are by no means extended to all the individuals of the same species, only to those of the same association. Secondly, as soon as the mental faculties had become highly developed, images of all past actions and motives would be incessantly passing through the brain of each individual; and that feeling of dissatisfaction which invariably results, as we shall hereafter see, from any unsatisfied instinct, would arise as often as it was perceived that the enduring and always present social instinct has yielded to some other instinct, at the time stronger. but neither enduring in its nature, nor leaving behind it a very vivid impression. It is clear that many instinctive desires, such as that of hunger, are in their nature of short duration; and after being satisfied are not readily or vividly recalled. Thirdly, after the power of language had been acquired, and the wishes of the members of the same community could be distinctly expressed, the common opinion how each member ought to act for the public good would naturally become to a large extent the guide to action. But the social instincts would still give the impulse to act for the good of the community, this impulse being strengthened, directed, and sometimes even deflected by public opinion, the power of which rests, as we shall presently see, on instinctive sympathy. Lastly, habit in the individual would ultimately play a very important part in guiding the conduct of each member; for the social instincts and impulses, like all other instincts, would be greatly strengthened by habit, as would obedience to the wishes and judgment of the community.' (Vol. i. pp. 71, 72.)

This view of morals, like that of religion, is fundamentally based upon the gradual intellectual development of mankind. The very first proposition that any animal endowed with wellmarked social instincts would have a conscience, is a mere crude hypothesis, incapable of being put to any test. It is, so far as our experience goes, an impossible case. Mr. Darwin takes care that its meaning may not be overlooked. If men

were reared, he says, under the same conditions as hive-bees, 'there can hardly be a doubt that our unmarried females 'would, like the worker-bees, think it a sacred duty to kill 'their brothers, and mothers would strive to kill their fertile daughters; and no one would think of interfering.' They would indeed so act from a strict sense of duty, comparable to that which leads us very frequently to sacrifice ourselves for the good of others. The sense of right and wrong, according to this view, is no definite quality, but merely the result of the working together of a series of accidents controlled by natural selection for the general good. We need hardly point out that if this doctrine were to become popular, the constitution of society would be destroyed; for if there be no objective right and wrong, why should we follow one instinct more than the other, excepting so far as it is of direct use to ourselves?

The three stages by which Mr. Darwin derives our moral sense from certain rudiments in the lower animals, are worthy of careful analysis. Many animals are social, act in concert, and mutually defend each other, and the impulse which leads them to herd together may be of the same kind as that by which human communities are formed. It is probable, Mr. Darwin writes, using strange language for a materialistic philosopher, that the senses of discomfort when alone, and of pleasure when in company,

'were first developed in order that those animals which would profit by living in society should be induced to live together. In the same manner as the sense of hunger and the pleasure of eating were no doubt first acquired in order to induce animals to eat. The feeling of pleasure in society is probably an extension of the parental or filial affections; and this extension may be in chief part attributed to natural selection, but perhaps in part to mere habit. For with those animals which were benefited by living in close association, the individuals which took the greatest pleasure in society would best escape various dangers; whilst those that cared least for their comrades and lived solitary would perish in greater numbers. With respect to the origin of the parental and filial affections, which apparently lie at the basis of the social affections, it is hopeless to speculate; but we may infer that they have been to a large extent gained through natural selection. So it has almost certainly been with the unusual and opposite feeling of hatred between the nearest relations, as with the worker-bees which kill their brother drones, and with the queen bees which kill their daughter queens; the desire to destroy, instead of loving, their nearest relations having been here of service to the community.'

It appears to us that Mr. Darwin in this passage completely contradicts his own argument. If the moral sense be derived

from the social instincts, and those again are based upon the parental and filial affections, about the origin of which it is hopeless to speculate, it is very strange that Mr. Darwin should have advanced a speculation which he himself looks upon as hopeless. Why should we infer that they have been gained through natural selection? The social instincts doubtless benefit the community, and thus indirectly the individual, but that this utility is the cause rather than the effect we have no evidence.

We come now to the second stage of the hypothesis. There are two series of instincts, the one social and enduring, and looking to the general good, and the other looking to the individual and less persistent. The approval of conscience is merely an unhesitating obedience to the first, while disobedience causes regret and remorse. We deny the fairness of a comparison between social instincts' and those qualities which are instincts in animals. The respect for property, or law, or the voice of society, cannot fairly be termed instincts, because, as Mr. Darwin himself has shown in defining instinct from imitation, these virtues are not transmitted in the same unerring way. They are gradually acquired by the infant, and are in no sense comparable to the impulse by which a bird builds a nest. The first trial of the bird is as perfect as the last, while the social virtues are slowly recognised and embraced by the child, and by continual habit become quasiinstinctively followed. Mr. Darwin is not justified in overlooking this most important difference between what he terms the social instinct' in man and the instinct of the lower animals. This portion of the argument is founded on a false analogy.

The third stage consists of the evolution of public opinion expressed through a language more or less perfect, by which the common good would form the standard up to which each person would act; and lastly, the tendency to act for the common good would become inherited, and the habit gradually come to be an instinct. And thus our sense of right and wrong is gradually evolved by natural selection, without the necessity of the interference of any other law. It is merely the result of the working of the principle of utility in our natures. Right is merely what is found by experience or ruled to be for the good of society; and wrong that which is hurtful or which is deemed so.

These views are, strictly speaking, utilitarian, but their basis is shifted from that of selfishness, or the greatest happiness principle,' to that of the general good. If they be

true, they must explain the phenomena of morals, and our virtuous actions must be essentially founded on a utilitarian basis. But how could this have been brought about through the agency of natural selection? Would it be possible for a being, acting for the good of society, gradually to acquire the idea of right by the exercise of his social instincts? He could only perfect them, and could not, on the hypothesis, separate the useful from the right. Mr. Wallace has discussed this point most admirably:

'Although the practice of benevolence, honesty, or truth may have been useful to the tribe possessing these virtues, that does not at all account for the peculiar sanctity attached to actions which each tribe considers right and moral, as contrasted with the very different feelings with which they regard what is merely useful. The utilitarian hypothesis (which is the theory of natural selection applied to the mind) seems inadequate to account for the development of the moral sense. This subject has been recently much discussed, and I will here only give one example to illustrate my argument. The utilitarian sanction for truthfulness is by no means very powerful or universal. Few laws enforce it. No very severe reprobation follows untruthfulness. In all ages and countries, falsehood has been thought allowable in love, and laudable in war; while at the present day it is held to be venial by the majority of mankind, in trade, commerce, and speculation. certain amount of untruthfulness is a necessary part of politeness in the east and west alike, while even severe moralists have held a lie justifiable to elude an enemy or prevent a crime. Such being the difficulties with which this virtue has had to struggle, with so many exceptions to its practice, with so many instances in which it brought ruin or death to its too ardent devotee, how can we believe that considerations of utility could ever invest it with the mysterious sanctity of the highest virtue-could ever induce men to value it for its own sake, and practise it regardless of consequences?' (P. 352.)

A

We do not see what answer either Mr. Mill or Mr. Darwin can make to this argument. Or again, supposing we test Mr. Darwin's view of the origin of regret and remorse on his own principles :

'At the moment of action, man will no doubt be apt to follow the stronger impulse; and though this may occasionally prompt him to the noblest deeds, it will far more commonly lead him to gratify his own desires at the expense of other men; but after their gratification, when past and weaker impressions, and contrasted with the ever-enduring social instincts, retribution will surely come. Man will then feel dissatisfied with himself, and will resolve, with more or less force, to act differently for the future. This is conscience; for conscience looks backwards and judges past actions, inducing that kind of dissatisfaction which, if weak, we call regret, and if severe, remorse.'

Remorse is, according to this very remarkable view, merely

a sort of regret which flows from the not having followed a persistent instinct. But so far from the two feelings being the same in kind, they are utterly distinct. The man who has killed his friend by an accident, would feel keen regret, but would he suffer the tortures of humiliation and agony and despair which would inevitably follow a deliberate murder, and which prompt hardened criminals to yield themselves up to punishment? In the latter case there is regret, but it is covered by a deeper and more powerful feeling of remorse. And how could this have been acquired by natural selection or the working of the utility principle? It does not promote the good, or the happiness, or the self-interest of the individual, and so far as society is concerned, the lower feeling of regret would be equally useful. It cannot therefore be accounted for on the Darwinian hypothesis of the evolution of morals. Or again, if we appeal to the virtues of care and respect for the infirm and aged, how could they have sprung from the blind workings of feelings good for society, seeing that, to say the least, the trouble of their maintenance more than counterbalances the profit which society obtains from their experience? The weakly and the infirm act injuriously to society by leaving a weak and sickly offspring. On the principle of natural selection the Fijian custom of killing the adults at the first approach of old age, or the Esquimaux practice of deserting the aged and the infirm, ought to be universal. In all these cases, as Mr. Hutton has justly remarked, in combating the utilitarian genesis of morals, advocated by Mr. Spencer, we cannot inherit more than our fathers had.' No amount of the accumulation of the experiences of utility could give origin to a feeling in which utility not only had no share, but to which it was, if anything, antagonistic.

Even in the statement of his own views, Mr. Darwin contradicts himself. In p. 88 he defines a moral being to be one who is capable of comparing his past and future actions, or motives, and of approving or disapproving of them. We have no reason to suppose that any of the lower animals have this capacity; therefore when a monkey faces danger to rescue its comrade, or takes charge of an orphan monkey, we do not call its conduct moral.' How can this be reconciled with what seems to be the extension of the moral sense to dogs? (p.92): The imperious word ought seems merely to imply the consciousness of the existence of a persistent instinct, either innate or partly acquired, serving him as a guide, though liable to be disobeyed. We hardly use the word ought in a metaphorical sense, when we say hounds ought to hunt,