Aristocracy and Evolution E-Book

W. H. Mallock

• Herausgeber: Blackmore Dennett
• Kategorie: Wissenschaft und neue Technologien
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A Study of the Rights, the Origin, and the Social Function of the Wealthier Classes. 

Leseprobe

ARISTOCRACY

AND EVOLUTION

by W.H. Mallock

Published 2019 by Blackmore Dennett

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER I: THE FUNDAMENTAL ERROR IN MODERN SOCIOLOGICAL STUDY

CHAPTER II: THE ATTEMPT TO MERGE THE GREAT MAN IN THE AGGREGATE

CHAPTER III: GREAT MEN, AS THE TRUE CAUSE OF PROGRESS

CHAPTER IV: THE GREAT MAN AS DISTINGUISHED FROM THE PHYSIOLOGICALLY FITTEST SURVIVOR

BOOK II

CHAPTER I: THE NATURE AND DEGREES OF THE SUPERIORITIES OF GREAT MEN

CHAPTER II: PROGRESS THE RESULT OF A STRUGGLE NOT FOR SURVIVAL, BUT FOR DOMINATION

CHAPTER III: THE MEANS BY WHICH THE GREAT MAN APPLIES HIS GREATNESS TO WEALTH-PRODUCTION

CHAPTER IV: THE MEANS BY WHICH THE GREAT MAN ACQUIRES POWER IN POLITICS

BOOK III

CHAPTER I: HOW TO DISCRIMINATE BETWEEN THE PARTS CONTRIBUTED TO A JOINT PRODUCT BY THE FEW AND BY THE MANY.

CHAPTER II: THE NATURE AND SCOPE OF PURELY DEMOCRATIC ACTION, OR THE ACTION OF AVERAGE MEN IN CO-OPERATION.

CHAPTER III: THE QUALITIES OF THE ORDINARY, AS OPPOSED TO THE GREAT, MAN

BOOK IV

CHAPTER I: THE DEPENDENCE OF EXCEPTIONAL ACTION ON THE ATTAINABILITY OF EXCEPTIONAL REWARD, OR THE NECESSARY CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN THE MOTIVES TO ACTION AND ITS RESULTS.

CHAPTER II: THE MOTIVES OF THE EXCEPTIONAL WEALTH-PRODUCER

CHAPTER III: EQUALITY OF EDUCATIONAL OPPORTUNITY

CHAPTER IV: INEQUALITY, HAPPINESS, AND PROGRESS

BOOK I

CHAPTER I: THE FUNDAMENTAL ERROR IN MODERN SOCIOLOGICAL STUDY

The interest with which the world in general, throughout the middle portion of this century, has watched the progress of the various positive sciences, would, when we consider how abstruse these sciences are, seem strange and almost inexplicable if it were not for one fact. This fact is the close and obvious bearing which the conclusions of the sciences in question have on traditional Christianity, and, indeed, on any belief in immortality and the divine government of the world. The popular interest in science remains still unabated, but the most careless observer can hardly fail to perceive that the grounds of it are, to a certain extent, very rapidly changing. They are ceasing to be primarily religious, and are becoming primarily social. The theories and discoveries of the savant which are examined with the greatest eagerness are no longer those which affect our prospects of a life in heaven, but those which deal with the possibility of improving our social conditions on earth, and which appeal to us through our sympathies, not with belief or doubt, but with the principles which are broadly contrasted under the names of conservative and revolutionary.

Such being the case, it is hardly necessary to observe that science itself has been undergoing a change likewise. The character of the change, however, requires to be briefly specified. From the time when geologists first startled the orthodox by demonstrating that the universe was more than six thousand years old, and that something more than a week had been occupied in the process of its construction, to the time, comparatively recent, during which the genius of Darwin and others was forcing on the world entirely new ideas with regard to the parentage, and presumably the nature of man, there was a certain limit—a certain scientific frontier—at which positive science practically stopped short. Having sedulously examined the materials and structure of the universe, until on the one hand it reached atoms and molecules, it examined, on the other, the first emergence of organic life, and traced its developments till they culminated in the articulate-speaking human being. It brought us, in fact, to man on the threshold of his subsequent history; and there, till very recently, positive science left him. But now there are signs all round us of a new intellectual movement, analogous to that which accompanied the rise of Darwinism, and science once again is endeavouring to enlarge its borders. Having offered us an explanation of the origin of the animal man, it proposes to deal with the existing conditions of society very much as it dealt with the structure of the human body, to exhibit them as the necessary result of certain far-reaching laws and causes, and to deduce our civilisation of to-day from the condition of the primitive savage by the same methods and by the aid of the same theories as those which it employed in deducing the primitive savage from the brutes, and the brutes in their turn from primitive germ or protoplasm. In other words, the great triumph of science during what we may call its physical period has been the establishment of that theory of development which is commonly spoken of as Evolution, and the application of this to the problems of physics and biology. The object of science in entering on what we may call its social period is the application of this same theory to the problems of civilisation and society.

It is true that, if we use the word science in a certain sense, the attempt to treat social problems scientifically is not in itself new. Political economy, to say nothing of utilitarian ethics, is a social science, or it is nothing; and political economy had already made considerable advances when modern physical science had hardly found its footing. But before long physical science passed it, with a step that was not only more rapid, but also immeasurably firmer, and was presently giving such an example of what accurate science is, that it was thought doubtful whether political economy could be called a science at all. The doubt thus raised cannot be said to have justified itself. In spite of all the attacks that have been made against the earlier economists, their principal doctrines survive to the present day, as being, so far as they go, genuine scientific truths. But whenever the thinker, who has been educated in the school of modern physical science, betakes himself now to the study of society and human action, and begins to apply to these the developed theory of evolution, though he does not reject the doctrines of the earlier economists, he sees them in a new light, by which their significance is profoundly changed. The earlier economists took society as they found it, and they reasoned as though what was true of the economic life around them must be absolutely and universally true of economic life always. Here is the point as to which the thinker of to-day differs from them. He does not dispute the truth of the deductions drawn by them with regard to society as it existed during their own epoch; but, educated by the methods and discoveries of the physical and biological evolutionist, he perceives that society itself is in process of constant change, that many economic doctrines which have been true during the present century had little application to society during the Middle Ages, and that centuries hence they may perhaps have even less. Thus, though he does not repudiate or disregard the economic science of the past, he merges it in a science the scope of which is far wider and deeper. This is a science which primarily sets itself to explain, not how a given set of social conditions affects those who live among them, but how social conditions at one epoch are different from those of another, how each set of conditions is the resultant of those preceding it, and how, since the society of the present differs from that of the past, the society of the future is likely to differ from that of the present.

What political economy has thus lost in precision it has gained in general interest. So long as it merely analysed processes of production and distribution which it was assumed would always continue without substantial modification, political economy was mainly a science for specialists, and was little calculated to arouse any keen interest in the public. But now that it has been merged in that general science of evolution, which offers to an unquiet age what seems a scientific licence to regard as practically producible some indeterminate transformation in these processes, political economy has come to occupy a new position. Instead of being ignored or ridiculed by the more ardent school of reformers, and even neglected by conservatives as a not very powerful auxiliary, it has now been brought down into the dust of the general struggle, and is invoked by one side as the prophetess of new possibilities, and by the other as an exorcist of mischievous and mad illusions. And what is true in this respect with regard to political economy is also true with regard to evolutionary social science as a whole. Social science as a whole, just like this special branch of it, is being brought into vital contact with the lives and hopes of man, and is exciting a popular interest strictly analogous to that which had been excited by physical and biological science previously.

It is doing this in two ways, which, though closely connected, are distinct. In the first place, it is directing our attention to the human race as a whole, and is showing us how society and the individual have developed in an orderly manner, growing upwards from the lowest and the most miserable beginnings to the heights of civilisation, intellectual, moral, and material, and how they contain in themselves the potency of yet further development. It thus offers to the mind a vast variety of suggestion with regard to the significance of man’s presence upon the earth, and is held by many to be supplying us with the materials of a religion calculated to replace that which physical science has discredited. The second way in which it excites popular interest is the way which has been just illustrated by a reference to political economy. For besides offering to our philosophic and religious faculties the vision of man’s corporate movement from a condition of helpless bestiality towards some “far-off divine event,” which glitters on us in the remote future, social science is suggesting to us changes which are of a very much nearer kind, and which appeal not to our speculative desire to discover some meaning in the universe, but to the personal interest which we each of us take in our own welfare—such, for instance, as a general redistribution of wealth, the abolition or complete reorganisation of private property, the emancipation of labour, and the realisation of social equality.

This distinction between the speculative and practical aspects of social science has a special importance, which will be explained and insisted on presently. But it is here mentioned only to show the reader how strong a combination of motives is impelling the present generation—the conservative classes and the revolutionary classes equally—to transfer to social science the interest once felt in physical; and how strong is the stimulus thus applied to sociologists to emulate the diligence and success of the physicists and biologists, their predecessors. Nor have diligence, enthusiasm, or scientific genius been wanting to them. As has already been observed, they have transformed social science altogether by applying to it the doctrines of evolution which physical science taught them, and have thus organically affiliated the former study to the latter. This is in itself a triumph worthy of the enterprise that has achieved it. But they have done far more than borrow from physics this mere general theory. They have established between physical phenomena and social an enormous number of analogies, so close that the one set assists in the interpretation of the other. They have borrowed from the physicists a number of their subsidiary theories, their methods of grouping facts, and, above all, their methods of studying them. In a word, they are endeavouring to follow the masters of physical science along the precise path which has led the latter to such solid and such definite results.

We have now, however, to record a singular and disappointing truth. Though men of science have, in the manner just described, been engaged for years in the field of sociological study; though the way was prepared for them by men like Comte, Mill, and Buckle; though amongst them have been men like Mr. Spencer, with capacities of the highest order, and though certain results have been reached of the kind desired, complaints are heard from thinkers of all shades of opinion that these results are singularly unsatisfactory and inconclusive when compared with the efforts that have been made in reaching them, and still more when compared with the results of corresponding efforts in the sphere of physics.

No one complains more loudly of this comparative failure than some of the most distinguished students of social science themselves. Professor Marshall, for instance, who has done more than any other English author to breathe into technical economics the spirit of evolutionary science, admits that Comte, who laid the foundation of sociology, and Mr. Spencer, who has invested it with a definitely scientific character, have brought to the study of “man’s actions in society unsurpassed knowledge and great genius, and have made epochs in thought by their broad surveys and suggestive hints”; but neither of them, he proceeds to say, has succeeded in doing more than this. Mr. Kidd, again, whose work on Social Evolution, if not valuable for the conclusions he himself desires to substantiate, is curiously significant as an example of contemporary sociological reasoning, repeats Professor Marshall’s complaint, and gives yet more definite point to it. Having observed that “despite the great advance which science has made in almost every other direction, there is, it must be confessed, no science of human society, properly so called,” he justifies this observation by insisting on what is an undoubted fact, that “so little practical light has even Mr. Herbert Spencer succeeded in throwing on the nature of the social problems of our time, that his investigations and conclusions are, according as they are dealt with by one side or the other, held to lead up to the opinions of the two diametrically opposite camps of individualists and collectivists, into which society is rapidly becoming organised.”

Now what is the reason of this? Here is the question that confronts us. That the methods adopted by the scientist in the domain of physics are applicable to social phenomena, just as they are to physical, has been not only established in a broad and general way, but demonstrated by a mass of minute and elaborately co-ordinated facts. Why, then, when we find them in the sphere of physics solving one problem after another with a truly surprising accuracy, do they yield us such vague and often contradictory results when we apply them to the solution of the practical problems of society?

Those who complain so justly of the failure of social science and who yet show themselves altogether at a loss to account for it, might have seen their way to answering this question had they concentrated their attention on a point that was just now alluded to. It was just now observed that the problems which social science aims at answering, and is popularly expected to answer, are of two distinct kinds—the philosophic or religious, and the practical; the former being concerned with the destinies of humanity as a whole, with movements extending over enormous periods of time, and with the remote past and future far more than with the present; the other being concerned exclusively with the present or the near future, and with changes that will affect either ourselves or our own children.

Now it will be found that social science, whilst busying itself with both these sets of problems, has met with the failures which are alleged against it, only in dealing with the latter, and that, so far as regards the former, it has successfully reached conclusions comparable in precision and solidity to those of the physicists and biologists whose methods it has so conscientiously followed. Professor Marshall’s own treatise on The Principles of Economics, and that of Mr. Kidd on Social Evolution likewise, abound in admissions that this statement of the case is correct. Professor Marshall’s account of the rise and fall of civilisation as caused by climate, by geographical position, and the influence of one race and one civilisation on another,—an account of which he places in the very forefront of his elaborate work—is professedly merely a summary of conclusions already arrived at; and the manner in which he states these conclusions is itself evidence that sociologists, when dealing with certain classes of social phenomena, have given us something more than “surveys” and “suggestive hints.” Social science, in fact, cannot be properly called a failure except when it ceases to deal with the larger phenomena of society, which show themselves only in the long course of ages, and descending to the problems of a particular age and civilisation, endeavours to deduce, from the general principles it has established, propositions minute enough to be applicable to our immediate conduct and expectations. As practical inquirers, therefore, the real question before us is not why social science has failed, where physical science has succeeded, but why social science has succeeded like physical science in one direction, and, unlike physical science, failed so signally in another. If we concentrate our attention on the subject in this way, and thus realise with precision the nature of the failure we desire to explain, we shall find that the explanation of it is not only far simpler than might have been supposed, but also that the remedy for it is far more obvious and more easy.

It has been said that sociology has succeeded in dealing with those social phenomena which extend themselves through vast periods of time, and has failed in dealing with those whose interest and existence is limited to lives of a few particular generations. Now between these two sets of phenomena, as thus far described, the most obvious difference is, no doubt, the difference in their magnitude. This difference, however, is altogether accidental, and does nothing to explain those curiously contrasted results which the study of one set and the other has yielded to the modern sociologist. The difference, which will explain these, is of quite another kind, and may briefly be stated thus. The larger social phenomena—those which interest the speculative philosopher, and with which sociology has dealt successfully, are phenomena of social aggregates, or masses of men regarded as single bodies; the smaller phenomena—those which interest the practical man, and with which sociology has dealt unsuccessfully—are essentially the phenomena not of social aggregates, but of various parts of aggregates.

Let us illustrate the matter provisionally by two rudimentary examples. As an example of the larger phenomena let us take the advance of man from the age of stone to the ages of bronze and iron. Of the smaller, we may take the phenomena referred to by Mr. Kidd—namely, the appearance in the modern world of the socialist or collectivist party, and the antagonism between it and the party of private property and individualism. Now the first of these two sets of phenomena—the use by men of stone implements, and the subsequent use of metal implements—consist of phenomena which, so far as the sociologist is concerned, are manifested successively by humanity, or some portion of humanity, as a whole. They are not referred to individuals or small classes. No question is asked as to what particular savage may rightly claim priority in the invention of metal implements, or whether flint or bronze were the subjects of any prehistoric monopoly. Those races amongst which the use of the metals became general are regarded as a single body, which had made this advance collectively. They are, indeed, as we shall again have occasion to observe, habitually described under the common name of Man. But let us turn to such phenomena as the antagonism between individualists and collectivists, and the case is wholly different. It is true that here also, as in the case we have just been considering, our attention is called to a portion of the human race, namely, the Western or progressive nations, which we may, for certain purposes, regard as a single aggregate; but it is fixed, not on the phenomena which this aggregate exhibits as a whole, but on those exhibited by unlike and conflicting parts of it—the part which sympathises with individualists on the one hand, and the part which sympathises with collectivists on the other.

Thus the subject-matter of sociology, regarded as a speculative science, consists of those points in which the members of any given social aggregate resemble one another. The subject-matter of sociology, regarded as a practical science, consists of those points in which the members, or certain groups of members, of any given social aggregate differ from one another. And here we come to the reason why sociology, as a practical science, has failed. It has failed because hitherto it has not realised this distinction, and has persisted in applying to the phenomena, involved in practical social problems, the same terminology, the same methods of observation and reasoning, which it has applied to the phenomena involved in speculative social problems. By so doing, though it has dissipated many popular errors, it has, in the most singular manner, given a new vitality to others. It has indeed supplied a pseudo-scientific sanction to the most abject fallacies that have vitiated the political philosophy of this century; and it has thus been instrumental in keeping alive and encouraging the most grotesquely impossible hopes as to what may be accomplished by legislation, and the most grotesquely false views as to the sources of social and political power. To expose these fallacies, and the defective reasoning on which they rest, is the object of the present volume.

The nature of that peculiarity in the procedure of modern sociology which has just been described, and to which all its errors are due, forms a very curious study, and it will be essential to exhibit it with the utmost plainness possible. In the following chapter, therefore, the reader shall be presented with examples of it.

CHAPTER II: THE ATTEMPT TO MERGE THE GREAT MAN IN THE AGGREGATE

Let us take any book we please, by any modern writer, who is attempting to deal with any social subject scientifically, and whenever he is calling attention to the great intellectual triumphs which have caused the progress of civilisation, or to any developments of human nature which have marked it, we shall find that these triumphs or developments are always attributed indiscriminately to the largest mass of people with whom they have any connection—sometimes to “the nation,” sometimes to “the age,” sometimes to “the race,” and more frequently still to “man.”

Reference has been made already to Mr. Kidd’s work on Social Evolution, which, on its publication, attained an extraordinary popularity, and which, whatever its value otherwise, is interesting as a type of contemporary sociological reasoning. It is peculiarly interesting as illustrating the point which we are now discussing. Most of Mr. Kidd’s reasoning, especially in the crucial parts of it, is not only conducted, but is actually represented by a terminology which refers everything to “the race,” “the age,” or “man.” And it would be hard to find better examples in the works of any other writer of the condition of thought underlying the use of these phrases, and of the extraordinary consequences to which it leads.

Three examples will be enough. The two first shall be from two other writers, whom Mr. Kidd quotes with admiration; the third shall be from himself. We will begin with the following passage, taken from a contemporary economist, which Mr. Kidd singles out for emphatic approval as “a very effective statement” of one of the truths of social science.

“Man,” so the passage runs, “is the only animal whose wants can never be satisfied. The wants of every other living thing are uniform and fixed. The ox of to-day aspires no more than did the ox when man first yoked him. . . . But not so with man [himself]. No sooner are his animal wants satisfied, than new wants arise. . . . [He] has but set his feet on the first step of an infinite progression. . . . It is not merely his hunger, but taste, that seeks gratification in food. . . . Lucullus will sup with Lucullus; twelve boars roast on spits that Antony’s mouthful of meat may be done to a turn; every kingdom is ransacked to add to Cleopatra’s charms; and marble colonnades, and hanging gardens, and pyramids that rival the hills, arise.”

This passage is taken from Mr. Henry George. Our second example shall be a passage which Mr. Kidd has borrowed from a far more educated thinker—M. Emile de Lavelaye. Mr. Kidd quotes M. de Lavelaye as saying that the eighteenth century brought the following message to “man.” “Thou shalt cease to be the slave of the nobles and despots who oppress thee. Thou shalt be free and sovereign.” But the realisation of the promise thus given has, in the present century, he goes on to say, confronted us with this strange problem, “How is it that the Sovereign often starves? How is it that those who are held to be the source of power often cannot, even by hard work, provide themselves with the necessaries of life?”

Now all these passages, if we consider them carefully, will be seen to consist of statements, every one of which is false to fact. To say that man’s wants are less stationary than those of the ox is not even rhetorically true, unless we mean by “man” certain special races of men; whilst the statements that follow are not true, rhetorically or otherwise, of any race at all, but only of scattered individuals. A really fine and discriminating taste in food is, as every epicure knows, rare even amongst the luxurious classes. Antony and Lucullus are types of what is not the rule, but the exception. So too are the individuals who either desire hanging gardens, or could design them; and more exceptional still are the individuals whose personal pride and power either desire or can secure the erection of pyramids for their tombs.

In M. de Lavelaye’s utterances there is an analogous misstatement and misconception of every fact with which he deals. The promises of political democracy, as he describes them, were never addressed to “man,” nor ever professed to be. The whole point of them was that they were addressed to certain classes of men only; and that, as addressed to other classes, they were not promises, but threats. But a still graver confusion arises when the “Sovereign” is spoken of as starving. If by the “Sovereign” M. de Lavelaye really means “Man” as a whole, it is perfectly obvious that the “Sovereign” never starves. The statement is equally untrue if the Sovereign is taken to mean not man as a whole, but the immense majority of men; and to ask why the Sovereign often does something which it never does, is not to formulate an actual problem loosely, but to convert an actual problem into one that is quite imaginary. The actual problem is not why the whole or the immense majority of mankind often starves, but why there are nearly always small sections of men who do so, the majority all the while obtaining its normal nutriment; and the absurd result of confusing these two very different things is seen in the second form which M. de Lavelaye gives his question. “How is it,” he asks, “that those who are held to be the source of power often cannot, even by hard work, provide themselves with the necessaries of life?” The answer is that the particular groups of workers who, at any given time, happen to be unemployed,were never held to be the source of power by anybody. M. de Lavelaye might as well take one half of the passengers on a Dover packet, and treating them as identical with the British nation at large, ask how it is that those who are held to rule the waves can hardly set foot on a deck without clamouring for the steward’s basin.

And now let us turn to Mr. Kidd himself. The object of his book is to vindicate supernatural religion by exhibiting it as advantageous to its possessors in the social struggle for existence. He endeavours to make good his position by two distinct lines of argument. The first of these is that the social struggle for existence, though it produces progressive communities, and communities fitted to endure, is injurious to the majority of those who at any given time are engaged in it, and benefits only a minority, described by him as “the power-holding classes.” This minority, according to his account, could always, if it pleased, as it has pleased in all former ages, defend its position and keep the majority in subjection; but it is now beginning, under the pressure of a religious impulse, to surrender to its inferiors voluntarily advantages which they could never have extorted from it; and in this great fact our hope for the future lies.

Such is one of the two main portions of Mr. Kidd’s message to the world; and here follows the other, which will be found to be fundamentally inconsistent with it. “Man,” if he had chosen to do so, Mr. Kidd maintains—and this assertion is repeated by him with the utmost precision and emphasis—could at any period in his history have “suspended the struggle for existence” and “organised society on a socialistic basis”; and seeing that the struggle for existence, although essential to progress in the long-run, is injurious to the majority of each generation that takes part in it, man, if his chief guide had been reason or self-interest, would have been suspending this struggle constantly for the sake of his own present advantage, and leaving the future to take care of itself. Now, seeing that he does not, as a fact, pursue this obviously reasonable course, it follows that some power opposed to reason must have withheld him; and this power, argues Mr. Kidd, can be nothing else than religion. Here, he says, are the two functions of religion in evolution. It induces man to submit to the hardships of the evolutionary struggle, at the same time it redeems him from them by softening the hearts of the minority.

Now with Mr. Kidd’s views about religion we have nothing to do here. We are concerned only with the extraordinary self-contradiction involved in these his principal lines of argument, and also with the cause which has led to it, and made it possible. At one moment he says that the majority in all progressive communities have been forced to submit to conditions of life that are prejudicial to them, by a powerful minority to whom these conditions are beneficial, and who, if they chose to do so, would still be able to maintain them. At another moment he says that this surprisingly patient majority could have easily “suspended these conditions” at any period of its history, and only failed to do so because religion prompted it to forbear. How a contradiction of this kind could have found its way into the reasoning of a really painstaking thinker, and been actually allowed to form the backbone of it, may at first sight seem inexplicable; but it is simply a typical result of the practice we are now considering—that practice, common to all our modern sociologists, of grouping the men they deal with into the largest aggregate possible, and treating mixed classes of men as one single class—”man.”

It is easy to see precisely how Mr. Kidd’s mind has worked. In the first part of his argument he divides progressive communities into two sections, which he calls respectively “the power-holding classes” or the “successfuls,” and the “excluded classes” or the “unsuccessfuls” and he declares that the latter would naturally desire to suspend the conditions of progress, whilst the former would naturally desire, and are also able to maintain them. But when he pushes his argument farther, and advances to the proposition that if reason had been “man’s” sole guide, the conditions of progress would have been suspended over and over again, he is enabled to take this extraordinary step only because his thought and his terminology undergo an unconscious metamorphosis. He forgets his original analysis altogether. He merges the two classes, so sharply contrasted by him, into one. He argues and thinks about them both, under the single category of “man”; he builds up his conclusions by joining together the very things which, in arranging his premises, he had so carefully put asunder; and the result of his speculation reduced to its simplest terms is this—that “man” could have done, at any period of his history, and if reason had been his sole guide, actually would have done, something that was against the interests of the stronger part of him, and beyond the power of the weaker.

The reader will not find much difficulty in understanding that if sociologists persist in reasoning thus, they are hardly likely to arrive at any conclusion sufficiently definite to guide us in the practical difficulties of life. It may be urged, however, that such language as we have been considering, though used by scientific writers, is intended itself to be rhetorical rather than scientific, or that it betrays the inaccuracy of this or that individual thinker, instead of arising from a fundamental error in method. If any one thinks this, he shall soon be disabused of his opinion. The reader shall now be presented with a brief summary of the method deliberately followed, and of some of the conclusions arrived at by that distinguished thinker who has done more than any one else to impart to sociology the character which it at present possesses; and the error which lies at the bottom of the reasoning we have been just considering shall there be exhibited, systematically exemplified, and explicitly and elaborately defended. It is perhaps hardly necessary to say that the thinker thus referred to is Mr. Herbert Spencer.

We will then follow Mr. Spencer’s reasoning from the beginning, as set forth in his works; and before consulting his monumental Principles of Sociology we will turn to his Study of Sociology, a smaller and preparatory treatise, in which the methods adopted by him in his main inquiry are explained. He opens this treatise with declaring that until recent years any scientific treatment of social phenomena was impossible; and it was impossible, he says, for two definite reasons. These were the prevalence of two utterly false theories, both of which precluded the idea that anything like law or order of a calculable kind were prevalent in the social sphere. One of these theories was “the theocratic theory,” the other what he calls “the great-man theory.”

The theocratic theory is that which explains all social change by reference to the direct and arbitrary interference of a Deity; and if this be adopted, Mr. Spencer has no difficulty in showing that anything like a social science must be necessarily looked on as impossible: for the only thread by which social phenomena are connected will in that case be hidden in the will of an inscrutable Being, which may indeed be made known to us by revelation, but which is not susceptible of being either observed or calculated. This theory, however, in its cruder form, at all events, is, says Mr. Spencer, being fast discarded by everybody—even by the theologically orthodox; and the really important foe which social science has to fight against is the great-man theory, not the theocratic. Accordingly, it is by a criticism of the great-man theory that he introduces us to the theory of society, which is in his estimation true, and which alone presents social phenomena to us as amenable to scientific treatment.

The great-man theory is summed up by him in the following quotation from Carlyle: “As I take it, universal history, the history of what man has accomplished in this world, is at bottom the history of the great men who have worked here.” “This,” observes Mr. Spencer, “not perhaps distinctly formulated, but everywhere implied, is the belief in which nearly all are brought up”; and it is, he declares, as incompatible as the theocratic theory itself with any belief in the possibility of a social science, or any comprehension of what such a science is; for either the great man is regarded as the miraculous instrument of the Deity, a kind of “deputy-God,” in which case we have “theocracy once removed”; or else his greatness, though regarded as a natural phenomenon, is regarded as one whose occurrence is so far fortuitous, that a great man of any given kind of greatness might appear in one age or nation just as well as in another; and in this case, if social changes depend on the great man’s actions, these changes will be as fortuitous as the great man’s own appearance, and will as little admit of any scientific calculation.

If, however, the great man is regarded as a natural phenomenon at all, if he is not to be looked upon as a species of incalculable angel, this idea of his fortuitous appearance is, says Mr. Spencer, plainly quite untenable. The great man, unless he differs miraculously from other men, is produced as they are, in accordance with natural laws, and, like them, owes his greatness to his near and remote progenitors, just as a negro owes to his, his facial angle, his blackness, and his woolly hair. “Who would expect,” Mr. Spencer asks, “that a Newton might be born of a Hottentot family, or that a Milton might spring up among the Andamanese?” The theory, then, which explains social changes by referring them to the great men whose names are connected with their initiation, will, unless it is regarded as a theory of perpetual miracle, be recognised as inadequate, even by those who have hitherto held it, when once they have realised the absurd supposition which it implies. The great man, whatever his seeming influence, is merely the agent of other influences which are behind him. He merely transmits a shock, like a man pushed by a crowd. Even supposing what Mr. Spencer entirely denies to be the case, that he could really “remake his society,” his society none the less must have previously made him, and supplied him with those conditions which rendered his career possible; and therefore, of any changes which he may popularly be said to have caused, he is merely “the proximate initiator,” not the true cause at all; and “if,” says Mr. Spencer, “there is to be anything like a real explanation of such changes, it must be sought (not in the great man himself), but in the aggregate of social conditions, out of which he and they have arisen.” Except, perhaps, in the military struggles of primitive savage tribes, “new institutions, new activities, new ideas, all,” he says, “unobtrusively make their appearance, without the aid of any king or legislator; and if you wish to understand the phenomena of social evolution, you will not do it, should you read yourself blind over the biographies of all the great rulers on record, down to Frederick the Greedy, and Napoleon the Treacherous.” And he points his moral by observing, with a certain philosophic tartness, that there is no surer index of a man’s “mental sanity” than the degree of contempt which, as a scientific thinker, he feels for the class of facts which the biography of individuals offers him.

Such, then, being Mr. Spencer’s theory of the way in which social phenomena must be regarded, if we mean to make them the subject of anything like scientific study, let us turn to his magnum opus, The Principles of Sociology, and see how, and with what results, he puts his theory of study into practice. This immense work, full of encyclopædic detail as it is, contains certain general and comparatively simple conclusions, which can with sufficient clearness be expressed in a short summary, and which are typical of the character and the contents of Mr. Spencer’s sociology as a whole. These general conclusions constitute in outline the entire history of human progress from the dawn of man’s existence to the industrial civilisation of to-day.

The determining factors in all social phenomena are, says Mr. Spencer, primarily of two kinds—the “external” and the “internal.” The former consist of some of the various physical circumstances in which each community or collection of men is placed; the latter consist of the characters and constitutions of the men themselves. In the history of each community the chief of the external factors are these: the climate of the region which the community occupies; the cultivability of this region; its geological and geographical character; the way in which the fauna and flora natural to it are distributed; and the character of the other communities by which the community in question is surrounded. One of the first generalisations, says Mr. Spencer, to which social science leads is this—that progress can begin only in climates and regions where the production of the necessaries of life is sufficiently easy to leave men leisure and energy available for other work; and all progress did as a fact begin in those parts of the earth where the maintenance of life was easy.

He goes on to show, however, that the initiation of progress does not require only that the men concerned in it should inhabit a region in which the production of necessaries is easy and leaves them abundant leisure. It is equally essential that the men themselves should possess an energetic temperament, which will not suffer them to devote their leisure to idleness, but will make it the starting-point for some further activity. Now this energetic temperament is the special gift of climate. So, to a great extent, is the ease with which necessaries are obtained from the soil; but whilst the fertility of the soil is dependent on the climate being hot, the requisite energetic temperament is dependent on the climate being dry. “The evidence,” says Mr. Spencer, “justifies this inference. . . . On glancing over a general rain-map of the world, there will be seen an almost continuous area, marked ‘rainless district,’ extending across North Africa, Arabia, Persia, and all through Thibet and Mongolia; and from within, or from the borders of this district, have come all the conquering races of the Old World.”

But the full operation of climate on human progress is not intelligible till a further climatic fact is considered. Though in hot and dry climates the production of necessaries is easy, in climates that are hot and moist their production is still easier. It is these last that are really the gardens of the world, and that offered to primeval man the easiest and most attractive homes. The original inhabitants, however, of these favoured localities not only profited by their conditions, but also ultimately suffered from them. Whilst the fertility of their habitat pampered them, its moisture destroyed their energy; and in process of time they were subjugated by other races, who, cradled in drier climates, retained their energy unimpaired. In this natural descent of the stronger races on “the richer and more varied habitats” of the weaker, and the consequent super-position of one race over another, we see the origin of slavery, and of all the ancient civilisations that reposed upon it.

We have here the three essential elements to the union of which primarily all human progress has been due: firstly, a race remarkable for its active energy; secondly, the appropriation by this race of some richer habitat than its own; and thirdly, the possession by it of an inferior race, as subjects, who are ready to work for its benefit, and are capable, when coerced and directed by it, of producing wealth indefinitely greater and more varied than they would or could have produced had they been left to their own devices.

And here we are brought to the threshold of a new order of facts. Industrial production, which is the basis of all civilisation, is not, says Mr. Spencer, started on its progressive career by the sudden orders of any one remarkable man, but by the spontaneous action of certain natural causes. It must first be observed that its general character and its progress are always found to depend on the same thing. They depend on the division of labour. This, as Mr. Spencer says, developed in varying degrees, is the salient characteristic of every civilisation in the world. To what, then, is the division of labour, in the first instance, itself due? This is the opening question asked by Adam Smith in his Wealth of Nations; and he seems to regard it as one which is more or less mysterious and recondite. The answer which he himself suggests is, that there exists in man “a natural propensity to truck, barter, and exchange.” The answer given by Mr. Herbert Spencer is a curious illustration of how far, since the days of Adam Smith, social science has progressed.

Mr. Spencer shows us that the origin of the division of labour was no special propensity mysteriously innate in man. Its origin was the natural diversity of the various districts inhabited by the groups of men who originally took part in it. Thus “some of the Fiji Islands,” he writes, “are famous for wooden implements, others for mats and baskets, others for pots and pigments—unlikenesses between the natural products of the islands being the causes. . . . So also . . . the shoes of the ancient Peruvians were made in the provinces where aloes are most abundant, for they were made of the leaves of an aloe called ‘maguey.’ The arms were supplied by the provinces where the materials for making them were most abundant.” Division of labour, in short, was primarily a localisation of industries, caused by the fact that a number of man’s different needs were each supplied most easily by industry in some different locality.