The Online Library of Liberty

A project of Liberty Fund, Inc.

• Herbert Spencer’s Works.
• Note By the Trustees.
• Preface.
• Note.
• Family-antecedents.
• I.: Extraction.
• II.: Grandparents and Their Children.
• III.: Parents.
• Part I.: 1820—1837.
• Chapter I.: Childhood. 1820—1827. Æt. 1—7.
• Chapter II.: Boyhood. 1827—33. Æt. 7—13.
• Chapter III.: A Journey and a Flight. 1833. Æt. 13.
• Chapter IV.: Youth At Hinton. 1833—36. Æt. 13—16.
• Chapter V.: A False Start. 1836—37. Æt. 16—17.
• Part II.: 1837—1841
• Chapter VI.: Commence Engineering. 1837—38. Æt. 17—18.
• Chapter VII.: Life At Worcester. 1838—40. Æt. 18—20.
• Chapter VIII.: Some Months At Powick. 1840. Æt. 20.
• Chapter IX.: A Nomadic Period. 1840—41. Æt. 20—21.
• Part III.: 1841—1844
• Chapter X.: Return to Derby. 1841—42. Æt. 21—2.
• Chapter XI.: A Visit and Its Consequences. 1842. Æt. 22.
• Chapter XII.: Back At Home. 1842—43. Æt. 22—23.
• Chapter XIII.: A Campaign In London. 1843. Æt. 23.
• Chapter XIV.: At Home Again. 1843—44. Æt. 23—24.
• Part IV.: 1844—1848
• Chapter XV.: A Brief Sub-editorship. 1844. Æt. 24.
• Chapter XVI.: A Parliamentary Survey. 1844. Æt. 24.
• Chapter XVII.: An Interval In Town. 1845. Æt. 24—5.
• Chapter XVIII.: Another Parliamentary Survey. 1845—46. Æt. 25—26.
• Chapter XIX.: Inventions. 1846—47. Æt. 26—27.
• Chapter Xix A.: Suspense. 1848. Æt. 28.
• Part V.: 1848—1853
• Chapter XX.: Begin Journalism. 1848—50. Æt. 28—30.
• Chapter XXI.: My First Book. 1848—50 Æt. 28—30.
• Chapter XXII.: An Idle Year. 1850—51. Æt. 30—31.
• Chapter XXIII.: A More Active Year. 1852. Æt. 31—32.
• Chapter XXIV.: Leave the Economist. 1853. Æt. 33—34.
• Part VI.: 1853—1856
• Chapter XXV.: Two Months’ Holiday. 1853. Æt. 33.
• Chapter XXVI.: Writing For Quarterly Reviews. 1853—54. Æt. 33—34.
• Chapter XXVII.: My Second Book. 1854—55. Æt. 34—35.
• Chapter XXVIII.: Eighteen Months Lost. 1855—56. Æt. 35—36.
• Chapter XXIX.: Some Significant Essays. 1856—7. Æt. 36—37.
• Appendices.
• Appendix A.: Skew Arches.
• Appendix B.: Geometrical Theorem.
• Appendix C.: Velocimeter. an Instrument For Calculating Velocities On Railways, &c.
• Appendix D.: Scale of Equivalents.
• Appendix E.: Ideas About a Universal Language.
• Appendix F.: Remarks On the Theory of Reciprocal Dependence In the Animal and Vegetable Creations As Regards Its Bearing Upon PalÆontology.
• Appendix G.: Levelling Appliances.
• Appendix H.: On a Proposed Cephalograph.
• Appendix I.: Registered Binding-pins, For Securing Music and Unbound Publications.
• Appendix J.: the Form of the Earth No Proof of Original Fluidity.
• Appendix K.: Letter to the Athen Æum Concerning the Misstatements of the Rev. T. Mozley.

CHAPTER XIII.

A CAMPAIGN IN LONDON.

1843. Æt. 23.

My experimental journey to London must have been at the end of the first week in May, for a letter dated May 10 gives a settled address. Letters written soon after imply a resolution, more decided than I supposed then existed, to adopt a literary career. Some passages written to Edward Lott will best show the position and the expectations.

Neither the article written by agreement for the Eclectic, nor the article sent on speculation to Tait, ever appeared. Possibly the one was—quite rightly, I fancy—thought not worthy of publication; and the other ignored because it was by an unknown writer. It was not without merit; for, ten years after, it was, with improvements, published in the Westminster Review, under the title of “The Philosophy of Style.” The letter goes on to say:—

Fresh indications of my hopes and intentions were given when writing home on July 7. After describing an evening spent with Mr. Miall, the letter goes on to say:—

Other passages tell me of ambitions which I had utterly forgotten; one of them sufficiently daring.

The verse-making disorder, which seems to be escaped by but few of those who have any intellectual vivacity, did not last long. The project named must have been soon abandoned, and a later one, which I recall, was not persevered in. This later one was a drama to be entitled “The Rebel:” the plot of it being not, as the reader may suppose, one exhibiting successful rebellion, but one exhibiting the failure and disappointment of a high-minded hero, consequent on the weakness and baseness of those with whom he acted. But nothing was done beyond thinking over the incidents and characters to be embodied.

Among old papers there are some verses which, I suppose, must have been written about this time. They are not amiss in so far as form is concerned; but there is in them nothing beyond play of fancy. They are manufactured, and not prompted by feeling forcing its way to poetical utterance. I had sense enough to see that my faculties are not of the kind needful for producing genuine poetry. I have by nature neither the requisite intensity of emotion nor the requisite fertility of expression.

In the above section reference is made to an essay setting forth “a new view of the functions of Imitation and Benevolence,” which I proposed to send to ThePhrenological Journal. Of course it was heretical; and, if for no other reason, was, perhaps for that reason, rejected.

There had, however, been established in 1843, a quarterly periodical called The Zoist, owned and edited by Dr. Eliotson, a physician of considerable repute in those days. Perhaps I ought to say—a physician who had been of considerable repute in those days; for, having become a convert to Mesmerism, and having committed himself to a belief in sundry of the alleged higher manifestations of mesmeric influence, he was a good deal discredited. Nothing daunted, however, he persisted in his faith, and established The Zoist mainly, I believe, to diffuse it. But he did not limit his periodical to publication of mesmeric experiments, and controversies concerning alleged mesmeric phenomena; possibly because there was not a sufficiency of this kind of matter to fill all its space. Phreno-mesmerism was at that time the name of one class of the manifestations; and, by implication, Phrenology was recognized as an associated topic. Hence, in part, I suppose, the reason why Dr. Eliotson accepted this essay of mine; which, written in the summer and autumn of 1843, was published in The Zoist for January, 1844. I learnt, only several years later, that the theory I had set forth respecting the nature of Benevolence was not new.

Partially dissentient though I was concerning special phrenological doctrines, I continued an adherent of the general doctrine: not having, at that time, entered on those lines of psychological inquiry which led me eventually to conclude that, though the statements of phrenologists might contain adumbrations of truths, they did not express the truths themselves.

Old letters and documents from time to time surprise me by showing that certain ideas had arisen at much earlier dates than I supposed. An example is furnished by two paragraphs in a letter written to my friend Lott on 14 October ’43, embodying some corollaries from the hypothesis set forth in the above-named article.

This view was first publicly set forth in Social Statics (Chap. V) seven years later; and I have till now supposed that it was first entertained at the time that chapter was written. I had, in the meantime, become acquainted with Adam Smith’s Theory of Moral Sentiments, and found that the doctrine of Sympathy had already been set forth by him; but it would seem that having reached it in the endeavour to explain Benevolence, I subsequently carried it on to explain Justice. I may add that this theory did not receive its complete form until 1891, when, in Part IV of The Principles of Ethics, Chap. IV, the nature of the alleged sense of personal rights was indicated.

An illustration of the general truth that we can always find reasons for doing that which we want to do, was furnished by me at this time. One of my first letters written home, expresses a resolution to republish, in pamphlet form, the series of letters to The Nonconformist on “The Proper Sphere of Government,” and implies that I was occupied in revising them. The ostensible reasons for taking this step were, of course, that it would be for the public advantage that they should be made permanently accessible, and that the republication would probably pay its expenses. But the effective prompter doubtless was my desire for their survival—my reluctance to see these first products of my pen remain buried in the columns of a newspaper.

In their collected form they were issued towards the end of August, and the results well illustrated the absurd estimates made by the sanguine and inexperienced. That a pamphlet by an unknown writer, on a comparatively abstract subject, would make any difference in the course of men’s thought, was a belief showing how large is the space which may be covered by a small object held close to the eye, and how great may be the consequent illusions. Utter ignorance of the book-trade, too, was shown in the idea that the sale of such a pamphlet would return the cost. This end is but rarely achieved even when the author is well-known and the topic popular: one reason being that, with a small publication, the cost of advertising bears to the total expenditure so much larger a ratio than with a publication of any size; and the other being that publishers will not take any trouble about pamphlets, which, as they say, are not worth “handling”—the trouble of selling is the same as for a larger book and the profit next to nothing. I experienced the effects of these causes. Perhaps a hundred copies were sold and less than a tenth of the cost repaid. The printer’s bill was £10, 2s. 6d. and the publisher’s payment to me on the first year’s sales was fourteen shillings and three pence!

Of course I distributed copies to friends and to men of note, and of course the letters of acknowledgment from these last were carefully preserved; for, in an author’s early days, expressions of opinion are valued. One copy went to Mr. Carlyle, which, strange as it seems to me, he acknowledged. Here is his note. The date shows that the copy must have been sent many months after publication; probably because I had been reading one of his books—Sartor Resartus, I believe.

“Chelsea, 20 May, 1844.

“Dear Sir—

I have received your pamphlet, and hope to examine it with profit at my earliest leisure. There is something good and salutary in all utterances of men which recognize, in any way, the eternal nature of Right and Wrong. Would there were thousands and millions of such men in this world; each struggling towards ‘government’ of his own little world in that spirit!

“With many thanks and good wishes,
Yours very truly,

“T. Carlyle.”

I quote the letter because, profoundly averse as I am from Carlyle’s leading ideas, and strongly as I have expressed myself in reprobation of his despotic temper and resulting love of despotic rule, and in reprobation of his contemptuous utterances about various men, it is but fair to express my appreciation of the sympathetic feeling occasionally manifested by him. I appreciate the more the manifestation of it through encouraging words to unknown writers, because, in these later years of my life, I have abundant experience of the trouble entailed by presentation copies. A book I usually acknowledge by a lithographed circular with some lines on the fly-leaf; and anything smaller than a book commonly gets no acknowledgment at all. Certainly, it but rarely happens that a pamphlet calls forth from me a note such as that which I received from Carlyle. What a strange mixture he was of harshness and sympathy!

My sojourn in London led to a renewal of intimacy with my two friends. With E. A. B———, who was at that time stationed at Woolwich, I spent an evening; and not long after attended the celebration of his 21st birthday at his father’s residence in London: being chosen, as his chief friend, to propose his health. Of Jackson I saw a good deal. He had resumed his occupation of architect and surveyor; not, however, with much success. One result was that, having both of us a good deal of leisure, we took from time to time country walks—chiefly in the Northern environs of London.

An incident in the course of one of these walks is associated with a physiological fact which I have not seen named, and which has some significance. Not long before, I had, either by accident or in pursuance of a speculation, been led to try the experiment of making a number of deep inspirations in rapid succession: inflating the lungs to their fullest extent, expelling the air, and instantly again inflating them. The result was to send the blood tingling to the finger ends; or, at least, I presume that the sensation of tingling was due to the action on the blood-vessels. I cannot remember whether any exhilaration was caused, or whether I simply entertained the belief that some increase of energy would be a consequence. But in the course of one of these walks I induced Jackson to try the experiment, and he immediately announced that a headache, under which he had been labouring, had ceased—an anæmic headache probably. The effects of artificially-exalted respiration must surely have been occasionally observed; but I have nowhere met with any account of them or interpretation of them. I assumed at that time that the effect is chemical, but afterwards inclined to the belief that it is mechanical. It should be added that, though there may come beneficial results, I know, to my cost, that detrimental results also may be produced.

Others of the expeditions we made together were to picture-galleries. Jackson was an amateur artist of considerable skill, and I, at that time as always, was interested in pictures to the extent of going to all the annual exhibitions. In those days the Gallery of British Artists in Suffolk Street was usually worth a visit; and since 1843 there has remained with me the impression of a picture, contained in its exhibition of that year, by J. B. Pyne—a picture of the Menai Straits on a glowing summer’s day. It was a grand one in respect of composition; and I never remember to have seen sunshine and heat so vividly rendered. Pyne received nothing like the recognition which he ought to have had. No art-critic of authority, or rather no art-critic who had made people believe him an authority, had declared in his favour. And the public having no one to form an opinion for them, had no opinion.

Not long since, when conversing with a Royal Academician and a professed art-critic, I happened to name Pyne as an unappreciated man. “A kind of imitator of Turner, was he not?” said the Academician. “Better than Turner,” I replied, to the astonishment of both. And thereupon arose a discussion in which my dissent from the unqualified praises commonly given to Turner was distinctly expressed. Not, indeed, that I denied his merits. These are doubtless great. Among his pictures there are many grand compositions: some of them, indeed, as “Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage” and “Ulysses deriding Polyphemus,” are poems; and there is poetical feeling pervading his works at large. Then, too, there is his variety—his Shakespearian variety one might call it—in which he immensely exceeds the mass of artists; most of whom continually repeat themselves in conceptions and in effects. But it is quite possible to admit his superiority while recognizing serious drawbacks.

One of these is the not rendering truly the broad general contrast between earth and sky. In saying this I have in mind sundry of his larger works, his multitudinous sketches, and the landscapes which fill his Liber Studiorum and Harbours of England, &c. In numbers of these the average tone of the air-region is as deep as the average tone of the solid ground-region beneath it. This is a fundamental error. With some exceptions the most important difference in every out-of-door scene, is that between the relative darkness of the lower part of the visible area and the relative lightness of the upper part. The objects filling the lower part yield no light to the eye save what they reflect from the upper part; and the source of light must necessarily be brighter than that which it lights. Save in cases where heavy clouds, coming up from the horizon, have overspread that part of the sky towards which the spectator looks, while the sky behind him is still light—cases in which the surface in front receives more light from behind him than does the cloud overhanging it—the largest effect in a landscape is this greater darkness of the earth than of the sky; and, if this largest effect is not represented, there results an untruth which nothing can hide.

Beyond this serious error, too often made by Turner in the representation of natural appearances, there is frequently in his works a serious error of composition—an error in what we distinguish as Art. Many of his pictures are too full of details—of multitudinous objects too uniformly distributed. The essence of Art is contrast. Art, no matter of what kind, demands a proper adjustment of contrasts—broad contrasts, minor contrasts, small contrasts; and, in the plastic Arts, contrast of form, contrasts of light and shade, contrasts of colour. A further kind of contrast is required—that between uniformity and variety—between simplicity and complexity—between the relatively uninteresting and the relatively interesting. Be it in architecture, sculpture, or painting, artistic effect can be obtained only by the association of parts which attract the eye in but small measure, with parts which greatly attract the eye; and one of the elements of attraction is the amount of detail. If detail is evenly scattered over the whole of the visual area, contrast is in so far destroyed. Only by concentrating the detail can it be produced. There must be much plainness to render decoration really decorative. This implies that in paintings there should be large areas which, if not without details, are occupied by details of a kind so inconspicuous that they draw little attention. One of the few artists whose pictures fully conform to this requirement, is Mr. Orchardson. Turner often ignored it. He had a restless desire to fill all parts of his canvas with minor effects; and he multiplied them to the extent of conflicting with the major effect, and preventing the observer from grasping the picture as a whole.

So that, admiring Turner as I do, I yet contend that he frequently missed a great truth in Nature and too often sinned against a fundamental principle in Art. But Turner has had the good fortune—if it be a good fortune—to obtain the applause of one whose word has come to be law with the public on Art-matters; and, among those few who have any opinions of their own, scarcely any dare to express their dissent. Turner himself, however, saw how undue was the valuation of his work; and, towards the close of his life, ridiculed the public, saying laughingly—“They buy my freaks!”

The world is always wrong in its estimate of conspicuous men. They are always either greatly over-estimated or greatly under-estimated. When, after opinion has gone to the one extreme, there comes a reaction, it goes for a time to the other extreme; and then again the reaction is carried too far. Oscillations so caused continue through the ages, until, by the time opinion has settled into the rational mean, the man has dropped into oblivion. These variations—these exaggerations and depreciations of merit, are inevitable. There is as certainly a fashion in Art-judgment as there is a fashion in women’s dresses; and, in the one case as in the other, the movement is now to excess in one way and now to excess in the opposite way—a result which must always follow so long as individuals dare not speak and act independently, but severally say and do that which they find the mass of people around say and do. This conduct leads to rushes, first this way then that way, in thought and action, according as one or other belief concerning the prevailing preferences becomes dominant. Rhythm is universal.

And here I may observe that recognition of rhythm in opinion about Art-matters, as about other matters, affords a means of correcting our judgments; since we may generally see in which direction the pendulum is swinging, and may judge approximately to what extent it has swung beyond the position of equilibrium.

Having failed during nearly three months, to obtain any literary engagement, and having received nothing for such products of my pen as found their way into print, I was of course led to keep my eyes open in search of an engineering engagement, and some time in July found one.

Competition designs for some graving-docks at Southampton, had been publicly asked for by the West India Mail Steam-Packet Company; and, among others who responded to the invitation, was Mr. W. B. Pritchard. I undertook to aid him in making the drawings; or, rather, made the drawings under his superintendence. Between one or two months were, I think, thus occupied. Nothing came of the matter, however. Other designs were, I suppose, chosen. Thus any hope which I perhaps entertained of a permanent engagement came to an end. Later in the autumn there was, indeed, a second piece of work which I undertook for him—a design for a pier, I think it was. But from this there came no more result than from the other.

Competition designs are in all cases not hopeful things; since they are usually numerous, and since those who have to pass judgments upon them are often not among the most competent. In this case, however, I suspect that the faults were in the designs themselves; for Mr. W. B. Pritchard was not a man of much natural capacity, nor was he adequately prepared. How he came into the position which he seemed to occupy, I never could understand. He was not only deficient in the special culture required for engineering, but also in more general culture. I suppose he furnished an illustration of the success which may be achieved by audacity in pushing. He had in a high degree that trait which I had in a small degree, or rather, not at all.

My relations with him did not entirely cease with the completion of these designs. I subsequently undertook to revise the MS. of a work on Bar-Harbours which he had written—an MS. which required a good deal of editing before it was sent to press.

There remains to be named only one other incident connected with this sojourn in London—an incident, like others which I have named, implying more attention to public affairs than to private affairs.

Some two or three years had now elapsed since The Nonconformist had commenced urging the dissolution of the connexion between the Church and State: the motto of the paper being a sentence from Burke, I believe—“The Dissidence of Dissent, and the Protestantism of the Protestant religion.” A considerable effect had been produced; for the writings of Mr. Miall had a logical coherence and persuasiveness not usually found in those of newspaper-editors. In the minds of a small section, opinion had so far ripened that the time for action was supposed to have come; and a few of the more ardent resolved to form a society having in view the objects which The Nonconformist advocated. I was among these few. Some private meetings were held; and it was decided to found a “Metropolitan Anti-State-Church Association.” Secretaries were appointed, one of whom was Charles Miall, brother of Edward Miall. An address had to be written, and I was chosen to write it. Among my papers there still exists a copy which, perhaps, justifies the description given of it, in one of the dissenting papers of the time, as a fiery little document, or something to that effect.

This Metropolitan Anti-State-Church Association was presently merged in the Anti-State-Church Association at large; which eventually, to avoid that appearance of antagonism which the prefix “Anti” gave, renamed itself “The Society for the Liberation of Religion from State Patronage and Control.” Thus the writing of this address was the first overt step towards that agitation for disconnecting Church and State which has since been carried on.

The summer months had long since passed away and autumn had ended. November had come, and nothing had been achieved.

Had there been in me any of that same capacity for pushing in which, as just remarked, I am deficient, something might have been done. It seems strange that, with such engineering connexions as had been made, and with introductions of the kind which sundry articles in The Civil Engineer and Architect’s Journal furnished, I should not have succeeded in finding a post of some kind. Evidently I took nothing like adequately decisive steps, but was very much in the mood of Mr. Micawber—waiting for something to turn up and waiting in vain.

And now, after half a year had passed in this futile way, it became clear that a longer sojourn in London was out of the question, and I raised the siege.