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• Herbert Spencer’s Works.
• Part VII.: 1856—1860.
• Chapter XXX.: A System of Philosophy Projected. 1857—8. Æt. 37—38.
• Chapter XXXI.: Plans For Executing It. 1858—59. Æt. 38—39.
• Chapter XXXII.: A Plan Fixed Upon. 1859—60. Æt. 39—40.
• Part VIII.: 1860—1867.
• Chapter XXXIII.: Writing First Principles. 1860—62. Æt. 40—42.
• Chapter XXXIV.: An Autumn’s Relaxations. 1862. Æt. 42.
• Chapter XXXV.: A Volume of the Biology. 1862—64. Æt. 42—44.
• Chapter XXXVI.: A Digression. 1864. Æt. 43.
• Chapter XXXVII.: Another Volume of the Biology. 1864—67. Æt. 44—47.
• Chapter XXXVIII.: Impending Cessation. 1866. Æt. 46.
• Chapter XXXIX.: Sad Events. 1866—67. Æt. 46—47.
• Part IX.: 1867—1874.
• Chapter Xl.: Re-casting First Principles. 1867. Æt. 47.
• Chapter Xli.: an Imprudence and Its Consequences. 1867. Æt. 47.
• Chapter Xlii.: a Tour In Italy. 1868. Æt. 47.
• Chapter Xliii.: Developing the Psychology. 1867—70. Æt. 47—50.
• Chapter Xliv.: Finishing the Psychology. 1870—72. Æt. 50—52.
• Chapter Xlv.: an Extra Book. 1872—73. Æt. 52—53.
• Chapter Xlvi.: Some Minor Incidents. 1873. Æt. 53.
• Chapter Xlvii.: the Descriptive Sociology. 1867—74. Æt. 47—54.
• Part X.: 1874—1879.
• Chapter Xlviii.: a Retrospective Glance. 1874. Æt. 54.
• Chapter Xlix.: Vol. I. Of the Sociology. 1874—77. Æt. 54—57.
• Chapter L.: a Series of Articles. 1877—78. Æt. 57—58.
• Chapter Li.: the Data of Ethics. 1878—79. Æt. 58—59.
• Chapter Lii.: Ceremonial Institutions. 1879. Æt. 59.
• Part XI.: 1879—1889.
• Chapter Liii.: Up the Nile. 1879—80. Æt. 59.
• Chapter Liv.: Ending of the Descriptive Sociology. 1874—81. Æt. 54—61.
• Chapter Lv.: Political Institutions. 1880—82. Æt. 60—62.
• Chapter Lvi.: a Grievous Mistake. 1881—82. Æt. 61.
• Chapter Lvii.: Coming Events. 1881—82. Æt. 61—62.
• Chapter Lviii.: a Visit to America. 1882. Æt. 62.
• Chapter Lix.: Conclusion. 1882—89. Æt. 62—69.
• Part XII.
• Chapter Lx.: Reflections
• Appendices.
• A Note: Concerning the Life and Letters of T.h. Huxley.
• Appendix A.: Programme of the Synthetic Philosophy
• Appendix B.: Letter to Mr. G. H. Lewes
• Appendix C.: Documents Concerning the Cessation of the Issue of the Philosophy
• Appendix D.: A New Invalid-bed
• Appendix E.: English Feeling About the American Civil War
• Appendix F.: a New Fishing-rod Joint
• Appendix G.: Obituary Notice of J. S. Mill
• Appendix H.: Herbert Spencer and His American Friends.

CHAPTER XLIV.

FINISHING THE PSYCHOLOGY.

1870—72. Æt. 50—52.

With the ending of the first volume of the Psychology and the beginning of the second, a new kind of mental action was commenced. While the first volume, or, to speak strictly, the constructive part of it, is synthetic, the second volume is analytic. The process of taking to pieces our intellectual fabric and the products of its actions, until the ultimate components are reached, had now to be undertaken; and, among other things, it had to be shown that the structure of Mind, as ascertained in this way, corresponds with its structure as ascertained by tracing up its successive stages of development.

Was this change an agreeable one? I think I may say that it was. Not, indeed, intrinsically, but simply as involving another form of intellectual activity. And here, as being relevant to the question whether I liked best the synthetic or the analytic mode of thought, I may say something about my intellectual tendencies in relation to the two. A few years ago I saw it remarked that there appeared to be in me equal proclivities towards analysis and towards synthesis. Up to that time I had supposed myself to be alone in the recognition of this trait.

It is a trait which will, I think, be manifest to anyone who looks into the evidence furnished by my books. While, on the one hand, they betray a great liking for drawing deductions and building them up into a coherent whole; on the other hand, they betray a great liking for examining the premises on which a set of deductions is raised, for the purpose of seeing what assumptions are involved in them, and what are the deeper truths into which such assumptions are resolvable. There is shown an evident dissatisfaction with proximate principles, and a restlessness until ultimate principles have been reached; at the same time that there is shown a desire to see how the most complex phenomena are to be interpreted as workings out of these ultimate principles. It is, I think, to the balance of these two tendencies that the character of the work done is mainly ascribable.

Much scope for further exercise of the analytic faculty was not afforded by Part VI (Special Analysis). But with arrival at Part VII (General Analysis) there came the occasion for expanding and completing the conception first briefly and crudely set forth in the “Universal Postulate,” published in 1853, and further developed in the first edition of the Principles of Psychology in 1855. To this division, and the divisions succeeding it, my limited energies were chiefly devoted during the period covered by this chapter.

Already I have hinted that a great change in the routine of my life followed my election into the Athenæum Club; and what there is to say about it I may as well say here.

My place of abode was, in several ways, desirable in position. Its proximity to Kensington Gardens made more constant than it might else have been, a morning’s walk of half an hour before beginning work. Then when, something like an hour after luncheon, came the walk into Town, my route lay over grass and under trees nearly all the way: through Kensington Gardens, Hyde Park, and the Green Park; so that I could reach the Club without more than a quarter of a mile upon pavement. Once at the Club, a miscellaneous process of killing time commenced. Having already glanced through The Times after breakfast, the news-room did not detain me; save on Saturdays when some of the weekly periodicals, not found in the other rooms, had to be looked at. Commonly some little time was spent in the drawing room in glancing through the contents of the Monthly Magazines and Quarterly Reviews: skipping most articles and dipping into a few. I rarely read one through. Then came the new books, of which the chief were obtained from Mudie for the convenience of members who wished, some to read them and others to see what they were about. I was usually one of the latter class. Biographies, Histories, and the like, I commonly passed over without opening them. Books of travel had an attraction for me; and I glanced through them with an eye to materials for my work. Passages telling me of the institutions, beliefs, characters, usages &c. of the uncivilized, I not unfrequently copied. Of course all works treating on this or the other branch of Science, as well as those which dealt with philosophical questions, special or general, including those on Theology, were looked into. To observe the current of opinion was one motive; and another motive was to make myself acquainted with the criticisms passed on my own views, which I not unfrequently found objects of attack. Novels were temptations to be resisted; for I dare not expend on them the needful amount of reading power. Once in a year, perhaps, I treated myself to one; and then I had to get through it in a dozen or more instalments.

There was a further occupation which filled a considerable space. Playing billiards became “my custom always of the afternoon.” I found it a very desirable way of passing the time: preventing thinking and excluding the temptation to read. Those who confess to billiard-playing commonly make some kind of excuse. Change of occupation is needful, they say; or it is alleged that the game entails a certain amount of beneficial exercise. It must not be supposed that the benefits I have just named are similarly meant as excuses. It suffices for me that I like billiards, and the attainment of the pleasure given I regard as a sufficient motive. I have for a long time deliberately set my face against that asceticism which makes it an offence to do a thing for the pleasure of doing it; and have habitually contended that, so long as no injury is inflicted on others, nor any ulterior injury on self, and so long as the various duties of life have been discharged, the pursuit of pleasure for its own sake is perfectly legitimate and requires no apology. The opposite view is nothing else than a remote sequence of the old devil-worship of the barbarian; who sought to please his god by inflicting pains on himself, and believed his god would be angry if he made himself happy.

Beyond these habitual occupations at the Club there were chattings with my old friends, most of whom were members, and less frequent conversations with friends newly made; for I am slow to make fresh friendships. And then as the evening was approaching there was the walk back to Queen’s Gardens, bringing me there in time for dinner at 7; which was followed by such miscellaneous ways of passing the time without excitement as were available. Thus passed my ordinary days.

The close of 1870, and the first four months of 1871, furnish no incidents calling for mention. Such quotable passages as occur in correspondence concern other persons in ways which make it undesirable to reproduce them: one only excepted, which will come more conveniently in a future chapter. The first letter from which I may here fitly extract, is one dated 11th May.

Of the two foregoing paragraphs the first introduces a matter of considerable general interest. At the time it was written I did not know that which I soon afterwards learned—the motive of my American friend in coming over. He was fertile in useful projects; and the project which now occupied his thoughts was one in pursuance of which English, American, French, German, and other authors, who undertook to write works of a certain class, should, by agreement among the publishers in their respective countries, have certain specified rates of profit secured to them in all these countries. I gladly did all that I was able in furtherance of his scheme. One step taken was to give him a letter of introduction which should serve to facilitate his negotiations with authors an publishers over here. This it will be not amiss to quote in full.

“4 July, 1871.

My dear Youmans,

I am desirous to do all that is possible to extend and establish the arrangements you are making with English authors—arrangements which practically amount to international copyright.

Having for the last ten years benefited so greatly by the arrangements you have made with the Appletons on my behalf, which have put me on a footing as good as that of the American author, I have the best possible reasons for thinking that the interests of English authors will be subserved in a very important degree by the success of the negociations which you have come over here to carry out. Various of my scientific friends, who have reaped pecuniary and other advantages from the contracts you have made for them, will, I am sure, coincide in this expression of opinion.

From the conversation I had with Mr. Appleton when he was here recently, it was manifest to me that he was anxious to carry out in his relations with other English authors, the same equitable system from which I, and some others, have gained. And now that he has given you full powers to make engagements in pursuance of this system, I think it very desirable that all should co-operate. Standing so high as the Appletons do, alike in respect to the character of the works they publish and in the extent of their business, it appears to me clear that this system which they are adopting needs only to be known and understood by English authors to be at once accepted by them.

Pray make use of this letter in any way that will further your negociations.

Ever yours sincerely,

Herbert Spencer.”

The movement thus initiated was one which presently issued in “The International Scientific Series,” of which more anon.

I have said nothing of late concerning my social life in these days, and now that I recur to the topic, I find little to say.

I suppose it has been more from inclination than from principle that I have avoided acquaintanceships and cultivated only friendships. There is in me very little of the besoin de parler; and hence I do not care to talk with those in whom I feel no interest. Having neither professional interests to push, nor daughters to marry, and not caring to show Mrs. Grundy how many people I know, I have had no motive for multiplying social relations. I have thus avoided the weariness of “the social treadmill.” My circle, limited to those whose natures are more or less attractive to me, has ever yielded me pleasure, and brought to me quite as much intercourse as I desired—often too much, in fact.

Of special incidents belonging to social life which dwell in my memory two belong to this year. One of them was a water-party on the anniversary of the marriage of Mr. Leslie Stephen to the younger Miss Thackeray—a party including the elder Miss Thackeray (now Mrs. Ritchie) whose nature, answering to her father’s estimate, sometimes expressed its amiabilities in amusing “verbal fireworks,” as I once heard a lady call them. Some of the Huth family were of the party; and also a son and daughter of Sir William Grove. Thames Ditton was our picnicing place; and taking again to our boats, which carried us to Hampton Court, we there of course went the round of the galleries. Although I do not remember it, I doubtless seized the occasion for uttering heresies concerning Raphael’s cartoons.

As, in foregoing chapters, I have implied sundry tastes and pursuits incongruous with the popular conception of the philosopher, I shall not, I suppose, surprise the reader by indicating another. In October I went down for some pheasant shooting to Wykehurst—an estate in Sussex not long before purchased by Mr. Henry Huth, and on which a few years later he built the palatial mansion now existing there. Save once, at Ardtornish, when I utterly failed in black-cock shooting, I had not taken a gun in hand since I was 18; and now, though I was to my own extreme surprise, and to the surprise of others, very successful, the sport gave me scarcely any pleasure. I preferred hitting to missing, and that was about all. I suppose it was that the battue system, or whatever approaches to it, lacks the chief elements of the sportsman’s pleasure. Essentially this, like the pleasures accompanying many other activities, consists in justified self-estimation. Be it in a feat of strength, or a game of physical or mental skill, or a wit combat, the satisfaction of success is caused by proved adequacy to the occasion. Consciousness of efficiency is an accompaniment of every kind of achievement; and, accompanying life-subserving activities of every kind, has roots ramifying everywhere. Hence whatever implies efficiency becomes a source of pleasure: directly and simply if known to self only, and also indirectly and more complexly if known to others too. In such a sport as cover-shooting with beaters, the efficiency is simply that of hitting a moving mark—divested of all those efficiencies which go along with the successful pursuit of scattered birds in a wild state. Hence, except where there is a love of killing for its own sake, it yields but little pleasure.

In the early months of 1871, suddenly passed away my admired and valued friend Mr. Octavius Smith. Though of good age, he was constitutionally vigorous and might have lived many years but for the results of an accident. He exemplified the truth that where great physical vigour and mental resource yield daily experience of efficiency on all occasions there is apt to be generated an excessive degree of courage. Many years before he had suffered serious damage from incaution hence arising; and now, or rather a few years years previously, an accident to which the same trait led, left a slight invisible injury which obviously originated the malady that proved fatal. Among my friends of the preceding generation his death made a great gap—a gap impossible to be filled up.

The autumn of this year was passed in a miscellaneous way. First came a short salmon-fishing expedition to Inveroran. Thence, when the British Association met about its usual date, I migrated to its place of meeting—Edinburgh. This time the prompting motive was not that of being present during the presidency of one of my friends. The motive was that of aiding Prof. Youmans in his project mentioned above. Sundry steps were taken which conduced to its success. Profs. Huxley and Tyndall and myself were formed into a Committee to decide on books which should be admitted into the series; and whether, with this or that author, an engagement should be made to write one. Sundry members of the Association were canvassed with the view of obtaining promises from them to contribute volumes connected with their special subjects: the purpose being that each of such volumes should be one dealing with some part of a science capable of being cut out from the rest, and within the limits of which there had been recent developments of importance. The consultations and negotiations went on favourably, and by the time that the meeting closed the scheme had taken definite shape and organization.

A house at St. Andrews had been taken by the Huxleys for the Autumn, and this led me to go over to an hotel there for two or three days. Two things only I remember—the one that Huxley and I played together a game of golf, the only game I ever played; the other that, while sitting on the cliff watching some boys bathing, we marvelled over the fact, seeming especially strange when they are no longer disguised by clothes, that human beings should dominate over all other creatures and play the wonderful part they do on the Earth.

On leaving St. Andrews I met, in pursuance of an agreement made at Edinburgh, one whom I have not hitherto named—Dr. Hirst, a special friend of Prof. Tyndall since their early days. Originally engaged on the Ordnance Survey, they left it for the purpose of going together to the University of Marburg; whence, after taking their degrees, they went to Queenwood College as professors; and whence, afterwards, they migrated to London: Tyndall to the Royal Institution, as Faraday’s assistant and presently his successor, and Hirst to University College as Professor of Mathematics; which post he held until he became Deputy Registrar of the University of London, on the way to his ultimate position as the first Director of Studies at the Royal Naval College, Greenwich.

Our tour into the West Highlands proved in all respects a success. Days were passed at Oban, at Ballachulish, and at Fort William: our stay at this last place being varied by an exploration of Glen Nevis up to its top, where it becomes Swiss-like in character. While at Bannavie a dog-cart took us to Glen Roy, up which we rambled to explore the parallel roads, and to discuss the speculations respecting their origin. On our return south, I remember only the sunny day which gave beauty to our walk along the shore of Loch Linnhe from Ballachulish to Appin. And then there came a junction with our common friends the Busks, who had again taken Aird’s Bay House on Loch Etive.

Two breaks in the routine of my ordinary work occurred soon after I resumed it. One of them was entailed by the scheme of my American friend, and the other by a controversy upon which I had to enter.

Arrangements for the proposed “International Scientific Series” had to be made in France; and I agreed to go with Youmans to Paris for the purpose of helping to establish them. He knew no French, and though my French was scrambling enough, it sufficed to give M. Baillière the needful explanations, and to make it manifest to him that it would be worth his while to become the French publisher for the Series. There was also formed a French Committee of judges, who should decide upon such works as Frenchmen might propose; and various other matters were put in train before he went on to Germany and I returned home.

While still in Paris I entered upon the piece of controversial writing which Fate had just then devolved on me: Youmans volunteering as amanuensis. The Fortnightly Review for November 1871 contained an article by Prof. Huxley entitled “Administrative Nihilism,” in which, criticising a view of mine respecting the limitation of State-functions, he put his objection in the form of a question. I could scarcely avoid giving an answer; for otherwise the implication would apparently have been that the question was unanswerable. Commenced, as above stated, in Paris, and completed after my return to London, my reply appeared in the December number of the Fortnightly, under the title of “Specialized Administration.”

This passage of arms was carried on in a perfectly amicable spirit, and left the relations between us undisturbed.

Before the close of the year came two occurrences of some interest, one of them leading to the other. The first is explained in the following letter to the Principal of St. Andrews.

“20th Novr. 1871.

Dear Dr. Tulloch,

Only on Friday night did I hear, and only on Saturday morning did I see [in the Times] that I had been nominated for the office of Rector of St. Andrews.

I regret that some intimation was not given to me before-hand that such a step was contemplated; because some trouble, and possibly some derangement of plans, might thus have been prevented.

To accept such a post, were I elected to it, would entail on me a loss of time which, though not serious to most, would be serious to me, with my very small amount of working power. My progress with my work, slow enough at the best, is interrupted much more frequently than I like; and I find myself compelled rigorously to negative such interruptions as are not unavoidable. Though, in the position which some of the St. Andrew’s students wish me to occupy, I might be of some little service, yet I think I can render better service by devoting the same amount of energy to executing the task before me.

In conveying to those who have put forward my name the request that they will withdraw it from the list, will you be kind enough also to say that I am much gratified by the sympathetic appreciation implied by the course they have taken.

Very truly yours,
Herbert Spencer.”

I may add that the students, signifying their disappointment at the time, signified it afterwards still more by again asking me in March of the next year: the preceding election having proved invalid. But the reasons given for declining upon the first occasion remained in force, and I again declined.

This incident in November initiated another before the close of December. There came an intimation, conveyed through Professor Flint, that the Senatus contemplated conferring upon me an honorary degree. As my reply contains some general opinions respecting honorary degrees, which I think it desirable to put on record, I here give it in full.

“Decr. 1871.

Sir,

I cannot but be much gratified by the fact of which you inform me—that “the professors of the United College of St. Andrews have unanimously agreed to recommend to the Senatus of the University to confer upon” me “the Degree of LL.D.” The remembrance of this mark of their consideration will hereafter give me pleasure.

Certain convictions which have been long growing up in me, respecting the effects of honorary titles, will, however, I fear, stand in the way of my acceptance of the degree which the Professors kindly suggest should be conferred upon me. I have come to the conclusion that such honorary titles, while they seem to be encouragements to intellectual achievement, do in reality, by their indirect influences, act as discouragements.

If, supposing due discrimination were possible, men of much promise received from a learned body such marks of distinction as would bespeak attention from the world at large, I can well imagine that such men would be greatly helped, and would oftentimes be saved from sinking in their struggles with adverse circumstances in the midst of a society prepossessed in favour of known men. But there ordinarily comes no such aid until the difficulties have been surmounted—supposing, that is, that they have not proved fatal.

Probably it will be said that because honorary titles do not commonly yield benefits so great as they might yield if given earlier, it does not therefore follow that when given they are otherwise than beneficial. I think, however, that if, instead of considering their direct effects on those older men who have received them, we consider their indirect effects on those younger men who have not received them, we shall see that to these they become, practically, an additional obstacle to success. Always the impediments in the way of one who, without authority, enters the field of intellectual activity, in competition with those having established authorities, are sufficiently great. The probability that he has nothing to say worth listening to, is so strong, that he is almost certain to receive for a long time scarcely any of the attention he may well deserve. But this unavoidable difficulty is made artificially greater when, bearing no stamp of value, he has for competitors those who, to the advantages of known achievements, add the advantage of officially-stamped values. The larger reading world, and the narrower critical world which leads it, are greatly biassed by whatever bespeaks respectful consideration. And if the presence of an honorary title gives this positive advantage to one bearing it, its absence involves a positive disadvantage to one not bearing it.

This conclusion is not one reached a priori; but it is one that personal experiences have forced upon me. During a career of more than twenty years, most of which has been passed in writing books that entailed on me successive losses, I have had many opportunities of observing this artificial aid given by honorary titles to those who least needed aid, and the consequent artificial hindrance to those without titles who most needed aid. And it has come to be an established belief with me that the advance of thought will be most furthered, when the only honours to be acquired by authors are those spontaneously yielded to them by a public which is left to estimate their merits as well as it can.

It would be a source of much regret to me if this response to the sympathetic recognition which the Professors of St. Andrew’s imply by their proposed step, were interpreted as undervaluing the feeling shown by them. But I hope that what I have said will make it clear that my course is one determined by a general principle, entirely without reference to the particular circumstances.”

To save references to them in future chapters, I may add here that on various kindred occasions I took the like course: assigning these and sundry other reasons for declining.

A letter of 8th Jan. 1872, saying “I was better for my excursion to the Isle of Wight,” reminds me that the Christmas week of 1871 was spent in company with my friends Busk and Allman in walking and driving round the south coast from St. Helens to Yarmouth. Of incidents during the season of 1872, the following extracts from correspondence give some traces. The first is dated 2nd Feb.

Correspondence also recalls the fact that when over here in 1871, my American publisher, Mr. Appleton, had asked me to sit for a portrait to be painted for him. As he left me to choose the artist, I assented; and some progress was made during the Autumn. A letter of 8th April 1872 says:—

My reasons for fixing on Mr. J. B. Burgess, were two. One was that he was not a professed portrait painter: my impression being that he would feel more interest, and take more pains, than an artist who had made portrait painting his business. The other was that he had shown a remarkable power of rendering expression. A picture of his, entitled “Bravo Toro,” exhibited in the Royal Academy some years before, and representing spectators at a Spanish bull-fight, had greatly struck me by its truthful and varied representations of character and emotion. No picture by an old master which I have seen or heard of, exhibits this kind of success in anything like as great degree. His artist friends told Mr. Burgess that success of this kind was not to be aimed at—was not an element in high art. To me it seems, contrariwise, that such success is the highest. I know a novelist, skilful in devising plots, who holds that a good story is the thing, if not of sole importance, still of chief importance, in fiction; and who accords small praise to characterization, and the delineation of those lights and shades of thought and feeling which give individuality: components that are, in fact, the flowers to which the story is but the stem. I would as soon believe him as I would believe these artists who pooh-pooh the vivid pourtrayal of moral natures and states of mind in the faces of the personages they represent.

“I have been away at Boulogne,” says a letter of June 12; and now that I meet with this sentence, I remember that my old engineering friend, Loch, whose name has for a long time disappeared from the record, was staying there with his wife and family, and that to join him was the motive for going. He and I renewed our habit of early years, and took country rambles inland and along the coast. One of them left a permanent impression. We passed a wayside shrine, at the foot of which were numerous offerings, each formed of two bits of lath nailed one across the other. The sight suggested to me the behaviour of an intelligent and amiable retriever, a great pet at Ardtornish. On coming up to salute one after a few hours’ or a day’s absence, wagging her tail and drawing back her lips so as to simulate a grinning smile, she would seek around to find a stick, or a bit of paper, or a dead leaf, and bring it in her mouth: so expressing her desire to propitiate. The dead leaf or bit of paper was symbolic, in much the same way as was the valueless cross. Probably, in respect of sincerity of feeling, the advantage was on the side of the retriever.

Though I had arranged to go abroad with friends for my autumn holiday, yet my habit of visiting Scotland annually was too strong to be resisted. The beginning of August found me at Taynuilt, where I went for some salmon fishing in the Awe. But the weather was dry, the river low, the days bright, and after a week of disappointments I returned.

An excursion to Switzerland with Mr. and Mrs. Busk and their daughters shortly followed. After brief pauses at Cologne, Heidelberg, and Berne, we made our way to Mürren, where a week or perhaps more was spent in face of the Jungfrau and the Silberhorn. No more on this occasion than on the first, did I find Switzerland physically beneficial. On neither occasion did I experience the invigoration which many feel; and Mürren was positively enervating.

There is much yet to be learnt respecting the effects of atmospheric conditions. It seems to me that it is with these as, according to a physician I quoted some distance back, it is with drugs: cases prove that under different conditions they may produce opposite effects. Certainly, the air of great altitudes, which is exhilarating to some, is depressing to others. I was not alone in feeling the ill effects of Mürren. Two of the ladies furnished clear proofs of enfeeblement. Evidently that state of exhaustion which the rarified air of very high mountains causes in all, begins to be felt by a few on lower mountains. The decrease of atmospheric pressure accompanying an ascent of 6000 feet, produces on the respiratory process effects which, not manifest in some are conspicuous in others. May it not be that two factors which come into play, work, by their joint actions, diverse results in diverse constitutions? Diminished atmospheric pressure causes augmented exhalation from the skin and lungs: water turns into vapour more rapidly. One of the consequences is that the currents of liquids through the tissues are accelerated; change of matter is furthered; and exaltation of energy results. At the same time the charge of oxygen which the blood contains is lessened, and greater action of the lungs is required to compensate for this. If the lungs are well developed, a small amount of extra activity enables them to meet the requirement, and then the benefit of a more rapid evaporation of water is felt. If, contrariwise, the respiratory system is below par, then more is lost by decreased oxygenation than is gained by increased evaporation.

While the heights of Switzerland were not favourable to me, neither were the depths. Our descent to Grindelwald was not followed by any improvement, but rather the contrary. After a few days it became evident that I must escape into the open country. Bidding good-bye to my friends, I made my way to Vevay; and after a few days at St. Evian les Bains, and a few others at Geneva, I reached home a week before the end of September.

Not long after my return was published Mr. Darwin’s work on The Expression of the Emotions. As my acknowledgment of the copy he was good enough to send me contains some expressions of opinion concerning a point on which we differed, it may be not amiss to quote it here.

“Nov. 16th, 1872.

Dear Darwin,

I have delayed, somewhat longer than I intended, acknowledging the copy of your new volume, which you have been kind enough to send me. I delayed partly in the hope of being able to read more of it before writing to you; but my reading powers are so small, and they are at present so much employed in getting up materials for work in hand, that I have been unable to get on far with it. I have, however, read quite enough to see what an immense mass of evidence you have brought to bear in proof of your propositions.

I will comment only on one point on which I see you differ from me; namely the explanation of musical expression, in respect of which you quote Mr. Litchfield. I think if you would trace up the genesis of melody, beginning with the cadences of slightly emotional speech and passing through recitative, you would see that melody is quite comprehensible on the principles I have pointed out. The fact that melody proper, has been evolved in comparatively recent times, is strong evidence of this. That recitative is a natural expression of emotion is abundantly proved. I remember having read of Australians who used a kind of recitative in talking to themselves when walking along, about things that interested them; and I have heard children, when engaged in any play that interested them, or such occupations as gathering flowers, talk to themselves in recitative. Join this with the fact that many inferior races have never risen above recitative (as the Chinese and Hindoos) and that there is reason for believing that even among the Greeks, melody had not become so markedly different from recitative as now,—add, too, the fact that even now in the Highlands you may hear Gaelic songs that retain very much of the recitative character; and I think you will see that melody is, as I have contended, an idealized form of the natural cadences of emotion. Indeed I could point out musical phrases which would, I think, clearly prove this to you. Ask your daughter to play to you “Robert toi que j’aime,” and you will I think see this. I do not mean to say that this is all; for there are other elements of effect in melody. But this is, I think, the cardinal element.

Yours very truly,

Herbert Spencer.”

I have long intended to add to the essay on the Origin and Function of Music, a postscript dealing with objections: its chief purposes being, first, to dissipate the misapprehensions of Mr. Edmund Gurney, and second, to criticize the hypothesis of Mr. Darwin. But I do not suppose that I shall now ever be able to fulfil my intention.

Shortly before the date of the above letter (which I have transposed for convenience) came the completion and publication of the volume to which this chapter owes its title. I have not very much to say concerning it.

Beyond the verbal improvements made on nearly all the pages throughout part VI, “Special Analysis,” not many changes were made. Only one of them calls for mention here, namely, the enunciation of the paradox that Logic is a science of objective phenomena, and not a science of subjective phenomena, as hitherto assumed. The proof as given in § 302, still appears to me conclusive. Save one writer in Mind, who expressed his surprise that no attention had been given to it, everybody has, so far as I know, passed by this revolutionary doctrine without remark. It should, I think, be either disproved or admitted; for clearly the issues involved are of some philosophical importance. Does not one of them touch fundamentally the entire system of Hegel? I express the thought interrogatively, because I know so little of the Hegelian philosophy. My impression is that it sets out with a proposition impossible to conceive. If this proceeding is legitimate, it is no less legitimate to make each step in the reasoning that follows, of like nature; and to assert that though a particular conclusion appears necessary, and the opposite conclusion impossible to conceive, yet the opposite conclusion is true. As this course, actual and potential, is one against which I feel an obstinate prejudice, I never read further any work in which it is displayed. But I wish some one would put the proposition that Logic is an objective science, side by side with the Hegelian philosophy, and see whether the two can co-exist.

Concerning Part VII, I may here remark that the elaboration of it illustrated in an extreme degree a habit of thought which I have before described. The germ was contained in the essay on the “Universal Postulate,” published in the Westminister Review for October 1853. In the first edition of The Principles of Psychology, this essay grew into four chapters; and now, in the second edition, its thoughts had so developed in various ways that nineteen chapters were required properly to set them forth. How to arrange these chapters long remained a perplexity. For some two or three years, I think, I occasionally thought over the general argument in my morning walks or at other times, and tried to find the right order for its parts, but without success. Only after this long period did they slowly gravitate into their respective places, and form a coherent whole.

How happened it that the volume was so long in hand: commenced, as it was, in 1870, and not completed till October 1872? I find in correspondence various references to ill-health—being obliged to work only at “half-speed,” or to be “very careful of my head.” While the delays hence arising partly account for the long time taken, it is also in part accounted for by the fact that the work was interrupted by the execution of other work presently to be mentioned. But I was nearly forgetting a further cause. The volume ended with an additional part (Part IX “Corollaries”). Psychology underlies Sociology; and there had to be specified a number of those more special truths in Psychology which have to be handed on to Sociology as part of its data. The deduction of these special truths from the general truths set forth in the preceding parts of the work, was an interesting task.