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Published on the st ofeach month.

T H E EGOISTA N I N D I V I D U A L I S T R E V I E W .

Formerly the NEW FREEWOMAN.

N o . 1 . V O L . II. FRIDAY, JANUARY 1st, 1915. S I X P E N C E .Editor H A R R I E T S H A W W EA VE R .Assistant Editor R I C H A R D A L D I N G T O N .

Contributing EditorD O R A M A R S D E N , B. A.CONTENTS.

IAM.' ByDora MarsdenVIEWS AND COMMENTST H E PLAYS OFJOHN SYNGE. By

Richard AldingtonSERIAL STORY: A PORTRAIT OF

T H E ARTIST AS AYOUNG MAN.ByJamesJoyce

CHINESE EGOISM. By William Lof tusHareP O E M S . By Clara ShanafeitWEBSTER FORD. By EzraPound...T H E SONGS OFMALDOROR. By theComtedeLautramont...

FIGHTING PARIS. By MadameCiolkowska

O N T H E R S I T E S . ByRichard AldingtonCORRESPONDENCE

IAM.By DORA MAR SDEN .

TH E beginning of the NewYear wil l serve as asufficient apologyforstating afresh the ambitions of this journal and detaili ng whatone

considers to be itsunique andsupremely importanttask: one for theexecutionofwhichwe can see noevidence ofminds other than ourown being forthcoming. There are, wevery wil lingly admit,meno f almost infinitely greater attainmentsin scholarship," and forsuch ataskasours scholars musto f necessitybe theuntiring hodmen :thewillinganddirected servants. But ofminds possessingthe coldcouragewhich can go forwardandadvanceup to andthrough those mirages of flame andrage as theyappear onthehither side:but whi ch provebutechoeso f a weak thin sound when they are traversed :ofsuch minds theappearance israre. Wh en theydoappear they find their ownwork, and that workaccomplished establishes ane wera. After theyaregonethese directing mindsminds of a differentorderstuffed minds, scholarly minds , begin todisburse their heavy stores uponthelines they have laiddown. Thestored rubbish then becomes invaluablyuseful treasure: what waspurposeless will becomevibrant with purpose. Soitwill be, long after T H EE G O I S T hasbecomeathingof thepast. Meanwhileithas itsunique worktodo, il l-equippedin allaccessories as it is, andarmed onl y with the onethingessential. Let this, then, be the answer to thosefriends who have been good enoughtosay that T H EE G O I S T S ' s activitiesare allderailedand arewilli ngto pray that thejournal mi ght die,if bydyingthe

remarkable abilities of thewriter might have achance of "co mi ng into their own. "Theiro w n ": theonlytask which matches their powersin aVerbal Age like this isto break thehypnoti c spell,to blast thestupefactions ofThe Wo rd .

* * * *Our war iswith words and intheir every aspect:

grammar , acc idenc e, syntax: body, blood, andbone.Let none makeamistake : notbecause men use words

todeceive;not even because words incl ine by capacityto deception andare thenaturalbasis of Civilisation:the inoculatorsofmen's powers withthe debilitatingserum of Culture ; notbecause they canbeused,and areused, asreadily forends ofdiplomacyas offrankness ;forhiding motivesasmuch as forrevealing them, foralluring anddeceivingasmuchas forguiding and illuminating. Onecould not reasonably object to the surface-deceits of words whichmake possible those ends of deception rulersandmasters require intheir difficult taskofgoverningawayward animal. Wor dsaregood for those whousethem when they subserve accordingtodesign: If thedesign is to deceive well andgood: a good instrument isone which performs the operationwhateverit maybeto whichit is set. An d those who wil lthe end will alsothemeans: those who exto l Civi lisation and Culture may not decryin words theirpowers of deception. Nor will those who carenothing for either civilisation or culture. Sincedeception is thehuman wayof thestrong withtheweak, the ways of culture andcivilisation are thenatural human way ofthestrong withtheweak.Andlongitwill continuetobe. As longasthereisinterplay of intelligences of unequal degrees ofpower,the verbal deception, which in thebulk constitutescivilisation and culture, will continue. Only adreamer : a dunce: could seriously expect it to beotherwise. To civilise,to break in a recalcitrantanimal bywordsis an exceedingly clever ruse, thew a y of menhaving once been intelligent enoughtomaster they will never lightly forego. Thedeceptive element insound, which is thebasis ofcivilisation andculture, was there in the beginning :before the element of truth, in fact. The alluringand deceptive function of li ving sounds are morefundamental than their expository. Songis olderthan speech: cant ismore venerable than truth,andonlya dunce will expecttheformer to beabandonedbecause the latter has arrived. The two interact

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2 THE EGOIST January 1, 1915together and side by side: and it is merely in the " set "of things that the former should have proved itself in thesequel to be the standby of the more intelligent, becausethe less intell igent are less open to the appeal of thelatter. Ifthis were all and the situation were covered bythe categories of "del iberate deceivers" and "unwittingly deceived" there would be little to be said : forthese we shall have as long as we have dunces and clevermen. Not for any of these things is language regardedas a dangerous fungus which has fastened itself aroundthe promising human growth. As long as language is aservant and under control it may be the servant of whomsoever can make it such: deceivers and masters andany. If words occupied the position of servants evenin relation only to a fewto "tyrants", the situation might be left with equanimity and satisfaction.It is because words have developed into a "Culture"and grown masters of all and servants of none that thedaring and explorative tendency of intelligence overcomes defensive and insists on bringing down thedominating Verbal Architecture. Had not the Holywords become exasperating, domineering, insulting, invested with Authority and claiming eminence abovetheir creators, demanding worship from them as theirsupreme God and Good they could comfortably beaccepted as "good " to deceive and "good " to expound.But they have changed from being instruments capableof being used into awesome magicians, genii, spirits,invested with a potency above anything apparently inthe possession oftheir "users."- They have become theGreat Unknown whose powers men fear. Their originshave been lost through the great multitude of theirbegetters: "line upon line, precept upon precept, herea little, there a little," they have inherited a mountainof accretions so thickly pressed that not even theacutest mind makes headway towards the unravelling oftheir casual and humble genesis. Words without talliesother than "Sacred Mysteries" make the bulk of thesubject-matter of the learned's disputations. By thevery virtue oftheir lost meanings they have attained tothe heights and prestige and command: left limitlessby the bonds of sense which comprehension sets, theyhave floated away into the wide blue Empyrean whereas "Absol utes" they dwell. Only by laughterthatgurgle of impishness : by the incorrigibly untutored self-assertiveness of the uninoculated have men saved theirsouls, half alive, from the complete domination of words.Laughter and the spirit of mockeryapart, and we shouldhave been flat on our faces before them lost in submission and adoration. Instinctively the human animal hastaken on the habit of laughter as a means of defence andset on the Ridiculous to dog the Sublime.

Laughter, like most of the distinguishing humandevelopments, clothes (in women), weapons (againststronger animals), is defensive. And so has speechbecome in its developed form of " Culture " in the handsof the governors. Thus far these all represent triumphsof intelligence. There is a sense, however, in whichwords do not represent intelligence at all : they representlimitation and failure of intelligence : they are merelymistakes and perpetuated errors. Speech which is thefount of a " mystery " ; speechthat is out of hand, whichis authoritative, holy and sacred, which it is a blasphemyto impugn;which deceives all and imposes on all;whichacute minds debate for thousands of years and find noclue to, this is that creation of human stupidity, failure,and impotence which at its mature growth develops intoa monster which ravens on its creators : its victims. Itbecomes a magic mesh which neither screens nor lightsup the mind, but only stupefies. The spectacle of thehuman intelligence with all that which it has otherwiseattained lying helplessly puzzled and perplexed beforeits own creation is the one irony of human achievement.

No The trying of issues with the forms of languageis the next great task of human explorative, power-evidencing, enfranchising genius because words in onehalf of their activities have grown great and climbedhigh to secure all the heavenly seats. They are to betorn down : high as they stand, high and secure, guardedwith the Halo of the Sacred and Holy from the touch of

the profane : the masters of men. And this latter daycreation :this waiting-maid of men, has become investedwith Authority as Lord Master and Begetter with men'sown acquiescence: " In the beginning was the Word, andthe Word was God, " they will say. To blast the Word,to reduce it to its function of instrument is the enfranchisement of the human kind : the imminent new assertion of its next reach in power.

* * *Words working by their "Mys te ry" through men's

fears have acquired the power to deflect men from theirstrongest desires : to divorce them from their most vitalinstincts. The "coming to onesel f" : the recognising ofthe " W h y" in men's motives, which is the meaning ofthe progress from "consciousness" to "self-consciousness," has been made impossible. Men have beenenabled to know only as much of themselves as the maintenance of the sanctity of the Sacred Words renderedpermissible: not much that is. What is called "self-consciousness" is an addled affair: a bogus version ofmen's motives which imposes on themselves and which agenuine self-consciousness can replace only after theshattering of the adverse influence which works incessantly against it. Before self-consciousness accuratelycan make a beginning, the Verbal Age in which the Wordis unbridled,rampant,mysterious and so paramount musthave felt the beginning of the end.

To dissect the language, to assess the amount ofvalidity in its current forms does not necessarily implyits abolition or even to any overwhelming extent itssubstitution. It is enough if psychology pronounces avaluation of the existing forms : shows how this iselliptical, that redundant, this unlimited, that unwarranted or inverted. It will then be possible, uponbeing presented with a "pro blem" to show at whatpoint in the grammatical form the leakage of sense islocated. Philosophical "p robl ems" will transmuteautomatically into grammatical leakages. In fact, grammatical form reduced to maniable limits by psychologywill entail as a first consequence the scrapping of theverbal conundrums which constitute existing philosophy.Philosophers hitherto have been not lovers of words, buthumble followers of tradition, fascinated by its labyrinthine errors. The problems of their Metaphysics, theirPsychology, their Ethics, their Religions, have beennothing more than the outcrops of faults inherent in thespeech they used. The knots have been born of the formof the questions and have been unwittingly placed thereby the very species of enquirers who later become sopuzzled to find out their significance.

Philosophy isdoomed to sterility as long as it is basedupon unapprehended words and acknowledged enigmaswhichkeep its activities widely divided from the currentsof vital interests.

Out of befooziing sound not even the finest brain canspin anything save folly :its energies turn to foolishnessto match the stuff it works in. The human brain canwork to fruitful purpose only when it is set to ply aboutimages which have sprung into vivid form in the humanconsciousness : it is at home only in that aura of imageswhich is thrown off from the living " I " and to whichmen have given the title of "The World." Set to tunewith Heaventhat conceptual verbal kingdomthe brainpetrifies into stupidity.

* * * *We have already inveighed against the conceptualSubstantive : often doubtless to the bewilderment of ourreaders. This particular grammatical form was givenpre-eminence in discredit because under its aegis, VerbalAuthority had moved furthest towards absolute command. The substantival concepts representing theabstract vices and virtues have secured the main controlof conduct: they represented the sum-total of Good andEvil, and could clinch every argument to the favour ofthe Mysteries. But not merely this ancient foe theconceptual substantive, but grammatical forms in theirevery variety : noun, pronoun, adjective, verb, adverb,interjection, -preposition and conjunction: the entirescheme of accidence and syntax all alike require to bebrought under the psychological scalpel before philo-

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January 1, 1915 THE EGOIST 3sophycan make its first forward step. Only after havingaccomplished this first preliminary labour can it be ridof its childish problems and get on to its sole businesspsychology. When it is done, however, the problems of"Space" and "T ime ," of "C aus e" and the " Re al "and the "T rue " ; of the antithetical twins "Subjectiveand Object ive," "Sensual and Spiritual," "Ideal andReal," "Appearance and Thing-in-dtself," will evaporateinto their proper medium of thin sound. And merelypreferential favour or disfavour for particular forms areto no purpose :all euch are doomed to end in blind alleys.There exists for instance at the present moment a fairlywide-spread dissatisfaction with the grammatical structure in this form or that, but it all ends in desultoryrepugnances and preferenceshaving, no doubt, considerable influence in the shaping of particular writere'styles, but of philosophical influence being absolutelynil. Naturally so, since these surface-adjustments beingbased upon revoltrather thanupon comprehension, theyrepresent merely onetrend in the course of a pendulum'sswing, which constantly goes forward only to recede.Our friends, the "Imagi sts," for instance have takenexception, oddly enough, to the use of the adjective:because they hate generalisation and abstractions. Butthe substantiveany substantive, abstract or concrete,represents the generalising process in a far higherdegree than the adjective : it approaches much nearerthe conceptual: the abstract. Again, M. Marinetti ofFuturist fame has balanced his loathing of syntacticalform by a marked preference for the Infinitive form ofthe verb. It is "f luid," they say. So it is : too fluid forthe confines of sense with which it "flows" away.The infinitive is as conceptual in its nature as theabstract form of speech to which the name concept ismore commonly given. " T O BE," for instance, is asmuch an abstraction torn away from any correspondingforces as is the absolute "BE ING ." It is indeed aneven more dangerous pitfall for honestly strivingphilosophers than the concepts ordinarily so-called, because its form being more specious and subtle, they areeven less ontheir guard against it. It isthus even moreempowered to expand its verbal wings and float awayinto the Empyrean of "Absolute" clap-trap: returningonly to deposit its brood of meaningless conundrums.Every form of the verb indeed savethatwhich is hitchedup to the first person singular is a danger to accuracyand expression. At best they must all be inferential, andpossess all the possibility of error which is the naturalaccompaniment of any inference : the difference as tocertainty which exists between inference and first-handimpression: between "kno wled ge " and mere "reasoning" that is. As Browning applied the distinction "T herest may reason and welcome 'tis we musicians know,"i.e., feel the image keenly and at first-hand. Accurately,every sentence begins with " I . " Every sentence whichdoes not is elliptical : and in proportion as the ellipsiswhich the customary shortened form condones, is lostsight of in speech, speech loses its bearings.

Thus when I say, " I T moves," I mean "I have theimage of it moving." I may of course, by means ofmechanical contrivances produce for myself the imagethat it moves while " actually " it does not move. Butfor this"actual ly, " I have to credit hearsaysome otherpersons purported image, that is, or to get other imagesof my own of such a nature as to counter-balance theeffects of this one.

And even the one form of the verb, the first personsingular, tends to mislead in proportion as it becomesmore independent and detached in form from theenveloping comprehensive entitythe " I"of which itrepresentsonly a passing image.

The confusion out of which "Theories of knowledge"are bornarisesfrom grammatical causes. " Knowledge "and " To know " are labels without counterparts : concepts both. The less misleading form which would correspond to "knowl ed ge " is, " I know," which againcorresponds to " I am aware," which inturn correspondsto " I feel," and of which the particular image felt isnothing but the " I " affected thus and thus; i.e., " I "exist momentarily in such a state. The theory of knowledge is identical with the theory of existence : idle ques

tions both : offspring of faulty labelling, and bothdissipated into their underlying inaneness by thephilosophical unfolding of the " I . " We say in connection with very definite images, " I know," and then proceed to ask, " What do I mean when I say ' I know ' ?If we consider what we do mean when we say " I know "we realise it is " I feel . . . " but feel it with a particular degree of clearness, definitely and strongly.

The habit of speech which has come to recognise alesser degree of certainty in " I feel " than in " I know "really tends to invert the connotation of both and merelycompounds confusion : as does the modern habit ofmaking antitheses of "heart and head," "intuition andintellect," "feel ing and knowing," as though thereexisted some difference in kind between them otherthanthat of distinctness. "Intellection," for instance, isbeing accorded an amount of attention as a definite"facul ty" of the mind in a modern philosophy which isextremely misleading. These and similar sterile laboursof metaphysicians during nearly three thousand yearswould have been spared had it been observed at theoutset that in the grammatical forms of subject andpredicate there existed a constant temptation to see inwhat was a mere redundant emphasis a distinctnessimplying separate "ent it ies ." The verb, for instance,does not describe " an " activity : it merely describes thesubject as it produces oneparticular image. The verb'spurpose is to particularise the condition of the " I " underwhich for the moment it shows itself.* * *

Consider the term " I , " or equivalent forms whichother languages give to it. It is the sign of the livingunitthe organismaffirming the presence of its ownlife. It stands comprehensively for " I am conscious" :for " I feel" : "I l ive" : " I am." The " I " includes thefull connotation of " I am." " I am" is an assertionmade twice, as is the phrase "I exi st " and the furtherequivalents "I feel" and " I sense." Anything whichwe allow "am," "feel," " exist " or " sense " to connotethe " I " has already asserted by itself. They have nomeaning which the " I " has not : in fact, they have nomeaning at allapart from the purport of the " I." " Tobe," " t o feel," " to sense," "t o exis t," are properlyspeaking totally devoid of connotation, but they take ona suggestion of meaning by loose association with the" I . " Abstracted from the " I " as the infinitive is, it isdivorced from the only source capable of investing it withmeaning. The infinitive, pure and simple, has no tally.Nor, accurately speaking, have other forms of the verbother than the first person singular linked fast to its"subject." Always it is " I " which feels. You, they,he, she, it, merely " appear to me " to feel.

Thus the " I " is the comprehensive expression of existence as viewed by the only unit competent to view it :the one who exists. It comprehends the whole galleryo f images which it can throw out from itself : the" stream of life " and all the images which glow in thestream. The " I " includes the one looking out on a"World" and the entire " Wor l d" it looks out onandthis whether " I " be a tree, or a worm, or a reader of

T H E E G O I S T . The " I " creates its own world. The worldis of it. As the " I " is, so the world is. If the " I " isto be calledspirit then the world is spirit too. The mythof two worldsa sensual and a spiritualhas grown upabout the slipshodusethemisleading extensionof theverb "sense ." We have no " senses " substantively : wemerely "sense" to the extent of our powers:that, is the" I " gives to itself to the extent of its powers suchimages as it can strike out from itself. Scenes, sounds,smells, tastes, colour, shape, size, space, time, stress,strain, are merely aspects of the " I . " To be sure, theyappear as qualities of the "things" sensed, but thenthe " things" also are but the product of and exist onlyin the " I . " So one may pride oneself on being scientific : bent on looking at "things, " and on "measuringthings." But what is that but the pressing of moreegoisticpower into oneparticular effort of the scientist 's"ego," by which means he may hope to call out fromhimself and for himself a more clear and full image thanhe had as the result of the smaller effort : from his lesser

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4 THE EGOIST January 1, 1915exercise of himself. Thus the progress of science is butthe expanding of the " I " : of the World of imageswhich we call the scientist' s soul. And all that whichwe call the object ive world are but so many patternsand chordsaurasthrown out by the " I " itself. Thedifference between my "World " and this plant's" World " is a difference not in " a " World common tous both, but between me and the plant. Our worlds?We each grow our own* * *

So much for the world and spiritif " I " am spirit.And so much for the Sensual and Spiritual. In proportion as " I " am, as " I " live, I likewise " sense " alland everything possible to me. The flow of images inthe " I " is as full and rapid as it may be, i.e., as " I "can produce. That is, the more I am, the more sensualI am. Whether that means more spiritual too, must beleft to those who have not yet decided whether or nothey mean to make "spir itual" synonymous with"verbal ." Should they do so, that would make a difference between Spiritual and Sensual whichcould forthwith be translatedas Vital and Verbal respectively. Andso too the antithesis between "Appearance and theThing-in-itself" between "Appearance and Reality."

When Kant was chasing that " x " : that reality beneath experience: which he called "Thing-in-itself," hewas like a cat trying to catch the shadow of its own tail.He was deluded by the shadows cast by the light ofgrammar shining strongly from behind him. His positionin regard to it could be easily unravelled by followingup the error which secured its chance of slipping in, onaccountof the redundant verb in "I am," an error whichhas grown, none the less grown to almost untamableproportions by the time it arrives at the inferential formof the third person: i.e., when " a m " has become "is."" I am . . ." means "Iaffected so and so." Therecould be no affection if the " I " were not there to beaffected. But by the time the verb form progresses from" am " to "i s , " it has acquired an independence of itsown: become complete without a subject : with aninnocent-appearing "the re " to fill in the gap. Theconundrum of "Thing-in-itself" could be put thus:" What do we feel when we don't ? " or, "Wh at is therefelt we don't feel?" or, "What is there when thereis n' t?" Kant replies "Something very deep and profound : something more real than the most real: theThing-in-itself." The genuine verbal philosopher

VIEWS AND COMMENTS.THERE is a limit to all things. The limit of men'scapacity for repeated impressions is very soonreached. Already the war, though as yet it haslasted only six months, has become an institution likethe weather. As a dominating Christmas theme evenwith the Music-Halls it has fallen far shortasfar as onehas opportunity to judge, that is. Which is hard luckfor those who had counted on seeing all the world in thelight of a baleful reaction to the Kaiser. We are not allhaving our heads blown off, not all in trenches or barracks. We are snugly at home: just the same sort ofindividuals we were before the first of August : requiringto be amused and interested just the same. Hence, ifanything couldarouse one out of the semi-torpor inducedby a bad cold, some other things, and the writing ofthisarticle, it is the threat to put us all on an intellectual dietof "T hought as thought by the Allies," with pure undiluted English thought as a staple. One might as wellbecome an exile as be compelled to fare off the tepidstewed mush which passes current as thinking to-day inEngland. The Germans are virile and theirvirility comesout in their thinking. Incisive, penetrating, there is thememory of an edge felt somewhere left even when theyare dull. And when they are not dull Stirner was aGerman, born and buried in Berlin. Of course theEnglish can only gather therewas a German Nietzsche :something a little more flashy and possessing considerably less "edge."

All which sounds cross. And a cross comfortablecivilian may not now make himself heard It must bethe effect of Mr. Churchill's "Baby-killers of Scarborough" effort. What an effusion As though this warwas a game with rules to itother thansuch rules as willwin. Even a comfortable civilian will feel none too safeafter a few more such fatuous utterances. And the"T imes" draws the moral from this East-coast visitation, that the eligible young men who have not yetoffered to enlist for service must do so now.Otherwise the responsibility for the devastationof the country, if it be devastated, will reston them Such cool impudence as they tryon this long-suffering populace The responsibilitywill rest and will promptly be attached where itbelongson the "governors." If the safety of Englanddemands more men, delay in meeting it is a blunder ofsuch magnitude on their part that should it be com

mitted, Lord Kitchener and the rest would escape thewrath of the people scarcely with their lives.That of course is prophecy, but it is very safe prophecy.

Recruiting of the emotional sort requires so much cantthat in a situation obviously serious, the use of it isdistressing. One becomesirritated, hearing the Government, who have made a war on their own responsibility,who have been given c rte bl nche by the nation, in orderthat unhampered, they may be able to prosecute thework successfully, trying to shift their responsibilityupon slender shoulders which have already much to bearas things are, but which will be ready to dotheirpart ifcalled upon seriously. If men are wanted let the Government demand them. This obviously is their task andconcern and no others.

* * *

There were one or two other references to " THEE G O I S T doctrine in the correspondence columns of thelast issue, which may be dealt with here. In relation tothe substance of the letter headed "Derivations," nocomment need be offered save acknowledgments to thewriter for an interesting quotation. But the subject ofphilosophic "derivations" itself is worth lingering on.There is for instance no need for surprise when men's"images"their experiencesduplicate themselves.Throughout a wide area, men's egoistic potentialitiesreach broadly to a common level: the image which canbe struck off one man's " soul " very probably can bematched by images achieved in another's : or manyothers. And when men are off their guardthe verbalguard that isand are observing their own phenomenafor themselves, their observations from time to timeportray their impression, in spite of the verbal influence,very accurately: usually much to their own delightedastonishment. Almost every man, except the "yapper"theincurably idealisticmust be guilty of these lapsesinto accuracy upon occasion : and every phi losophystiffens itself into self-confidence by the possession ofone or two. Often very divergent philosophies will beheavily leaning on the same "Truth." In short theapparently most dissimilar people are to be expected tounburden themselves on occasion of the self-same"truth": each equally feeling that it comes straightfrom himself as "original truth." Which as far as he isconcerned it is : and neither is greatly put about by theway it squares or, more commonly, fails to square withhis customary mental predilections. Unguarded "truths"

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6 THE EGOIST January 1, 1915T H E P L A Y S O F J O H N S Y N G E .

By RIC HARD ALDINGTO N.IT is somewhat chilling to remember that during theyear or more in which I have been writing in thispaper, reviewing most often carefully selectedbooks, I have had occasion to notice none whichwere not ephemeral and merely relatively excellent.Of all the literary productions which have passedthrough my hands during that period only onea poemcalled "Heaven"seems to me now to possess any ofthe elements of great, of thrilling artistic pleasure.It would be most convenient if, in order to keep thescale properly adjusted, one could head reviews "First-rate Becks," "Second-rate Books," "Third-rateBooks"as Balzac did in his paper. It would save agreat deal of trouble and forestall some misapprehension as to one's views.

In accordance with that plan one could wholeheartedly and sincerely label Synge's plays "First-ratebooks." Synge was emphatically a man of whom wemay say: "He had genius." Among all the thousandephemeral talents, among the clever and the cultivatedand the refined who make what Whitman calls "thesoil ofliterature," who are forgotten before or as soonas they die, Synge remains. He remains because he wasa man who really created something new, who recordedperhaps locallythe life of a people he understood.The Aran Islands and the book about Wicklow andConnemara and his poems are all delightful enough,and we should all probably have read them; butwe should not have thought a great deal of Synge as acreative genius had it not been for his plays. He wouldhave been just one of the Irish group. As it is, he isthe Irish grouphe so overshadows all the other Irishwriters of our own or any time that they will owe thestudy oftheir works to him and not he to them. Peoplewill be curious to know what the men of Ireland werewriting in Synge's time, and many otherwise forgottenauthors will receive a reflected glory, because they belonged to a movement, a type in literature of whichSynge is the great example.

It is interesting to compare Synge and the Irish movement with Burns and Scott and the Scottish movementof the last century. The discovery of a new dialectliterature is always delightful to the people of an over-cultivated capital, where language is worn thin andmeagre by constant use, where the vulgarisation ofjournals and of the common people has abolished theprimitive poetry of primitive people. And not onlythat, for to the country the art of the capital seems allimportant ; to the capital the freshness and sweetnessof remote people is incredibly delightfulfor a time. Inthe London of 1820-1840 the romances of Scott, thepoems of Burns exercised a charm which is incredibleto us when we read Scott's ponderous sentences andBurns' localised and provincial poetry. We smile whenwe find the editor of the respectable "EdinburghReview" comparing Walter Scott with Shakespeare, orwhen we find Burns' lyrics extolled as the greatest productions in the English language. And yet such language has been used of the Irish school, and yet I findmyself urged to declare that Synge is the greatestdramatist England has had since Shakespeare.

It would be a great relief to those people who areover-stocked with English " culture " if they could bebrought to consider all our less than first-rate authorsas merely local. It would be so excellent if we alloweda reasonable amount of English reading to be a matterof "general culture," if we added to thata wide knowledge of Greek, Latin, Italian, French, Spanish andGerman literatures, and then were permitted to tasteour lesser writers locally. Nowadays every little journalist feels that he must at least pretend to have anacquaintance with Pepys' and Evelyn's diaries, withminor Elizabethan dramatists, with minor Victoriannovelists and the like, while he is profoundly ignorantof the infinitely more important literatures of more

favoured countries. How admirable it would be if oneonly read Scott when one went to Abbotsford, Beaumont and Fletcher at Rye, Drayton in Warwickshire,and Lamb on the rare occasions when one visited Edmonton and Islington It would clear the ground soadmirably, it would set all these gentlemen in theirproper places, and it might actually prepare the Englishmind for a re-assimilation of the literature it hasneglected since the Renaissance.

Yet though Synge is, in four of his plays at least,specifically local, I do not feel inclined to call him a localpoet or dramatist. It may be because I am toonear tohim, but I cannot conceive of him in any fashion exceptas an extremely great artist whose work is an essentialpart of the life of every cultivated manI do not meanevery literary expert or literary maniacas the worksof Shakespeare, of Catullus, and of Theocritus.

I am led into these remarks by receiving from Messrs.Maunsel a re-issue of Synge's plays, complete in onevolume.* As I turned over the leaves of those playsthat one ought to know by heart I felt bound to add avery slight tribute to Synge's memory, though thesenotes are intended for "the latest thing" in literatureand not for reprints of established works. I am notgoing to criticise Synge technically, because it would berather in the nature of an impertinence ; I don't thinkI shall try to analyse his methods and his command overone's emotions. He has indeed put so much of his ownextraordinary pathetic, beautiful nature into the peopleof the Aran Islands that these people move us by thevery cadence of their speech. "Deirdre of theSorrows" may be one of the most beautiful things inliterature, as Mr. Yeats says it is. It is not for me tosay. But if I want a "great terrifying j o y" in wordsand emotions, it is to this that I turn:

Pegeen. It's queerjoys they have, and who knows thething they'd do, if it'd make the green stones cry itselfto think of you swaying and swiggling at the butt of arope, and you with a fine, stout neck, God bless youthe way you'd be a half an hour, in great anguish,getting your death.

Christy (getting his boots and putting them on). Ifthere's that terror of them, it'd be best, maybe, I wenton wandering, like Esau or Cain and Abel on the sidesof Neifin or the Erris plain.

Pegeen (beginning to play with him) . It would, maybe,for I've heard the Circuit Judges this place is aheartless crew.

Christy (bitterly). It' s more than judges this placeis aheartlesscrew. (Lookingup at her.) Andisn't it apoor thing to be starting again, and I a lonesome fellowwillbe looking out on women and girls the way the needyfallen spirits do be looking on the Lord?

Pegeen. What call have you to bethatlonesome whenthere's poor girls walking Mayo in their thousandsnow?

Christy (grimly). It' s well you know what call I have.It's well you know it's a lonesome thing to be passingsmall towns with the lights shining sideways when thenight is down, or going in strange places with a dognoising before you and a dog noising behind, or drawnto the cities where you'dhear a voice kissing and talking deep love in every shadow of the ditch, and youpassing on with an empty, hungry stomach failing fromyour heart."

That may be local writing. But to me it seems someof the most beautiful prose that has ever been written.I cannot remember reading, anything more beautiful,anything which possessed quite that wistful, quiet sortof beauty remote from us, if you like, but remote as allbeautiful things are from us ordinary people who justsit and judgebooks, just sit and read books, just sit andwrite books; for John Synge was a great man, a man,one likes to think, whom the immortal gods of anotherage would have liked to make of their company.

DramaticWorksofJohnM.Synge. Maunsel andCo.,7s. 6d.

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January 1, 1915 THE EGOIST 7

A PORTRAIT OF THE ARTISTAS A YOUNG MAN.

By JAMES JOYCE.

CHAPTER IV. (continued.)E could wait no longer.

From the door of Byron's pubiic-house to the gateof Clontarf Chapel, from the gate of Clontarf

Chapel to the door of Byron's public-house, and thenback again to the chapel and then back again to thepublic-house he had paced slowly at first, planting hissteps scrupulously in the spaces of the patchwork of thefootpath, then timing their fall to the fall of verses. Afull hour had passed since his father had gone in withDan Crosby, the tutor, to find out for him somethingabout the university. For a full hour he had paced upand down, waiting : but he could wait no longer.

He set off abruptly for the Bull, walking rapidly lesthis father's shrill whistle might call him back; and in afew moments he had rounded the curve at the policebarrack and was safe.

Yes, his mother was hostile to the idea, as he had readfrom her listless silence. Yet her mistrust pricked himmore keenly than his father's pride, and he thoughtcoldly how he had watched the faith which was fadingdown in his soul, ageing and strengthening in her eyes. Adim antagonism gathered force within him and darkenedhis mind as a cloud against her disloyalty: and when itpassed, cloudlike, leaving his mind serene and dutifultowards her again, he was made aware dimly and without regret of a first noiseless sundering oftheirlives.

The University So he had passed beyond the challenge of the sentries who had stood as guardians of hisboyhood and had sought to keep him among them thathe might be subject to them and serve their ends. Prideafter satisfaction uplifted him like long slow waves.The end he had been born to serve yet did not see hadled him to escape by an unseen path: and now itbeckoned to him once more and a new adventure wasabout to be opened to him. It seemed to him that heheard notes of fitful music leaping upwards a tone anddownwards a diminished fourth, upwards a tone anddownwards a major third, like triple-branching flamesleaping fitfully, flame after flame, out of a midnightwood. It was an elfin prelude, endless and formless ;and, as it grew wilder and faster, the flames leaping outof time, he seemed to hear from under the boughs andgrasses wild creatures racing, their feet pattering likerain upon the leaves. Their feet passed in patteringtumult over his mind, the feet ofhares and rabbits, thefeet of harts and hinds and antelopes, until he heardthem no more and remembered only a proud cadencefrom Newman:

Whose feet are as the feet of harts and underneaththe everlasting arms.

The pride ofthat dim image brought back to his mindthe dignity of the office he had refused. All through hisboyhood he had mused upon that which he had so oftenthought to be his destiny, and when the moment hadcome for him to obey the call he had turned aside, obeying a wayward instinct. Now time lay between: theoils of ordination would never anoint his body. He hadrefused. Why ?

He turned seaward from the road at Dollymount, andas he passed on to the thin wooden bridge he felt theplanks shaking with the tramp of heavily shod feet. Asquad of Christian Brothers was on its way back fromthe Bull, and had begun to pass, two by two, across thebridge. Soon the whole bridge was trembling andresounding. The uncouth faces passed him two by two,stained yellowor red or livid by the sea, and as he stroveto look at them with ease and indifference, a faint stainof personal shame and commiseration rose to his ownface. Angry with himself he tried to hide his face fromtheir eyes by gazing down sideways into the shallowswirling water under the bridge, but he still saw a reflec

tion therein of their top-heavy silk hats, and humbletapelike collars, and loosely hanging clerical clothes.

Brother Hickey.Brother Quaid.Brother MacArdle.Brother Keogh.

Their piety would be liketheir names, like their faces,like their clothes ; and it was idle for him to tell himselfthat their humble and contrite hearts, it might be, paida far richer tributeof devotionthan his had ever been, agift tenfold more acceptable than his elaborate adoration. It was idle for him tomove himself to be generoustowards them, to tell himself that if he ever came totheir gates, stripped of his pride, beaten and in beggar'sweeds, that they would be generous towards him, lovinghim as themselves. Idle and embittering, finally, toargue, against his own dispassionate certitude, that thecommandment oflovebade us not to love our neighboursas ourselves, with the same amount and intensity of love,but to love him as ourselves with the same kind of love.

He drew forth a phrase from his treasure and spoke itsoftly to himself:

A day of dappled sea-borne clouds.The phrase and the day and the scene harmonised ina chord. Words. Was it their colours? He allowedthem to glow and fade, hue after hue : sunrise gold, therusset and green of apple orchards, azure of waves, thegrey-fringed fleece of clouds. No, it was not theircolours : it was the poise and balance of the period itself.Did he then love the rhythmic rise and fall of wordsbetter than their associations of legend and colour ? Orwas it that, being as weak of sight as he was shy ofmind, he drew less pleasure from the reflection of theglowing sensible world through the prism of a languagemany-coloured and richly storied than from the contemplation of an inner world of individual emotions mirroredperfectly in a lucid, supple, periodic prose.He passed from the trembling bridge on to firm landagain. At that instant, as it seemed to him, the air waschilled; and looking askance towards the water he sawa flying squall darkening and crisping suddenly the tide.A faint click at his heart, a faint throb in his throat toldhim once more of how his flesh dreaded the cold infra-human odour of the sea:yet he did not strike across thedownson his left, but held straight on along the spine ofrocks that pointed against the river's mouth.

A veiled sunlight lit up faintly the grey sheet of waterwhere the river was embayed. In the distance along thecourse of the slow-flowing Liffey slender masts fleckedthe sky and, moredistant still, the dim fabric of the citylay prone in haze. Like a scene on some vague arras,old as man's weariness, the image of the seventh city ofChristendom was visible to him across the timeless air,no older nor more weary nor less patient of subjectionthan in the days of the Thingmote.

Disheartened, he raised his eyes towards the slow-drifting clouds, dappled and sea-borne. They werevoyaging across the deserts of the sky, a host of nomadson the march, voyaging high over Ireland, westwardbound. The Europe they had come from lay out therebeyond the Irish Sea, Europe of strange tongues andvalleyed and wood-begirt and citadelled and of entrenched and marshalled races. He heard a confusedmusic within him as of memories and names which hewas almost conscious of but could not capture even foran instant; then the music seemed to recede, to recede,to recede: and from each recedingtrailof nebulous musicthere fell always one long-drawn calling note, piercinglike astar the dusk of silence. Again Again AgainA voice from beyond the world was calling.

Hello, Stephanos Here comes The Dedalus A o . . . Eh, give it over, Dwyer, I'm telling you,

or I'll give you a stuff in the kisser for yourself. . . .A o

Good man, Towser Duck him Come along, Dedalus Bous Stephanonmenos

Bous Stephaneforos Duck him Guzzle him now, Towser Help Help . . . Ao

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8 THE EGOIST January 1, 1915He recognised their speech collectively before he dis

tinguished their faces. The mere sight ofthatmedley ofwet nakedness chilled him to the bone. Their bodies,corpse-white or suffused with a pallid golden light orrawly tanned by the suns, gleamed with the wet of thesea. Their diving-stone, poised on its rude supports androcking under their plunges, and the rough-hewn stonesof the sloping breakwater over which they scrambled intheir horseplay, gleamed with cold wet lustre. Thetowels with which they smacked theirbodies were heavywith cold sea-water: and drenched with cold brine wastheir matted hair.

He stood still in deference to their calls and parriedtheir banter with easy words. How characterless theylooked: Shuley without his deep unbuttoned collar,Ennis without his scarlet belt with the snaky clasp, andConnolly without his Norfolk coat with the naplessside-pockets Perhaps they had taken refuge innumber and noise from the secret dread in their souls.But he, apart from them and in silence, remembered inwhat dread he stood of the mystery of his own body.

Stephanos Dedalos Bous Stephanomnenos BousStephaneforos Their banter was not new to him, and now it flatteredhis mild, proud sovereignty. Now, as never before, hisstrange name seemed to him a prophecy. So timelessseemed the grey, warm air, so fluid and impersonal hisown mood, that all ages were as one to him. A momentbefore the ghost of the ancient Kingdom of the Daneshad looked forth through the vesture of the haze-wrappedcity. Now, at the name of the fabulous artificer, heseemed to hear the noise of dim waves and to see awinged form flying above the waves and slowlyclimbingthe air. What did it mean? Was it a quaint deviceopening a page of some mediaevalbook of prophecies andsymbols, a hawk-like man flying sunward above the sea.a prophecy of the end he had been born to serve andhad been following through the mists, of childhood andboyhood, a symbol of the artist forging anew in hisworkshop out of the sluggish matter of the earth a newsoaring, impalpable, imperishable being?

His heart trembled ; his breath came faster and a wildspirit passed over his limbs as though he were soaringsunward. His heart trembled in an ecstasy of fear andhis soul was in flight. His soul was soaring in an airbeyond the world, and the body he knew was purified ina breath and delivered of incertitude, and made radiantand commingled with the element of the spirit. Anecstasy of flight made radiant his eyes ; and wild hisbreath and tremulous and wild and radiant his windswept limbs.

One Two . . . Look out O , Cripes, I'm drownded One Two Three and away The next The next One . . . Uk Stephaneforos His throat ached with a desire to cry aloud, the cry

o f a hawk or eagle on high, to cry piercingly of hisdeliverance to the winds. This was the call oflife to hissoul, not the dull, grossvoice of the world of duties anddespair, not the inhuman voice that had called him tothe pale service of the altar. An instant of wild flighthad delivered him and the cry of triumph which his lipswithheld cleft his brain.

Stephaneforos What were they now but the cerements shaken fromthe body ofdeaththe fear he had walked in night andday, the incertitude that had ringed him round, theshame that had abased him within and withoutcerements, the linens of the grave?

His soul had arisen from the grave of boyhood, spurning her grave-clothes. Yes Yes Yes He wouldcreate proudly out of the freedom and power of his soul,as the great artificer whose name he bore, a living thing,new and soaring and beautiful, impalpable, imperishable.

He started up nervously from the stone-block, for hecould no longer quench the flame in his blood. He felthis cheeks aflame and his throat throbbing with song.

There was a lust of wandering in his feet that burned toset out for the ends of the earth. On On his heartseemed to cry. Evening would deepen above the sea,night fall upon the plains, dawn glimmer before thewanderer and show himstrange fields and hills and faces.Where?

He looked northward towards Howth. The sea hadfallen below the line of sea-rock on the shallow side ofthe breakwater, and already the tide was running outfast along the foreshore. Already one long oval bank ofsand lay warm and dry amid the wavelets. Here andtherewarm isles of sand gleamed above the shallow tide :and about the isles and around the long bank and amidthe shallow currents of the beach were light-clad figureswading and delving.

In a few moments he was barefoot, his stockings foldedin his pockets, and his canvas shoes dangling by theirknotted laces over his shoulders : and picking a pointedsalt-eaten stick out of the jetsam among the rocks, heclambered down the slope of the breakwater.

There was a long rivulet in the strand: and, as hewaded slowly up its course, he wondered at the endlessdrift of seaweed. Emerald and black and russet andolive, it moved beneath the current, swaying and turning. The water of the rivulet was dark with endlessdrift and mirrored the high-drifting clouds. The cloudswere drifting above him silently and silently the sea-tangle was drifting below him; and the grey, warm airwas still: and a new wildlife was singing in his veins.

Where was his boyhood now? Where was the soulthathad hung back from her destiny, tobrood alone upon theshame of her wounds and in her house of squalor andsubterfuge to queen it in faded cerements and in wreathsthat withered at the touch? Or, where was he.

He was alone. He was unheeded, happy, and near tothe wild heart of life. He was alone and young andwilful and wild-hearted, alone amid a waste of wild airand brackish waters and the sea-harvest of shells andtangle and veiled grey sunlight, and gay-clad, light-cladfigures o f children and girls and voices childish andgirlish in the air.

A girl stood before him in midstream: alone and still,gazing out to sea. She seemed like one whom magic hadchanged into the likeness of astrange and beautiful sea-bird. Her long, slender, bare legs were delicate as acrane's and pure save where an emerald trailof seaweedhad fashioned itself as a sign upon the flesh. Her slate-blue skirts were kilted boldly about her waist and dovetailed behind her. Her bosom was as a bird's, soft andslight, slight and soft as the breast of some dark-plumaged dove. But her long, fair hair was girlish :and girlish and touched with the wonder of mortalbeauty of her face.

She was alone and still, gazing out to sea; and whenshe felt his presence and the worship of his eyes hereyes turned to him in quiet sufferance of his gaze, without shame or wantonness. Long, long she suffered hisgaze, and then quietly withdrew her eyes from his andbent them towards the stream, gently stirring the waterwith her foot hither and thither. The first faint noiseof gently moving water broke the silence, low and faintand whispering, faint as the bells of sleep ; hither andthither, hither and thither: and a faint flame trembledon her cheek.

Heavenly God cried Stephen's soul, in an outburstof profane joy.

He turned away from her suddenly and set off acrossthestrand. His cheeks were aflame ; hisbody wasaglow;his limbs were trembling. On and on and on and on hestrode, far out over the sands, singing wildly to the sea,crying to greet the advent of the life that had cried tohim.

Her image had passed into his soul for ever and noword had broken the holy silence of his ecstasy. Hereyes had called him and his soul had leaped at the call.To live, to err, to fall, to triumph, to recreate life outo f life A wild angel had appeared to him, the angel ofmortal youth and beauty, an envoy from the fair courtsof life, to throw open before him in an instant of ecstasythe gates of all the ways of error and glory. On and onand on and on

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January 1, 1915 THE EGOIST 9He halted suddenlyandheard hisheartin thesilence.

Howfar had hewalked? What hour wasit1There was nohuman figure near him, nor anysound

borne to himover the air. But thetide wasneartheturn,andalready the daywason thewane. Heturnedlandward and rantowardstheshore,andrunningup thesloping beach, reckless of the sharp shingle, found asandy nook amid a ring oftufted sand knolls, and laydown there that thepeace andsilence of the eveningmight still theriot of hisblood.

He felt above him thevast indifferent domeand thecalm processes of the heavenly bodies: and the earthbeneath him, theearth that hadborne him, hadtakenhim to herbreast.

He closed hiseyesin thelanguor ofsleep. Hiseyelids trembled as ifthey felt thevast cyclic movement ofthe earthand herwatchers, trembled as ifthey feltthestrange light of some new world. His soul was swooninginto some new world, fantastic, dim, uncertain as undersea, traversed by cloudy shapes andbeings. Aworld,a glimmer, or a flower? Glimmering and trembling,trembling andunfolding, a breaking light, an openingflower, it spread inendless successiontoitself, breakingin full crimsonandunfolding andfading topalest rose,leafbyleaf andwaveoflight bywaveoflight, floodingalltheheavens with itssoft flushes, every flush deeperthanthe other.

Evening hadfallen when hewoke, and thesandandaridgrasses of his bedglowedno longer. Herose slowly,and recallingtheraptureof hissleep sighedat itsjoy.

He climbedto thecrestof thesandhill and gazed abouthim. Evening had fallen. A rim of the young mooncleft thepale waste ofsky line,the rim of asilver hoopembeddedingrey sand :and thetide was flowingin fasttotheland withalow whisperof herwaves, islandingafew last figures indistant pools.

To be continued.

CHINESE EGOISM.III.CRITICISM FROM A MODERN VIEW

POINT.( 1 . ) THE RELATION OF EGOISM TOPHILOSOPHY GENERALLY.IOBSERVE ageneral lawrelatingto the appearanceof egoist philosophies in the world, a law underwhichYang-Chu's doctrinenaturallyfalls. Itmay bestated briefly in the following terms: 1 ) TheNatureWill supplies toevery creature egoist impulses towardsself-preservation and gratification. 2)Upon theseimpulses isbased an incipient scheme ofpurely egoistvalues. ( 3 ) Necessity reveals to the individual itsdependence, partial or complete, on others, and fromthis perception are derived social impulses. ( 4 ) Asthe sensibility of individuals intensifies, impulsesofanother kind are liberated, namely, altruistic impulsestowards securingthewelfareofother creatures. 5 )Associal andaltruistic impulses combineandstrengthen,the earlier egoistic values are gradually modified.

6 ) This modification of egoistic values at lengthbecomes articulate, conscious and powerful at thehands, say, of such men as the Buddha, Kung-fu-tse,Socrates, orChrist. They attempt a transvaluationofexisting egoistic values on acomprehensive scale. Theyare theinitiators ofnew values,in the proper senseofthe word. They aim at organising life on thebasisofnow clearly perceived principles. But their trans-valuation seems to go beyond the faith of men inaltruism;it is,therefore, challengedby 7 ) an articulaterevival ofegoistic values, formerly held without question. It leads, I think, to the formulation of egoistphilosophiessuch asthat ofYang-chu.

We must remember, however, that these stagesofdevelopment arise successively in order of evolution,but simultaneously in the evolved individual ; in otherwords, a man is a complex of egoistic, social, andaltruistic impulses,and all thevalues founded on them.Nor need wethink of them as necessarily in conflict.

We conceive that a man, endowred with egoisticimpulses, will value and preserve his life ; also, perceivinghisdependenceonothers, hewill exhibit socialimpulses accordingly;to acertain degree, also,this manwill be impelled towards thewelfare ofothers; and ina special degreehemay become soaltruisticas tosacrifice the life which, primarily, hevalued aboveall. Inthis way, onesees that, though the various impulsesnormally form a co-ordinate system, the later onesnecessarily lead away from the extension of the primitive impulse, andoccasionallyto itscomplete abandonment. Butconsider another case. Allow the egoistimpulses tocarry one so far as to invade (practically)or deny (formally) the right to life in others; immediately, as I see it, social and altruistic impulsescannot proceed normally, as supposed. The individualbecomes an ego-centric, whoradiates himself to theinjury of others. Thesocial order in which he livescannot beintegral like that which surrounds thepersonof more social sensitiveness.

In order to correct an impression that maypossiblybe madebythis methodofdiscussion,it isonly needfulto saythat societies comprise a very large numberofpeople displaying impulses ofinfinite degree and combination from themost primitive egoismto the highestself-sacrifice. My aim hasbeen to express the matterin its simple form.

(2. ) PHILOSOPHIC BACKGROUND FOR YANG.If thereader will now refer to myhistorical tableon

p 4 4 0ofTHE EGOIST (December 1, 1 9 1 4 ) hewillbeableto forman ideaof the existing philosophic backgroundagainst which Yang-Chu appears.

For thousands ofyears theprimitive animism of theChinesehadheld the field. Spirits good and bad(Shenand Kwei) played with manaccording as his deedsdeserved. Kung-fu-tse met thisposition withthe strongethical fervourof"Righteousness andPropriety." Theformer wasman's respect and worship for departedancestors and spirits ("Heaven"), the latter was hisdutyto hissuperiors andeldersonearth. 1have shownhowMo-tse carried theethicsofKung-fu-tse to extremedegrees of altruism with his doctrine of "UniversalLove" and"No t making distinction between man andman." Meng-tse seriously declared thatthedoctrines ofMo-tse "fill thekingdom" while Chawag-tse wishedtohave him gagged ; infollowing Kung-fu-tse, Mohad,during a hundred years, made the transvaluationofexisting egoist values" as complete and dramatic aspossible.So much as to ethics. As formetaphysics therewasthe venerable doctrine of the Tao,with its peculiarquietist tendency, leading already during Lao-tse'sdaytowards akind ofasceticism. Starting away fromtheTaoist "Back to Nature" thought (as I have argued),Yang-chu turnsupon Mo, KungandLao witha powerfulattack. He challenges their transvaluations; he"revives" the egoist values of the ancients," andpoints to the egoist impulses upon which they arefounded. Forthis reason I call him an Egoist Philosopher.

(3 .) ET HICAL DOCTRINES TESTE D.*

Yang wants to get rid of any "obstruction" to thenatural processes. To cherish lifeit sufficestogiveitits (free course, neither checking nor obstructing it:(viii). This seems innocent enoughuntilwelearnwhatitleadsto.

I willask thereader tonotice thecasesofThe HappyVoluptuaries, theJoyous Tuan, and thevillains Ch'iehand Chow:

1 . Kung-Sun-Chow had a thousand barrels ofwineand yeast piled up inheaps; the liquor scented theair for a hundred paces "offending people's noses."He wasalways tipsy and quite unconscious of thedangers herisked. (III.,ix.)

In thefollowing criticismthereaderisreferredtoT H E E G O I S Tof December 1ST;thelargeRoman numeralsreferto thesectionofthe article,thesmallto thechapterquotedfrom Yang.

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10 THE EGOIST January 1, 19152. Kung-Sun-Mu had a harem of thirty or forty

houses filled with women. He seldom came out "andyet he did not feel contente d" ; every attractive girlhe would try to entice to his place.

Taken together, what alone they feared was, that theday might come when their bodies would no longerrespond to their desires. They declare their aestheticexperience, and upon it proceed, Yang wise, to base anethic" our method of regulating internals"which issimply to continue to follow impulse to the end. It isof course no logical ethic at all, though expressed inquasi-logical form.

3 . Tuan-mu-Shu was left rich and " followed his owninclinations " over mountain and valley to find whathewanted at all costs ; this he squandered, and dying,left his offspring so destitute that they had to be supported by his one time companions. This was " inaccord with right doc trine" says Yang (III., x . ).

4 . Ch'ieh inherited the wealth of many generations ;he restrained his subjects and shook the land with hispower; he followed his impulses to the end"mostreckless and dissipated." (III., xiii.)

5 . Chow also was rich, and everything yielded tohis wil l; " Of all mortals the most licentious andextravagant, " he admitted no duty to Heaven or hisfellow men. (II I. , xiii.)These five heroes of Yang's philosophy are ego

maniacs ;they are aware oftheir own existence and theymake all elsetheir slaves. The drunken Chow must havea hundred attendants to keep him in liquor, whileotherPeople s noses are offended. Similarly, the amorous Mualso has a houseful of slaves serving his inclinations, butnot their own. Tuan, Ch'ieh and Chow set the whole oftheir subjects under their feet, millions of people servingbutthree tyrants. Clearly,thisgame of Yang's is onethatfew can play at. The dependence on crowds of slaves canhardly be called "regulating things by internals, so thatthings go on all right, and the mind obtains peace andrest." Again we detect a quasi-logical sophism used tojustify conductthat on Yang's hypothesis, being natural,needs no justification.

Someone wishing to defend Yang may accuse me ofmaking too much of his "villains," of taking them tooseriously. It is not because I am shocked by them; Itreat them according to the philosophical significancewith which Yang surrounds them. They are an elaboration of his answer to his own question: "What, then, isthe object of human life1 What makes it pleasant;comfort and elegance, music and beauty."

But let me not forget the old farmer of Sung, of anature so attractive that I think he brings more fish tothe net of Yangthan all his villains together (VI. ,xviii.).He, too, sought for pleasure like the others, in his ownsimple way. He loved to feel the warm sun on the backas he worked in the fields at spring time But is he notjust a little bit too naveand too rare? One suchrusticamong five influential " villains " can scarcely savethe system of Yang from ridicule or restore the equilibrium to a social order that contains too many Chowsand Ch'iehs.

( 4 . ) YAN G'S CRITIQUE OF ALTRUISM.

Having examined Yang' s exposition of his fundamentalprinciple I now turn to his critique of altruism. He isperfectly clear as to what the principle is ; he realisesthat it is at the root of the systems of Kung and Mo,systems which are in categorical opposition to his own.Altruism is, to him, the ruling vice He falls back onPo-cheng, who would not part with a single hair of hisbody for the benefit of others (I V. , xii.). A hair is apart of the body like a piece of skin or a limb. No onewould consent to lose a limb for the sake of a kingdom,why, then, lose a hair for the benefit of others 1 Theargument is invalid in several ways ; men do risk theirlives and limbs for kingdoms, and for less ; they also givetheir lives for others without reckoning the cost. Inboth cases they regulate their life by truly inwardthings, either egoistic or altruistic impulses. OfPo-cheng it can be said that he was regulating his con

duct by an arbitrary idea of consistency, which of allthings is least inward, and most artificial ; whereas themost inward thing, next to self-loveand sometimesdeeperis compassion or feeling for another's pain. Ifthe altruists of Yang's time had been more profound intheir psychological analysis, instead of being largely traditionalists, they could have adopted his formula andbeaten him with it. All altruistic ethic is ultimatelybased on one's inner feeling ofanother's need. It is anextension of the imagination until it becomes a kind ofsensibility, and a consequent spur to action. " A s yewould that men should do unto you " can only beaddressed to creatures capable of imagination.

(5. ) THE ATTACK ON RIGHTEOUSNESS AND PROPRI ETY .

Other topics might be critically examined, such as thefalse antitheses of Reality versus Reputation and Yang'sdoctrine of Government, but I am conscious that eventhough I have exposed his illogic, his historical inaccuracy and his self-contradiction, there is still something important left which is not weakened thereby. Thisis his fundamental opposition to "Righteousness andPropriety," an opposition which he shares with theTaoists. Here I must beg my readers to return tosections I. and II. of the present article. The Confucians and the Mohists may be classed together in onegroup inthat they set up a canon of action which invadedthe sphere of free egoism. I explain this by a device ofYang's; he says: " I f men could do without clothes andfood there would be no more kings and governments; "which proves that he understands that kings andgovernments arise because of the struggle for the thingsupon which life depends. I assent to this, and say inreply: if men were not egoistic there would be no needfor Righteousness and Propriety. These are the necessary correctives, in my conception, of the too free play ofegoistic impulses. I put the case thus: (1) All men areegoistsin the sense that they desire their own welfare ;this does not preclude the welfare of others. I thinkYang himself, with his "three acres and a cow " desiredall others to be as happy as he was. 2 ) But many menare ego-centrics; the world revolves round them and theycare nothing for others except as they minister to theirneeds; they talk of "the herd," "the mob, " as of anorder to which they have no regard. ( 3 )Some men areego-maniacs; they press their impulses to the very periphery of life ; they invade a host of others, and causesuffering by the exercise of this dominating Will-to-Power. Kings and governments (in this ideal aspectand their rare "better moments " ) can only justify theirexistence in so far as they put down the ego-maniacs,restrain the ego-centrics and give free scope to the gratification o f the normal egoists. In this way all men mightbecome alter-egoists. What more could be desired ?

But the record of kings and governments, with a fewbright exceptions, is one of universal failure ; the ego-centrics become kings, or the governments become egomaniacs. Nowthis has been perceived by the wise andgood-willing at all times and in all lands. Somethinghigher than the restraint of the kingly hand has beensought for and found in " Righteousness and Propriety."But where? Keeping close to Chinese thought, I willremind my readers that the immemorial conception ofthis dual instrument was that it produced "-Equilibriumand Harmony." It made Earth like Heaven. Heavenwas the abode, primarily, of all the departed spirits ofancestors, of the great controlling spirits of Nature, ofShang-ti the Supreme. It Avas the source of all inspiration and wisdom above the merely worldly. Towards ittherefore there must be a duty from man here below,in order to secure the good which there resides." Righteousness " wasthat duty.

But when Yang asserts, "Accord ing to the law ofNature there is no such thing as immortality," he cutsaway the ground from Righteousness. If, therefore, Ido not refute him now I, too, must let go Righteousness.But I will not let go Propriety. Though I cannot seethe Gods, men I know, and their relative claims uponeach other. I know and feel these in myself; and uponthat knowledge Propriety rests.

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January 1, 1915 THE EGOIST 11While Yang is right in believing that Righteousness

and Propriety are a curtailment of ego-maniac and egocentric expression, he is wrong in identifying them withmere " Reputation." He is wrong in teaching that theydeprive men of the enrichment of their lives.

WILLIAM L. HARE.

POEMS.By CLARA SHANAFELT

FANTASTIC.I am a little weary of the moonAnd all the stars.I would have newer gemsTo weave in beloved hair.Leaning down from this hill I will gather upLights of cities that throb far away in the night.Pale elfin dancers leapingOver the heads of the sick and sleeping,Over passionate lovers, withering women,The deadI willgive you the mad lights of citiesTocrown you.Needy poets may have the moon if they likeCast off, and the tarnished starsWe are a little too old for these trinkets.

TREES.Tall and splendid womenInclined voluptuously,Veiled in their marvellous hair.The poplars are goddesses, green dancers,Young virgins with delicate nerves :They tremble constantlyFrom excessive sensibility.The apples stretch out matronly armsThey are kind and calm.But at night all the trees are differentI am a little afraid,Not of them but of what they say,The stars listenone cannot tellWhat they may do about it.The trees are whispering so very strangelyI half expect to see themStartup and walk toward me,1I shiver like a young virginTaken by her own fantasy.

EGO.I have written stalely, echoing others,But all this is not myself,This imitative, pleasing chatterOf a dbutante in a drawing-roomAware of her mother's ear.This is no more me than an awkward dress,But it mars, it binds meAnd the voices pent within clamour to be born.Somewhere are those who if they could seeWould desire meI feel them not far away,Coming and going with the windLike fragrance in the night of flowers hidden :Shall I call out softlySit near a candle, my earrings swaying?Surely I shall be desired if I can be seen.It no longer amuses meTo go about the world secretly like a ghost,Intelligent, unavailing :I will embody myselfO Mother, let me be born

WEBSTER FORD.By EZRA POUND.

T LAST At last America has discovered a poet.Do not mistake me, America that great land ofhypothetical futures has had various poets born

within her borders, but since Whitman they have invariably had to come abroad for their recognition." W a l t " seems to have set the fashion. Of courseAmericahasliterarytraditions. Crawfordsville, Indiana,has a literary tradition: Lew Wallace died there.American magazines go on "discovering" societycurates, castrated hobby-horses, writers of epos incomparison with whom the later maunderings ofTennyson and of Alfred Austin sound like the surgeand thunder of the Odyssey, etc. And a castratedgovernment of school teachers goes on making 'eminto Ambassadors, whenever the stock of ex-publishers'clerks and secretaries of the local Y.M.C.A.'s run out:

O patria mia, vedo le mura e gli archiE le colonne . . . et cetera.

America has also proclaimed to the " wor ld" a race ofred bloods, i.e., young men hiding their incapacity ortheir psychopathia sexualis with the grand bravura, witha hurricane of adjectives and with talk of "t he male."Also America has printed optimists who express all, ornearly all the ideas contained in McClure's magazinefor the month before last. And they have also anotherbreed, diluted fabians. O patria mia, etc.

Still, it comes to me as no surprise that a poet canbe born in America; several rather goodAmerican poetshave drifted into my room from time to time, goingEast, going to "j aded Eur ope" in search of publishersand good company. And what they have said abouttheir fatherland makes my occasional constructivecriticism seem like watered optimism. They considerme a purblind enthusiast. O patria degna di trionfalfama.

At last the American West has produced a poet strongenough to weather the climate, capable of dealing withlife directly, without circumlocution, without resonantmeaningless phrases. Ready to say what he has to say,and to shutup when he has said it. Able to treat SpoonRiver as Villon treated Paris of 1 4 6 0 . The essence ofthis treatment consists in looking at things unaffectedly.Villon did not pretend that fifteenth-century Paris wasRome of the first century B.C. Webster Ford does notpretend that Spoon River of 1 9 1 4 is Paris of 1 4 6 0 .

The quality of this treatment is that it can treatactual details without being interested in them, without in the least depending upon them. The bore, thedemnition bore of pseudo-modernity, is that the avowedmodernist thinks he can make a poem out of a steamshovel more easily and more effectively than out of thetraditional sow' s ear. The accidents and detail aremade to stand for the core.

Good poetry is always the same; the changes aresuperficial. We have the real poem in nature. Thereal poet thinking the realpoem absorbs the de or almostunconsciously. In the fourth century B.C. he writes:

"quivers ornamented with fish-skin";in the twentieth of our era, he writes :"khaki, with a leather strap for his map-case."But the real poem is the same. Of course there arevery few poems. You have to go back to Rihoku to finda man telling the truth about warfare :

"Lice swarm like ants over our accoutrements,Our mind is on getting forward the feather-silk

banners.Hard fighting gets no reward.Loyalty is hard to explain.Who will be sorry for General Rishogu, the swift-

moving,Whose white head is lost for this province "

That's the eighth century A. D. and China. I havebefore me an early book by Webster Ford, printed

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January 1, 1915 THE EGOIST 13although the sacrifice is great, it is comprehensible.When a young man sees the woman he loves in the armso f his friend, he lights a cigar; he stays indoors and contracts an indissoluble friendship with grief : this iscomprehensible. When a boy at a boarding-school isharassed from morning till night for years, which seemcenturies, by a pariah of civilization whose eyes areconstantly upon him, he feels the tumultuous waves offierce hatred rising like thick smoke to his almost bursting brain. From the moment he was cast into thisprison till the moment he leaves, an intense feveryellows his face, contracts his brows and hollows hiseyes. At night he thinks, because he will not sleep.In the daytime his thoughts continually pass beyond thewalls ofthis house of brutishness, until the day when heescapes, or is cast out like a leper, from this eternalprison ; this is comprehensible. To dig a grave oftenexceeds the powers of nature. How can this pick turnup the earth which first feeds us and then gives us a comfortable bed to shelter us from the furious wind of thesecold lands, when he whose trembling hands holds thepickafter having handled all day the cheeks of thedeadsees before him at night, written inlettersof flameon every wooden cross the enunciation of the terribleproblem which humanity has never solved : the mortality or the immortality of the soul. I have always keptmy love for the creator of the universe : but if we donot exist after death, why is it that nearly every night,I see the tombs open and their inhabitants lift up theleaden covers and come out to breathe the fresh air? "

" Stop your work for a moment. Your excitementhas weakened yo u; you seem to me as feeble as a reed;it would be madness for you to go on. I am strong ; letme take your place. Stand beside me and correct me ifI make mistakes. "

" How strong his arms are, and how pleasant it is towatch him digging so easily "

"You must not let useless doubt torment you. Allthe tombs, scattered over the graveyard like flowers in ameadowa false comparisondeserved to be measuredby the serene compass of philosophy. Dangerous hallucinations may come to one in the daytime, but they comemost frequently at night. You must not feel astonishedat the fantastic visions which you think you see. In thedaytime, when your mind is calm, question your conscience. Your conscience will tell you that the God,who has given man a part of his own intelligence, possesses an immeasurable goodness ; and after death hewill receive his masterpiece into his bosom. Grave-digger, why do you weep? Think of the good in theworld. We are put on this mastless vessel to suffer. Itis a virtue in man that God has thought him capable ofovercoming his worst suffering. Tell me in what doesvirtue consist, the ideal which each strives to attain?"

To be continued.

FIGHTING PARIS.DECEMBER 7.M. G. C. left to be trained this morning,

having received his notification only yesterday. M. G. C.has never held a gun, has had no liking for sports and isthrust at the age of forty into this entirely new life.

M. Paul Fort is writing (and publishing) poems aboutReims, his native town.

DECEMBER 8 The pretty little Theatre du VieuxColombier, where was achieved what had been expectedo f other ventures in modern stagecraft, is used for distributing benefits to refugees from Belgium and theinvaded departments of France.

DECEMBER 11.Writers and artists helping to do theircountry's wor k: Edmond Pilon; Louis Pergaud, whowrites fables for which he has obtained a name andrewards ; Flicien Fagus, Andr Salmon, both poets ;Maurice Denis, painter of Madonnas and Psyches,decorator of the Thtre des Champs Elyses; EugeneMarsan, of the "Re vue Critique des Ides et desLivres"; ClaudeFarrre,who, like Pierre Loti, combinesa literary with a naval career. The French translatorof

Swinburne, Mme. Helene du Pasquier, is a nurse.M. M. George Crs and Figuire, the publishers, are also"serving."

DECEMBER 1 4 D r M. has been enrolled, but will notbe called out till January, which is strange consideringthat surgeons are wanted in the ambulance services atthe front and especially on the hospital trains. Dr. P.has returned from imprisonment in Germany. He wasnot too badly off in the camp at which he was quartered,but cards were his only occupation.

Mr. C. writes he was expected to sleep on straw onarriving at the depot and suffers keenly from the cold.He has, in consequence, hired a roombut what of thosewho have not the means?

DECEMBER 16.Paris is almost as animated as it everhas been. The shops are crowded, the trains and underground line as congested as at the worst (or best?) oftimes. The hawker crying, " As k for the only completelist of our prisoners of war in Germany," is the onlyreminder of tragic events. Still no direction is given tofashionsthat all-engrossing topic in the averageFrenchwoman's life. Each woman is, for the first timefor years, willy-nilly, left to the resources of her ownimagination. A new form of head-dress, imitating theFrench soldier's forage cap, has obtained wide popularityboth among Parisiennes and street boys. Among theformer, of course, those whom it becomes least wear itmost. Patriotism, the army and its attributes agree asill with women and their dress as with art and literature.But the absolute suppression of whatever may bereminiscent of national feeling and national duty isanother matter. Thus, deputies who may be acting inmilitary capacities are requested not to attend thecoming sessions in uniform, which extraordinary ordermeans that the rest of the Chamber wishes to avoidattention being drawn to that particular body withoutwhom the nation would simply not exist to-day. Theoccasion is ill-chosen for the expression of such pettiness.

DECEMBER 17.News of the attack on West Hartlepool, Scarborough, etc.

It appears, from a letter addressed by a professor at aSwedish University to M. Paul Bourget, that the"liberal-minded Scandinavians" (as he calls his compatriots), while withholding their sympathies fromGerman Imperialism, cannot give their wholeheartedsupport to the allied countries for the reason that thesehave called troops from Africa and India, i.e., accordingto him, "inferior races," to help them "b ut t " the enemyback into its own realm, to use Joanof Arc's expression.Putting aside the debatable applicability of the epithet"inferior" to Arabs and Indiansespecially from onewho calls himself liberalin reference to fighters who,as such, are, at least, superior; and in connection withthis struggle wherein the same term has been appliedwithout reserve to the aggressorwhite though he benotably here in France ; putting aside the retort itobviously invites to the effect that the Germans havechosen a non-Christian and "b rowmish" ( for so theSwedish professor describes some of our Colonial troops)nation, not only to help them in their work at so much aday, but as theirallies ;putting aside the argument usedby the Germans themselvesthat in warfare everythingis legitimate provided it further the purpose of war ;putting aside these and other replies to the Swedishgentleman's protest, some of which have been intelligently and politely reviewed by M. Paul Bourget in hiscommentary and explanation in justification of theAllies' appeal to their armies "overseas," there remainsthe pre-eminent, namely, the practical argument, overlooked by M. Paul Bourget. It is the common-senseargument impelled by necessity, the one resorted to bythe man at bay when the end absolutely justifies themeans. For in self-defence the one who is in an inferiorposition is right when he employs whatever resourcessuggest themselves. The Germans are in France : theymust be turned out of it if there is any possibility of sodoing, whether by white, brown or black men, by gunpowder, poison, knives, dynamite, melinite, turpinite,boiling oil, arrows sent from aeroplanes or otherwise,stones or any other implements. If the " brownish "

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14 THE EGOIST January 1, 1915men already at our service could be usefully seconded byKaffirs, Hottentots, lions, tigers, wild cats, or any ofthe beasts, there is no sentimental reason why theseshould not also be called to our assistance.

In self-defence, no humanitarian pleas, no loyalty, norules of sport or civilisation hold. The same agents em-ployed in attack may be as wrong aswhen employed in defencethey are right. If humanitarians and other well-meaningpeople do not understand this simple and natural axiomthen they prove once again that all their reasoning iswindbag reasoning in the emergency of war. Those whoundertake the responsibility ofattack and conquest arepreparedor should befor the consequences . So longas the attacked one is not reduced to absolute impotencehe is dangerous, and has a right to be.

The above refutations do not imply that there is anyjustification inputting out the eyes of wounded (or evendrunken) soldiers lying defenceless in bed or on thebattlefield ; or in finishing off the wounded ; or in throwing petrol indiscriminately over corpses and maimedalike and setting fire to them so as to have more quicklydone withthem inthiswaythanby the usualoperations;in sending bombs from aeroplanes over open cities whichkill or disable old men and little children out for aSunday stroll; in torturing prisoners; or in inflictingvindictive punishment forpetty larcenies or insubordination,for these devices of cruelty, while making innocent victims, do not further the purpose. Being insufficiently effectual they are of use neither in attack nor indefence. They are harmful without reason, thereforeunjustifiablebriefly, cruel. But there is no cruelty incalling together all our forceswhatever they beindefence of ourselves. And it is absurd to pity the conqueror as long as he is the conqueror. When he has beenovercome, when he in his turn is in an inferior position,then humanitarian principles may be applied.

DECEMBER 18.In reference to the cruelties inflictedonEnglish soldiers by the Germans I may quote from aletter from aFrench prisoner of my acquaintance: " Weare not so badly off, but I cannot say as much for theEnglish and Russians. This, strangely enough, passedthe censorship. Does it not eloquently corroborate thereports in the newspapers? What right have the Scandinavians to throw the nativetroops into our teeth?

The parents of a young soldier friend advertise dailyfor him, all news having ceased since August 30th. Noone left for the war with more enthusiasmthan he.

Dressmaterials are giving out. One has to take whatone can find. The stocks have not been renewed sincethe spring.

The men now leaving to be trained will be very badlyoff, as the depots are crowded . The youths of the1915classe,aged about 19,willhave to sleep intents. Otherssuffer from inactivity, having been for weeksin manycases since the beginning of the warmore or less unoccupied in lonely villages, at their depots, or guardingrailway lines and bridges. For men of middle-age, usedto activity and brainwork, the task is hard to bear. Isnot life truly " a tale told by an idiot? "

DECEMBER 20.Frozen feet is the latest illbrought fromthe front.

Little flags in the Belgian colours are being sold to-dayin the streets for the benefit of Belgian refugees.

MURIEL CIOLKOWSKA.

ON THERSITES.Your last distempered works are such

As you, too, shall deploreI'd not despise you quite so much

If you would write no more.RICHARD ALDINGTON.

All BACK NUM BER S of T HE EGO IS T andTHE NEW FREEWO MAN can be obtained

from the publishing:office :Oakley House, Bloomsbury Street, London, W . C . Price 6d. each. Bypost, 6d.

CORRESPONDENCE.N O T E T O CORRESPONDENTS.While quite willing topublish letters

under noms deplume, we make it a condition of publicationthat the name and address of each correspondent should besupplied^ to the Editor.ED.

* *STILLBORN PROGRESS.

To the Editor T HE EGOIST.MADAM,

First let me say, in answer to Miss Florence Bradford'spertinent question, that I dislike the term progress. Itspresent-day application is misleading if not meaningless, unlessmoving in a vicious circle is progress. However, I am not fora philological debate with anyone, and will continue to usethe termunder protest. According to the scientific conceptionof human life, human beings undergo a process known as organicevolution. Implicit in this evolution is a law of progress saidto proceed on three lines, each a generalisation higher than theother. The three lines are physical or economic, biological orvital, and nature or the miscalled spiritual level. Science professes to express progress in these three ways. But commonsense tells us that there is only one way of progress i.e.,advance), namely, the spiritual. All below the spiritual level isa precipitate. As soon as we change the quality of the precipitate it tends to rise to the surface where it merges in the spiritualflow. However, let me examine the scientific hypotheses. Thequestion of economic progress is soon disposed of. If we examinethe history of the attempt of men to govern themselves byeconomic laws we find it is one long story of man evolving (usedin the sense of maintaining) the economic man at the expense ofthe vital and spiritual man. And as the economic man has noreal existence, but is a figment of the human brain, it means thatthe sum total of economic progress is a figment also. All thatman has done, economically speaking, is to transfer his idea ofvalue from himself to gold. In order to advance he must re-transfer his idea of value from gold to himself again. This willplace him in the pre-civilisation or vital region. As a goldenimage he is no more advanced than a Kickapoo Indian of theStone Age.

Biological progress is also a myth. Biologically considered,progress is said to take place through the natural selection offavourable inheritable variations. This is the whole principle ofbiological evolution. It is supported by Darwin, Dr. ArchdallReid and most of the leading biologists of to-day. Opposed tothis view was the theory of Lamarckthat acquired characters areinheritable. To Lamarck the long neck of the giraffe andthe webbed foot of the duck assumed heritable acquired characters. Spencer believed in Lamarckism. To him, conscienceevolved through the continuous inculcation of morality throughout generations. But there is reason to believe that Spencer waswrong. It may be that the kind of progress the human race hasmade or is likely to make, is that expressed in Dr. ArchdallReid's theory of immunity. The theory roughly stated is thatwe English have drunk ourselves drunk, and, in order to becomesober, we must drink ourselves sober. Favourable spontaneousvariations are to be worked to the utmost by natural selection.Very pretty. I say, it may be advisedly, because a glance atthe literature on the subject of hereditary transmissions showsthat the views on it are still in the crucible. Biological scienceis, like Nietzsche in England, mostly in the aphoristic andapophthegmic stage. Each is trying to bud in extremely terseandlimited sayings. In fact, in the matter of telling us whetherwe are progressing or not, biological science has done nothingfor us beyond showing us that very early landmark of organiclife, the germ plasm. And the value of its services in this direction is not striking when we remember that it does not show usthe path that leads up to the landmark, and what is to be thelogical completion of that to which it points. The first cause ofprotoplasm is still as deep a mystery to biologists as the first ca