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The Civil Service and the Patronage/Chapter 08

civil service had by the middle of the nineteenth century become so extensive that the careful supervision which the earlier presidents exercised became impossible; and, as appointments continued to be made by personal selection, organization and division of labor became more and more necessary. Naturally, this organization was built upon such foundations as existed, and the change was not so much in the system as in the shifting of the balance of work and responsibility from the cabinet to outside forces.

Members of Congress had from the beginning been influential in suggesting names; but as appointments came to have greater political significance, they came to speak with greater authority — that is, if they belonged to the party in power. During the period in question, minor positions in the various congressional districts were practically in the gift of the members, as they are to-day. If some city of more than usual importance

was included within the district, the advice of the senators from the state would be sought, or, at least, of the senator particularly interested in the section in question.

It was a natural practice for the various members from one state, belonging to the same party, to get together and talk over the situation; instances have been cited in the Continental Congress, and in the administrations of Washington and Jefferson and of most subsequent presidents. Between 1845 and 1865 the practice hardened into a custom, and the power of the delegation became almost absolute. At the beginning of Pierce's term, the Herald said that Congress showed itself willing to relieve the president of all trouble in regard to the patronage, as it had divided up into committees to portion it out. Lincoln said that he could not overrule the Rhode Island delegation in regard to the Providence post-office; and he probably made very few nominations to important local positions without the previous consent of the delegation, or at least of the senators. The influence of the delegation extended beyond the local offices. Owing to the importance of geographical considerations in this country, each state is quite sure to have a share of the general offices. In 1853 the Herald announced that a state having

a cabinet officer would not be given a foreign minister. It became customary to assign an office to a state, and allow the delegation to select the particular recipient who should be chosen for the honor; but this custom was not as firmly fixed as that by which the local patronage was dispensed.

Often no member of Congress from the state belonged to the administration party, or there might be local factions within the party hostile to the congressional delegation; and in such cases other means of information had to be sought. The older method of Washington and Jefferson, who were accustomed to write to some man of family or local standing, had, with the growth and the democratization of the country, come to be less practised; but to some extent the want was supplied by the rise of the boss. Thurlow Weed, for instance, was always ready to advise about New York appointments, and generally advised well. Bosses, however, were as yet rare, and were at this period usually in Congress. The various New York factions sent delegates to Washington, if they had no official prolocutor; and this example was often followed by other localities, even though the prize was less valuable. The governors sometimes proffered, and were sometimes asked for, advice; but the weight attached to it varied greatly with the different presidents. Taylor considered it decisive in case of a struggle at Washington, while Lincoln treated it rather curtly when offered gratuitously, and when he asked for it he made it plain that it was advice and not dictation that he desired.

One really important new tendency is to be noted. In 1841 the ward caucuses of Whigs in New York City assumed the

right to dictate minor appointments, and in 1861 it was urged that friction and bitterness would be spared if postmasters were to be elected by vote of the Republicans in their respective districts. Lincoln favored this latter plan in at least one particular instance, and several such elections were held and their returns duly honored by the appointing powers. This scheme illustrates how far the distinction between elective and administrative offices had been lost. The germ of it is to be found as far back as Jefferson's administration, when it was argued that he should carry out the proscription which the people had begun, and should extend it to the offices which they could not directly reach. What the result of such an arrangement would have been may be conjectured from the experience of New York, where it was given extensive application in the constitutions of 1821 and 1846, and where it led, not to the extinction of the spoils system, but to the solidification of party organization.

The president and cabinet could not abdicate all their responsibilities; the decision, the final word, rested with them. Then, as now, the fourth assistant postmaster-general was patronage officer and distributed the numerous local offices in that large department. Even if he did usually follow the advice of others, he was a man of power. When, as so often happened, the delegations were not unanimous, and when the local powers were not satisfied with the selections of congressmen, the administration had to award judgment. Few members of the cabinet, moreover, were content to be absolute nonentities: they were responsible for the conduct of their subordinates, and thought it was but fair that they should have some share in picking them out. Many of them were men of political ambition, and desired to build up in the various states bodies of supporters. In consequence, there was often friction between the head of a department under which an officer was to serve, and the representatives of the state from which he

was to be chosen and in which he was to exercise his functions. To govern such cases, President Pierce laid down the general rule, that every nomination must be approved by the secretary of the proper department; but the difficulty was inherent in the system and could not be settled by rule. No minor question vexed Lincoln more than that of the adjustment of these rival claims. Secretary Chase was insistent on his rights, while Seward and Weed argued that they were best acquainted with the needs of the Republican party in New York State, and that, if they agreed with the senators, further consultation was unnecessary. Lincoln adopted the same rule as Pierce; but the disagreement was never adjusted, and finally a contest of this kind was the immediate cause of the withdrawal of Chase from the cabinet.

The president himself had great potentialities of power; he determined the relative influences that each of these forces should be allowed to exercise, and if he was a strong man, like Lincoln, he could lay down the general qualifications for appointment. The number of men actually selected by him was usually small, yet each separate appointee owed to him his position. In the end, the power went to the strong man.

To take our history as a whole, Washington probably controlled appointments more fully than any other president; under Monroe the members of the cabinet possessed their greatest power, and under Pierce the congressional delegations were most dictatorial. It was not until after the close of the period covered by this chapter that senatorial courtesy acquired its preëminence.

That this system tended to bring many politicians into office is obvious. Military service ceased to be so often rewarded with civil position as formerly. Pierce, during his campaign, had laid much emphasis upon his career in the Mexican War, and after his election was deluged with applications from his old companions in arms; but, in general, veterans were fewer than

at any other period of our history, and consequently played a smaller part in politics. Among those who had rendered political service, the newspaper men seem to have received fewer rewards than previously. In 1845 the franking privilege was restricted, and minor post-offices were thereby rendered less profitable to local editors; while the men who controlled great national organs could not afford to take office. In fact, after 1861, Horace Greeley was rather a dictator of appointments than a seeker after them; and though Lincoln once offered James Gordon Bennett a foreign mission to keep him in good humor, he knew beforehand that the offer would not be accepted. It was the rise of these great metropolitan journals that caused the discontinuance of the official organ at Washington. No pensioned press at the capital could compete with the Tribune and the Herald, whose able correspondents gave pictures of the daily working of the government, generally as accurate and always more intimate than the National Intelligencer or the Union had ever vouchsafed.

The pay of congressmen continued small until 1856, when it was raised from the eight dollars a day and mileage, that had held for so long, to three thousand dollars per annum, also with mileage. It is not surprising that before 1856 members made many applications for office. The Herald said in 1853: “The Louisiana applicants are in a melancholy way. Their members are so busy, rumor says, in grinding their own axes, that their constituents are little better than orphans.” It was, moreover, quite the customary thing for members defeated for reëlection to receive, sans reproche, some offer of substantial consolation. Thus Lincoln was offered the governorship of Oregon by Taylor.

Men whose only occupation was politics were not, even in this period, very numerous; still a class of professional politicians existed and received many posts. Some of these men

were notorious, and their appointments were received with great disapprobation. An amusing example of their claims is found in 1857, when it was proposed to appoint Count Gurowski, master of many languages, as translator to the state department; but strong opposition developed because the place was demanded for a Tammany man who knew several Indian languages. The politician received his office, not only as a reward, but as a retaining fee.

From the beginning of our government there has been complaint of the activity of office-holders; and such complaint will probably never cease, as it is practically impossible to draw a working distinction between the proper interest of the citizen and the obligations of the servant of the government. The Herald (March 16, 1853) said, “The Hard-Shells repudiate with scorn the doctrine that quiet men are entitled to office, for they say this would be a premium for inactivity, desertion, and hypocrisy, which would strike a heavy blow and a sore disappointment at men of principle and action, and they contend, would prove ruinous to the party.” The system of appointment brought into the leading positions men prominent in local politics, and it is not surprising to find them attending national conventions in the interest of the leaders who secured their preferment.

Much more laborious service than this was required, however. Thus the struggle for the New York collectorship was always severe, not only because of the emoluments, but because the post was considered to carry with it the dictatorship of New York City. After Pierce's inauguration the Herald remarked, "Now let the seven or eight hundred Whigs in office here turn their attention to sweets of private life." These men had worked under the direction of the collector for the Whig party, and their successors were expected to work for the Democratic organization. The investigation of Poindexter in New York brought out the fact that these minor officers felt at liberty to leave their duties for several days, without permission, to attend to party work. What was true of the great

cities was true, in varying degree, of smaller ones. Lincoln wrote in 1849 that the postmaster at Springfield, Illinois, had served on the Democratic central committee during his entire term, and had identified himself with local politics the more effectively because he enjoyed a not very burdensome office, located at the seat of the state government.

Assessment of official salaries for party purposes appeared in national politics simultaneously with the spoils system. In 1830 the men appointed by Jackson to offices in Boston were asked to contribute, not indeed to a campaign fund, but to pay, for the editor of the Statesman, the debts which the latter had contracted during the campaign. The attempt was not entirely successful, but by 1840 a regular system of assessments existed in some places. In New York, officials in the custom-house were all assessed, just previous to the various elections, for sums differing according to their salaries. No distinct threats seem to have been made; but most men paid, and it was noticed that those who did not generally lost favor. A clumsy witticism of the Boston Courier, March 26, 1845, illustrates the prevalence of the practice: “A strange case of Hypochondria! A disappointed office-seeker of our acquaintance fancies himself a salary of $2000 a year, and has locked himself up in an iron safe, for fear of being used up by assessments for party purposes.” Throughout the forties, fifties, and sixties this unofficial taxation was an accepted rule.

Although corruption may have been widespread, actual instances of it are rarely brought to light. Lincoln bought votes with offices, and Buchanan was accused of doing so; but such bargains are seldom capable of proof. Fiscal dishonesty is more tangible; but here again the thieving was covered by a garment, though a scant one, of legality, and since the

which were made during this period were purely partisan, it is impossible to distinguish fraud from maladministration. Both existed and both cost the government heavily, but the popular interest in the threatening political dangers of the patronage and in the suspected dishonesty of the service, which had characterized the period from 1811 to 1840, had died away, and had not yet been succeeded by a demand for efficiency. Every one knew that money was lost, but no one of sufficient influence troubled himself to get behind the mutual recriminations of the politicians and find out who was really at fault.

While this apathy accounts in part for the lack of expressed dissatisfaction at the conduct of the government, it is extremely probable that public business was administered, though expensively, yet much better than one would imagine from a description of the spoils system. Jackson was partly right when he said that the duties of most public officers were not hard: the party leaders were only too glad to multiply the offices until the duties of none of, the inferior positions would overtax the energy or the ability of the most commonplace citizen. Moreover, the argument of American adaptability is true, though hackneyed. Particularly in this very period the life history of the average citizen showed a great variety of occupations pursued with fair success, and an amazing capacity for acquiring a simple rule of thumb and applying it with ingenuity. The study of Van Buren's administration showed us that high ability was not lacking when required: a man who could organize a party for victory could administer a large body of officials with vigor. The recent success of Mr. Hanna in politics, taken in conjunction with the fortunes honestly accumulated by politicians like Amos Kendall, illustrates the similarity of talent required by a party organizer and the manager of a great administrative enterprise.

Another fact that should not be lost sight of is that rotation in office was never actually practised. First, many men secured a long intermittent term of service by coming into office

their party came to power, even though they were removed by the other party; secondly, a large residuum, often composed of those performing the most technical duties, were always left in their places, by whom the continuity of departmental tradition was preserved; and thirdly, instances of promotion, even from staff to presidential positions, are found. It would be tedious to mention even the more conspicuous of these men. The most prominent was William Hunter, who served in the state department from 1829 to 1886. The well-known case of the Fox family, which has held the consulship at Falmouth, England, from the time of Washington to the present year (1903), is interesting rather than important. John Randolph Clay occupied with honor various positions in the diplomatic service continuously from 1830 to 1861. It often happened that when a politician was appointed to an office, as a collectorship, he found an efficient and trained deputy, whom he retained in office under him, and who bore on his shoulders the weight of service. The result was a double-headed system, a working director, representing the public service side of office-holding, and a political director, who was paid for being a good servant of his party.

Some few attempts at improvement are to be noted. Between 1851 and 1853 the question of efficiency was discussed in two reports to the Senate. It was discovered that examinations for

candidates had been tried in the treasury department, and that they were approved by all the members of the cabinet except Webster. It was recommended that pass examinations be held for the lowest grades of clerkships, and that all vacancies above these, except the chief clerkships, be filled by promotion. In 1853 pass examinations were prescribed by law, and a few years later the system was reported as working well. The character of the examinations, however, depended entirely on the discretion of the department head, who was also the appointing officer; and consequently they amounted to little. In 1857 Howell Cobb, secretary of the treasury, announced that his examinations would be strict, and that he would remove no one except for cause. It is perhaps unjust to suggest that when he added to the customary causes of removal, the buying of lottery tickets and the frequenting of gaming houses, he had anything in mind other than the establishment of moral decorum at Washington. Salmon P. Chase also announced his intention of making these examinations something more than a name; but the very fact of these special announcements shows that as a rule the examinations were a farce.

In 1856 a bill was enacted providing for the improvement of the consular service by the appointment of twenty-five consular pupils. They were to pass a qualifying examination, and those “possessing the requisite qualifications, and exhibiting an aptitude for the consular service, who have been faithful in the performance of their consular duties, will, from time to time, be recommended to the president for promotion”; in 1857 this bill was repealed. In 1864, on recommendation of the secretary of state and the finance committee of the Senate, Mr. Fessenden urged that the repealing clause be repealed; and after a debate in which the proposed law was attacked as undemocratic, as not making adequate provision for promotion, and as unwise on the ground that the consuls were not fit to educate pupils, a poor fragment of the former act was finally

passed. This provided that consular clerks should be appointed, — not more than thirteen to be in service at any one time, — and that they should be over eighteen years of age and should receive not more than a thousand dollars a year. A new provision was added, that they should not be removed except for cause stated in writing and submitted to Congress at the session next following.

These petty improvements could not be supposed to touch the great evils of the spoils system, as the most noxious of its effects were social. The government service, which should have set the example of stability to the country at large, was conducted on principles radically wrong. Besides this, the subtle attraction that public offices have always had for the average American brought into the ranks of office-hunters many times the number that could find places. As the Herald said: “If loss of time be taken into consideration, and loss of money, it costs him [the office-seeker] probably his first year's salary to obtain office. . . . The consequence is, that many of these officials cheat the public by various frauds and impositions, in order to indemnify themselves for their losses. At the end of four years they are, perhaps, set adrift upon the world, without any calling or business connection.”

The result was that a large class of persons led a fluctuating existence. Many were, at times, reduced to such an extremity that they would do practically anything in return for the most trifling recognition, and hence constantly tempted the not unwilling party leader to go deeper and deeper into questionable practices by offering themselves as fit instruments. The effect on the general public was twofold: people were led to regard the agents of the government with contempt even while the offices proved alluring, and the political sense became somewhat blunted. The very intelligent Washington correspondent of the Tribune complained: “The ‘spoils’ doctrine is ... at the bottom of the Galphanizing which has of late come to be so fashionable as to permit each current instance thereof brought to light, to pass

out of popular recollection almost without receiving a second thought. And, further,. . . it threatens to bring more evils upon us than any dozen others of the many elements conspiring, as it were, to entirely change the character of the Government of the United States.” During the fifties no practicable method of reform was suggested, and during the Civil War the very depths of the spoils system were sounded in the conduct of the national service in the Southern states. Yet in 1865 the attention turned toward England, the Sumner and Jenckes bills, and the check given to rotation promised a new and better era.


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Page:A dictionary of the Sunda language of Java.djvu/270

Rh Lélěp, to thrust down under water, to plunge into mud or slough. (Jav. id. To sink under water; nglélěppakěn, to plunge under water.)

Lélér, to give, to bestow, to confer upon. A refined expression as applied to the act of a great man or a superior. Di lélérkĕn ka kula ku nu bogah, it was bestowed upon me by the owner.

Lělěs, the same as Kondang. Ficus subracemosa.

Lěmah, spot, place. Lěmah pi-imahan, a spot to build a house on. Lěmah goring, a bad spot (often being considered as haunted.) (Jav. Bali. Ground, place, earth; land.)

Lémbang, to wash ore; to wash the earth to seek for ore of metals.

Lěmbang, a small insect so called, of about size of the thumb nail, which often attacks and injures growing paddy, creeping up out of the mud and water in the Sawahs.

Lěmbing-batu, a variety of the foregoing insect.

Lémbong, cleared away, freed from encumbrances, put in order as a piece of ground or a garden. Lémbong ayěunah buruan, the plot of ground in front of the house is now cleared up. Lémbong humah na, his paddy plantation has been weeded all over.

Lěmbu, cattle of the cow kind- properly Javanese. Sa kuru ning lěmbu, such as the leanness of a cow (still lots of meat on so large an animal). A proverb.

Lěmbu, is sometimes an appellation for a chief, especially in ancient history, and originally means- the Bull- in the same way as Maisa, Kěbo, Panggawa, and Rangga are used. See Raffles Vol. 2. Page 80. Lembu Ami Jaya; Lembu Ami Luhur.

Lěmbuhan, part of a native loom. The stick which separates the alternate threads.

Lěmbuhkěn, a variety of wild pigeon.

Lěmbut, small, diminutive.

Lémék, to speak, to articulate. To bisa lémék, he could not speak. Lémék gunung, to speak the mountain (language). To speak Sunda.

Lěmpag, to throw a spear or sharpened bambu.

Lémpénéng, yellow.

Lěmpěng, straight not crooked. Kayu lempeng, straight wood. Lěmpěng bai moro ka imah, and straight on he went home.

Lémpéng, flat and thin like a slab of stone.

Lémpéngan, anything which is put up in small flat parcels like shred tobacco. Flat like a slab of stone.

Lěmpěr, kětan rice made up in leaves and roasted on hot embers.

Lémpér, crippled in the arms or legs, said only of mankind.

Lěmpog, a preparation of Kadu or Durian fruit and sugar.

Lěmpong, the slope of a hill. Lěmpong na gunung ti wétan, on the Eastern slope of the mountain.

Léndéh, laid flat; trampled down; as a standing crop of paddy or the like.

Léndéhkěn, to lay flat, as any growing vegetable matter, either by trampling upon it, or by beating it down with a stick.

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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The New International Encyclopædia/Haggada

HAGGADA, hăg-gä'dȧ (Heb., narration, from higgid, to narrate). The free rabbinical interpretation of Scripture, chiefly for homiletical purposes. Haggada is thus contrasted to ../Halacha/ (q.v.), ‘rule,’ which represents the authoritative interpretation of biblical laws for practical purposes. The Haggada developed side by side with the Halacha, and the two tendencies are found combined in the great compilation of rabbinical theology known as the ../Talmud/ (q.v.). But while the Haggadic sections in the Talmud are considerable, the great bulk of the Haggadic interpretation of the Old Testament is to be found in a number of separate compilations known as Midrashim. (See .) The oldest of these collections, adapted to the order of the biblical books, and in which the interpretations run parallel with the text, are: (1) The Mechilta, a collection of Haggadic interpretations to the Book of Exodus; (2) the Siphra to Leviticus; (3) Siphre to Numbers and Deuteronomy. Far more extensive, however, is the collection known as the Midrash Rabhah, or ‘Great Midrash,’ comprising the Haggada to the entire Pentateuch and to the five scrolls (read on the various festivals of the year), Esther, Ruth, Lamentations, Ecclesiastes, and Song of Songs. By the side of the compilation (concluded c.900 A.D.) may be mentioned the Pesikta to various sections of the Old Testament and the Tanchuma to the Pentateuch. On the basis of this Midrashic literature, a large number of works were produced through the Middle Ages to our own days, containing selections from the earlier compilations as well as additions and amplifications. Among these may be mentioned the Midrash Hagadol, ‘the Great Midrash,’ a Yemenitic compilation now being published by Dr. S. Schechter for the Cambridge University Press. Haggada shel Pesach is the name of a ritual, partly in Hebrew, partly in Aramaic, used on the first two evenings of the Passover, which contains, besides a brief description of the Exodus, extracts from the Scripture, the Mishna, Tosephta, Mechilta, Siphra, and the two Talmuds, and some liturgical pieces, all bearing more or less directly on the oppression in Egypt and the deliverance. Originally within very small compass, it has been extended to its present larger size by subsequent centuries. Two Piutim, or religious poems, were added in the eleventh century, and four more Hebrew and Aramaic songs (the last originally a German Volkslied) as late as the fourteenth century. Consult: Winter and Wünsche, Die jüdische Litteratur (Trier, 1894); Karpeles, Geschichte der jüdischen Litteratur (Berlin, 1886); Steinschneider, Jewish Literature (Eng. trans. London, 1857); Chenery, “Legends from the Midrash,” in Loewy, Miscellanies of Hebrew Literature

(London, 1877); Bacher, Die Aggada der Tannaiten (2 vols., Strassburg, 1884-90).


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Page:A Life of Matthew Fontaine Maury.pdf/156

142 view—that Lieutenant Maury is certainly entitled to the rank of one of the greatest public benefactors of the age."

These charts were generally adopted by the larger steamship companies, and in consequence of their satisfaction therewith, and the shortening of the routes everywhere by Maury's Sailing Directions and Wind and Current Charts, he was presented by the merchants and underwriters of New York with $5000 in gold and a handsome service of silver. This was in 1855.

In the same year, Maury delivered an address before the literary societies at the University of Virginia, of which the following are extracts:—

"In entering upon your duties as a citizen, recollect your excellent training here: it has given you many advantages; therefore, do not neglect to lay down rules of conduct by which they may be most improved.

"Whatever may be the degree of success that I have met with in life, I attribute it, in a great measure, to the adoption of such rules. One was, never to let the mind be idle for the want of useful occupation, but always to have in reserve subjects of thought or study for the leisure moments and the quiet hours of the night. When you read a book, let it be with the view to special information.

"The habits of mind to be thus attained are good, and the information useful.

"It is surprising how difficult one who attempts to follow this rule finds it at first to provide himself with subjects for thought—to think of something that he does not know.

In our ignorance our horizon is very contracted: mists, clouds, and darkness hang upon it, and self fills almost the entire


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The New International Encyclopædia/McClellan, George Brinton

McCLEL'LAN, (1826-85). A distinguished soldier in the American Civil War. He was born in Philadelphia, December 3, 1826. He attended the University of Pennsylvania for two years; and graduated at West Point in 1846. He distinguished himself in the Mexican War, and for gallant and meritorious conduct in the battles of Contreras and Churubusco he was brevetted first lieutenant, and for similar conduct at Chapultepec he was brevetted captain. On his return he was appointed to an instructorship at West Point, and while there prepared a Manual of Bayonet Exercises, adapted from the French, which became a part of the system of instruction. He was assistant engineer in the construction of Fort

Delaware; was chief engineer in charge of the coast surveys in Texas; collected railroad statistics for the War Department; and was one of the three officers appointed on the military commission to visit the seat of war in the Crimea and report upon the condition of the European armies. On his return in 1857 he resigned his commission, and became successively chief engineer and vice-president of the Illinois Central Railroad, and president of the Saint Louis and Cincinnati Railroad. At the opening of the Civil War he was appointed to the position of major-general of the Ohio volunteers, and made a successful campaign in what later became West Virginia, driving out the enemy and capturing 1000 prisoners. For this he received the thanks of Congress, and after the first disaster to the Federals, at Bull Run, was placed in command of the Army of the Potomac. Upon the retirement of Lieutenant-General Scott in November, 1861, he was appointed commander of the armies of the United States. He spent the winter in reorganizing and drilling his forces, and in March, 1862, he removed to the Yorktown Peninsula in order to attack Richmond from that base.

President Lincoln was continually insisting upon a forward movement, but instead of following his advice, McClellan sat down before Yorktown and began a scientific siege of the place. After its evacuation by the Confederates and the engagement at Williamsburg, McClellan moved leisurely up the Peninsula only to be subjected to a great disappointment in the dispatch of McDowell's 40,000 men to the Shenandoah — an army upon whose aid McClellan had confidently counted. Then followed various engagements ending with the Seven Days' battles (q.v.), in which the Federal armies were generally successful, although the loss in men was large and Richmond was still untaken. There was dissatisfaction at Washington with the result, and in July McClellan was superseded by Halleck as General-in-chief. He was then ordered to evacuate the Peninsula and go to the aid of General Pope, then in command of the Army of Virginia, but arrived too late to be of any great assistance. After the disastrous campaign of Pope, culminating in his defeat in the second battle of Bull Run, McClellan was again placed in active command of the Army of the Potomac. Organizing his army as he proceeded, he followed Lee into Maryland, and with him fought the battle of Antietam (q.v.), September 16-17, 1862. This, though tactically a drawn battle, was strategically a Federal victory; but in view of the great disparity between the numerical strength of the two armies and of McClellan's failure vigorously to pursue Lee's retreating army, the result was not satisfactory to the Government, and in November he was superseded in his command by General Burnside. After this he took no further part in the war. McClellan always asserted that the Administration at Washington not only refused to coöperate with him in his military operations, but even attempted to discredit him on account of his political opinions. The President and the Secretary of War, on the other hand, insisted that General McClellan was not aggressive and prompt enough in the circumstances, but too often pursued a dilatory policy, which caused him to win only fruitless victories, and that he disregarded the advice and suggestions of the commander-in-chief. General McClellan was

remarkably popular with his soldiers, over whom he exerted a wonderful influence, and who affectionately called him ‘Little Mac’ In 1864 he was nominated by the Democratic Party as its candidate for President of the United States on a platform which denounced the war as a failure. To this view, however, McClellan did not subscribe, and in his letter of acceptance he advocated a vigorous prosecution of the war. He was defeated by Lincoln. In the Electoral College the vote stood 212 for Lincoln and 21 for McClellan, while the popular vote for Lincoln was 2,200,000 and for McClellan 1,800,000. Already in September he had resigned from the army, and after the election went to Europe, where he remained until 1868. Upon his return he settled in New York, where he was engaged in various engineering enterprises until 1877, when he was elected Governor of New Jersey, having in the meantime acquired a residence in that State. He served with credit for one term, but declined a renomination. He died suddenly of heart disease at his home in Orange, N. J., October 29, 1885, and was buried at Trenton. As a scientific engineer and military tactician, McClellan had few superiors. Among his literary works may be mentioned an autobiography entitled McClellan's Own Story, and various reports on military campaigns and military organization. The most recent and thorough biography of General McClellan is that of Michie (New York, 1901), in the “Great Commanders Series.” Consult also: Rhodes, The First Six Weeks of McClellan's Peninsular Campaign, published by the Massachusetts Historical Society; and Ropes, Story of the Civil War, vol. ii. (New York, 1895).


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moon shines bright and the stars give a light

A little before it is day;

Our Lord our God he called on us

And bids us awake and pray.

Awake! O awake! good people all,

Awake! and you shall hear,

Our Lord our God He suffered on the cross

For us whom He loved so dear.

The fields were green, as green could be.

When we from His glory fell;

And we His children then were brought

To death and near to hell.

The life of a man it is but a span,

It's like a morning flower;

We're here to day, to-morrow we are gone,

We are dead all in one hour.

O teach them well your children, dear man.

While you have got them here;

It will be better for your soul, dear man

When your corpse lies on the bier.

To-day you may be living, dear man,

With a many thousand pound;

To-morrow you may be dead, dear man,

And your corpse lie underground.

With the green turf at your head, dear man.

And another at your feet;

Your good deeds and your bad, dear man,

Will all together meet.

My song it is done and I must be gone,

No longer can I stay here.

God bless you all, both great and small,

And send you a happy New Year.

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524 the very best. Dangdanan nana utama, its construction is perfect in all its parts. Utama běunang ngabantuan, all possible help has been afforded. See. Uttama, C. 75, excellent, chief, best, first, principal.

Utara, north, see also Kalér. Any violent gale of wind, a tempest, — probably from the north-west monsoon being the periodical season of wind and rain. Katarajang utara, overtaken by a tempest. Utura, C. 75, the north. Uttara, C. 76, the north.

Utas, to cut down small jungle. To cut a way or path through a tangled forest. To make a trace for a boundary line or sign of demarcation.

Utas, a string of beads, a necklace. A piece of netting generally a couple of fathoms long, and one fathom broad, used when several are joined together, to encircle game in the forest, or fish in water.

Utun, a prince of nobleman of Pajajaran. The term is used in Pantuns referring to the nobles of Pajajaran, where such individuals are generally called Si-utun, and are generally described as adventurers in quest of a wife, or independent petty government.

Utus, as di utus, to send on an embassy. A message sent by a royal personage.

Utusan, an ambassador. A royal messenger. An embassy, a mission.

Uyab, to shake up, to shake out, so as to disentangle part of the contents. Eta jukut kotor ngantěp kudu di uyab, that grass is very dirty, you must shake it up. Di uyaban měngké, we will shake it up (and get out the dirt or objectionable matter).

Uyah, salt. Probably derived from U, which in many languages of the Pacific is a woman's teat, milk, and is heard in the Sunda Susu, which see. It is also apparently the etymon in Buah, fruit, and may thus imply something round, having form, growing spontaneously. Yah is probably originally water. It still occurs as Yéh, water in Bali, Crawfurd, and Bah, an inundation in Malay, as heard in sawah. It may thus imply: the fruit of water. Banyu, Javanese, water, seems an inversion of these derivatives, and may then have originally meant: sea or salt water, which in that sense was dropped for La-ud, laut, salt water. Bah is retained in Sunda in Kumbah, to wash, and in the first parts of Walungan and Waluran, which both mean a ravine, a water-course in the face of a hill.

Uyang, a petty title given apparently mostly out of compliment to an elderly person. But it is also acquired by birth and is below Mas. Derived from Nguyang, to have got by half begging.

  Wa-as, said when a pleasurable feeling is caused by seeing some one or something which reminds us of what we ourselves possess, but which, for the moment, is out of our reach. A happy or pleasing remembrance or emotion regarding something which


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The New International Encyclopædia/Munson, James Eugene

MUNSON, mûn'son, (1835—). An American inventor, born at Paris, Oneida County, N. Y. He studied for a time at Amherst, then removed to New York City, where he became a court stenographer, a position which he held for more than thirty years. He formulated the Munson system of stenography, an automatic typesetting machine, and a mechanism of operating typewriting machines by telegraph, and published a number of books of phonography.


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Rh view around, above, and below to the utmost verge. But as we study the laws of nature, and begin to understand about our own ignorance, we find light breaking through, the horizon expanding, and self getting smaller and smaller.

"It is like climbing a mountain: every fact or fresh discovery is a step upward with an enlargement of the view, until the unknown and the mysterious become boundless—self infinitely small; and then the conviction comes upon us with a mighty force, that we know nothing—that human knowledge is only a longing desire.

"The impression is very common, that when a young man leaves college he has finished his education; but do not, when you return home, crowned with the honours of these schools though you be, give in to this notion even for a moment; it is another of those mischievous popular fallacies that you should guard against. Here you have been disciplining the mind, training the thoughts, and laying off the fields in which they may be usefully employed. You have finished nothing here; you have only been clearing away rubbish and preparing the foundations; and notwithstanding that you have been under the eyes of the best masters, and have laid your foundations of the best materials and in the most scholarly manner, yet, like the foundations for any other superstructure, unless built upon, they will soon grow weak and be frittered away.

"If you cease to study now, you will soon forget all you have learned here.

"Movement, progress, is a law of the physical world; here rest and decay are correlative terms. The stars cannot stand still and keep their places; a planet by going back would be hurled into destruction, and even the plant of the earth that ceases to grow straightway withers and dies. And so it is in the moral world: the progress of man must be upwards and onward, or downward and backward. His mind cannot


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Rh Wangsit, malignant, virulent; having supernatural power to do harm. Lĕuwĕung wangsit, a virulent forest, where man cannot tread without being overtaken by some malady or misfortune. Pamujahan nana to laku di tinchak, wangsit, you must not tread upon the place of penance, it is malignant.

Wani, daring, valliant, bold. Sia wani nyachag ka maung, would you dare to cut at a tiger (in the forest). To wani ngarajang kadinyo, I dare not tackle on to that. — We have among the back mountains of Jasinga a Chi-barani, though Barani is never heard in the language alone, and very likely here means the river of Bawani. So also in Malay there is the expression, Batu barani, for the loadstone, Bĕsi barani, for the magnet, Marsden , page 39, which may have also reference to the goddess Bawani, as representing courage. This Wani is further the same as Barani in Malay, Marsden, page 38, bold, daring, courageous, which are thus probably both derived form Bawani, the consort of Siva, his attribute of courage. The Sunda people have another word for daring, viz Ludĕung. — In the plural it becomes Wararani. Wararantĕun amat éta jélĕma, those people are very daring.

Wanta, good advice, friendly instructions. Instructions in Jampé or incantations. Wanta, C. 637, from Wama, to vomit, Tata affinative vomited, ejected from the mouth. Perhaps from always spitting upon a place over which Jampé is pronounced.

Wara, to teach, to reprehend, to tell to do better, to inculcate, to impress by admonition. Perhaps the same as Wāra, C. 638, in the sense of permission, or Wārana, C. 638, defence, opposition, prohibition. Wara, C. 623, requesting, soliciting, prevailing on a person by entreaty to undertake any business.

Wara, is also sometimes used in the sense of Waka, as: ulah wara di béré, don't yet give any, — and may then be Wara, C. 638, time, occasion.

Waragang, right and true. Correct in conduct. Straight forward, worthy of trust.

Warang, the mutual parents of married people, as the father of the husband is the Warang of the father of the wife. In Malay this relationship of the parents is designated by Bésan.

Warangan, arsenic. Much used for a solution in which gobangs, krises, badis and other cutting instruments are steeped in order to bring out the Pamor, and preserve them from rusting. Called in Malay Brangan or Barangan, Marsden, page 38. Also to apply a solution of arsenic to weapons. Kris warangan, Gobang warangan, such weapons when they have been soaked in a solution of arsenic.

Waras, in sound good health. Sound, not decayed. Convalescent, recovered from sickness, cured, healed, sound, sane, Gĕus waras dĕui, he is restored to health. Pagĕr na waras kénéh saparo na, part of the fence is still sound (not rotten).

Warata, of even surface, without asperities. Even in grain, as rice. To distribute evenly to all alike. Fairly apportioned.

Waréng, the seventh in descent, counting the father and mother as number one. The sixth generation after an ancestor. The term also applies backwards, so that the ancesterancestor [sic] sixth previously is the waréng of the living person. 67


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Rh or Chinese. Nona lěutik, the small miss. Nona gěus gědé, the young lady is grown up.

Nona, as buah nona, annona reticulata, name of a fruit, called in vulgar English „a bullock's heart." Anona, C. 32, the custard apple,—which in Java is called the Siri kaya, and is the annona squamosa, so that the name on Java of Nona has been wrongly applied, and both have very likely been introduced from India.

Nonggar, said of a tree of which the roots grow along the surface of the ground; evident, not concealed. Nonggar těuyn kalakuan sia, your conduct is too evident—it is too clearly seen what you are about.

Nonggéng, cowering down, squatting down with the back curved; squatting down with the back turned towards any one; sometimes a mark of respect to a great man implying that the party is not worthy to even look upon him. (Jav. Bat. Jungking, Jěngking, Menjěnking idem. But not with respect to a high person).

Nonggérak, exposed to view, not covered up. Patent.

Nonggong, with the back set against anything. Nonggong ka na kayu éta, with your back to that tree. See Tonggong.

Nongkob, to cover in the ridges of a roof, with thatch &c.

Nonjol, to be startled, to make a bolt, as a horse or other animal; to start from its place, as a beam of wood or bar of iron in any structure.

Nonton, to go and see, especially to see a sight To see a festival going on, Ronggéngs dancing or the like. (Batav. idem. According to Crawfurd Jav.)

Nontot, to stick out, to project, to extend beyond. (Batav. idem.)

No-ong, to peep, to look at slyly. To look at but avoid being seen.

Noron, without intermission, constantly, Sawah éta noron bai onggël tahun di sambut ku kula, that sawah I make every year without intermission.

Notog, struck with the end of any thing, as a bit of wood. Pushed endways on. Impinged.

Noyod, without intermission, unceasingly.

Nu, who, which, that which. Jélěma nu jangkung, a man who is tall. Tangkal nu luhur, a tree which is high.

Nua, the same as Nuba, vide voce.

Nuar, to dye thread. Sambara nuar, dying ingredients, especially when preparing to dye read with changkudu.

Nuaran, to cut down trees, to fell trees, see Tuar.

Nuba, to take fish by stupifying them with the juice of the root of a plant called Tuba, which see.

Nubruk, to throw oneself upon amany ilan in order to catch it; to make a rush at and snatch. To seize unawares.

Nuhun, submissive, grateful; a very lowly and humble term of admittance or acknowledgment, made by an inferior to a superior. To entreat, to beg. Kula nuhun dahar, I entreat something to eat. (Jav. Suhun or Suwun—Kuwun).


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316 Nujum, Ar. necromancy, astrology. (نَجْمٌ, plur. نُجُومٌ, stars; نجوم is also ortus stellae, and conspicuitas).

Numbuk, to butt with the head, to thump, to beat hard. (Mal. تمبق, tumbuk, id. Jav. tumbuk, to beat against a thing, to run against it; to concur, said of two facts occuring at the same time. Fr.)

Numpang, to be accommodated (as with a passage in a vessel, with lodging on a journey or with the transport of goods.) To go along with, or under the protection of some one else. (Malay, Batav. idem. Also to be lodged in anothers house.)

Nun, yes, a very respectful expression of assent It may be a contraction of nuhun, which see, or of nuna, C. 338, certainly, truly, veritably, indubitably. Kula nun, I with respect; your humble servant; kula nun inggih, I with respect say yes. (Nuna in Clough is Sct. nûnam; the corruption of the word on Java not being likely, I derive nun from nuhun, having also the same meaning. Fr.)

Nunchĕb, said of any thing, as a stake of wood, which is stuck fast and upright in any substance, as in water, or in mud. Fallen headformost. Kayu gĕdé nunchĕb di rancha, a large piece of wood stuck fast in a swamp. Also said of anything falling direct down upon the ground; Ragrag nunchĕb ka tanĕuh, he fell headforemost on the ground. (Batav. nanchĕb, which is not found in the Malay and Javan. dictionaries.)

Nundutan, being sleepy, inclined to go to sleep. Dozing, half asleep; napping.

Nunggak, to stick up or out like the stump of a tree. To remain over. To be in surplus. (Tunggak, Jav. Bat. the stem or stump of a tree below the branches).

Nunggal, alone, separate, distinct, independent. (Tunggal, Jav. Mal. idem.)

Nunggul, left like the stump of a tree, from which the shade of the branches has been ruthlessly removed. See Tunggul. Desolate and alone, destitute.

Nunggul-pinang, left like the stump of the pinang tree. Said of a person who has no relations left, an entire orphan.

Nungguluk, showing in a large mass; looming large in the distance.

Nungtĕk, perpendicular, bolt upright.

Nunia, Mrs., a title given to European and Chinese married women. (Bat.; pronounced nyo-nya; of Portuguese origin.)

Nunjang, course, direction, current, said of waters or rivers—flow towards. Chai kabéh nunjang ngulon, all the rivers flow towards the west. Chai éta ka mana nunjang na, whither does that river flow. (Jav. To run against any thing.)

Nunjukul, high and round, bluff- as ground elevated and round at the top.

Nurgaha, prosperity, affluence. (Sct. Anugraha, commonly corrupted to nugraha, favour, furthering; in the Archipel it means commonly favour of the deity, whereof prosperity is the result. Fr.)

Nurjaya, name of a hill on Jasinga Estate, which forms one of the boundary marks with Bantam, called Gunung Nurjaya. Mr. thinks the word is derived from Nri-jaya, which being a sound difficult for Polynesians to pronounce, they have


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The New International Encyclopædia/Münster

MÜNSTER, mụn'stẽr. The capital of the Prussian Province of Westphalia, situated in a level district at the confluence of the Aa with the Münster Canal, 65 miles northeast of Düsseldorf (Map: Prussia, B 2). The town is mediæval in appearance, with its ancient gabled buildings, old Renaissance houses, rococo dwellings of the eighteenth century, arcaded markets, and shaded allées. The site of the former fortifications, which divided the old and new towns, has been converted long since into promenades. Münster has many churches, of which two are prominent: Saint Lambert's and the cathedral. The former is a graceful, pleasing structure. It is Gothic, dates from the fourteenth century, has been restored in recent times, and possesses a majestic new tower. The church is associated with the history of the Anabaptists in the sixteenth century. The cathedral is of the thirteenth century, and has some noteworthy features, though none of great interest. The imposing Church of Our Lady also merits mention as well as the beautiful Romanesque tower of the Ludgerikirche.

The Rathaus is a handsome, gabled, Gothic structure. The Peace of Westphalia was signed in it in 1648, in a curious room called the Friedenssaal, which contains portraits claimed to have been painted by Terburg. Among the interesting old buildings are also the Renaissance Weigh House; the Renaissance Stadtkeller, the headquarters of the Kunstverein, with pictures of minor value; and the Schuhhaus, or the ancient guild-hall of shoemakers. The castle was the episcopal residence in former times, and is now occupied by the leading officials of the city. In its grounds is a botanical garden. The Government offices, the law courts, and the attractive

Gothic post-office are modern. The splendid modern Ludgerus fountain is adorned with interesting religious statues. The Roman Catholic university, which ceased to exist as such in 1818, when the institution was reduced to a theological and a philosophical faculty (which figured as the Academy of Münster from 1843), was revived in 1902 by the establishment of a faculty of law. Noteworthy also among the many educational institutions are the royal pedagogical seminary, a seminary for priests, and two ‘Konvikte.’ Münster has a Museum of Christian Art, the Pauline Library, with about 115,000 volumes, and an extensive Roman Catholic gymnasium. There is a notable zoölogical garden, which is much frequented by the citizens, and contains an antiquarian collection. The industrial products of Münster include leather, linen and cotton fabrics, starch, thread, and sugar. There are also carriage works and distilleries. A large trade is carried on in the produce of the country. Carriages and sculptures of stone are exported. The population in 1871 was 24,815; in 1901, 63,776, mostly Catholics.

. Münster had its origin in a celebrated monastery which appears as early as the time of Charles the Great. A considerable settlement sprang up around the monastery in the first part of the twelfth century. The town received municipal rights about 1180, and in the course of many years the inhabitants succeeded in vindicating their liberties against their feudal lords, the bishops of Münster. In the thirteenth century Münster entered the Hanseatic League. In the fifteenth century it became a centre of learning and religious life, and during the Reformation suffered greatly from the strife of parties. In 1533 Münster fell into the power of the Anabaptists, whose leader, the celebrated ../John of Leyden/ (q.v.), erected the city into a kingdom of Zion with himself as sovereign (1534). The city was taken by the Bishop in the following year, and John of Leyden was put to death. Against the ambitious and warlike Bernhard of Galen, Bishop of Münster, the city carried on a desperate struggle in defense of its rights, but it was finally compelled to submit with the loss of almost all its liberties (1661). The Bishopric of Münster, which held a prominent place among the ecclesiastical States of the old German Empire and embraced a territory of nearly 4000 square miles, was secularized in 1803.


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Rh The cause of both definiteness and permanence he finds in the prolongation of infancy, necessitating a relatively long-continued parental care of offspring. The relations so established among near kindred have conserved and strengthened the feelings of affection and the sense of solidarity. Mr. Darwin recognized Mr. Fiske's theory as an important contribution to the subject. It must be said in criticism, however, that Mr. Fiske did not see all the implications of prolonged infancy, or develop his theory into all its possibilities. Admitting that the prolongation of infancy was probably a factor in the evolution of stable family relationships, and therefore played a part in strengthening the social sentiments, we must remember that the actual social life and solidarity of the gregarious group was probably a chief cause of the prolongation of infancy itself. Demanding, as it did, a relatively keen exercise of brain and nervous system in communication, imitation and cooperation, it operated to select for survival those individuals that varied in the direction of high brain power and its correlated long infancy. But this is to say that society was a factor in the evolution of man before man became a factor in the evolution of society, and the difference is important.

Moreover, Mr. Fiske's theory no more explained the actual origins of sympathy and cooperation than Bagehot's and Darwin's theories had done. Neither, for that matter, did Sutherland's account of "The Origin and Growth of the Moral Instinct," although Sutherland got somewhat farther back when he called attention to the reaction of parental care of offspring upon the evolution of ganglia making up the sympathetic nervous system.

At this stage the Darwinian interpretation of social origins had arrived when, in 1894, there was published a work which had an almost sensational reception. Hailed as a new gospel by minds desiring above all things to find some solid ground for religious convictions that had seemingly suffered violence in the course of evolutionist warfare, this book by scientific critics was treated with scant respect. These critics, I venture to think, were in error. For, in fact, the "Social Evolution" of Benjamin Kidd raised a profoundly important question, and gave an answer to it which, while half wrong, was probably half right, and the half that was right was a real and important contribution to knowledge. Stated in the fewest possible words, Mr. Kidd's query was this: Since natural selection saves the few and kills the many, why does not the great majority of mankind try to curb competition and put an end to progress? Thus presented, Mr. Kidd's question is the radical and fearless form of a question which socialism asks in a form that, by comparison, is conservative and half-hearted. And Mr. Kidd's answer,


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80 not so much as tainted with socialism, is as fearless as his question. Progress has no rational sanction. It is irrational and, from the standpoint of reason, absurd. Man goes on multiplying, competing, fighting and making progress because he is not rational and has no desire to be. He lives not by reason, but by faith. He crucifies and kills himself to improve the race, not because he is scientific, but because he is religious.

Perhaps it was because Mr. Kidd's thesis was paradoxical, that theologians found in it something tangible and scientific men did not. It should be possible now to look back upon it without prejudice. On the face of it, it is an obvious fallacy, but back of fallacy lies a truth.

The fallacy consists in an unwarranted assumption that individuals and families marked for extermination in the struggle for existence are, in their own lifetime, aware of their impending doom. Let us suppose that, of one hundred families now flourishing, ninety will become extinct in the tenth generation, their places being filled by a corresponding number of new families branching from the one successful line. This would be natural selection at a rapid rate. Yet to maintain this rate, only ten families have to drop out in any one generation, and ten new ones to appear. This means that, at any given time, a ninety per cent, majority of all persons at the moment living have an expectation of further life, the termination of which can not be foreseen. The large majority, therefore, at any given time existing think of themselves not as the unfit that must perish, but rather as the fit selected to survive.

This way of stating the problem, however, brings us face to face with a peculiarly interesting truth, for the apprehension of which we rightly may give generous credit to Mr. Kidd. Obviously, while no family stock or race at any time existing can certainly know, or, while it remains still vigorous, find sufficient ground to believe that it is doomed to perish, neither can it certainly know that it is indefinitely to survive. It does live, struggle, plan and achieve not altogether by knowledge or by reason, but also in part by faith. It hopes, it expects to endure. It believes in its future.

This faith by which a race, a family, or an individual lives, is not anti-rational, nor yet super-rational. It is rather sub-rational or protorational. It is deeper, more elemental than reason—a fact of instinct and feeling. It is faith in the possibilities of life, born of actual survival in the struggle for existence. The question, therefore, which Mr. Kidd should have asked, and which we, reviewing his work, must ask in his stead, is this: May we identify our elemental faith in the possibilities of life with the tremendous social phenomenon of religion, which, in all the ages of man's progress, has been one of his supreme interests? Shall we perhaps find that, when reduced to its lowest terms, to its essential principle, religion is not, as has been supposed, a belief in gods, or in a supernatural, in any way conceived, but is rather


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Rh hat primordial faith in the possibilities of life which was born, and generation after generation is re-born, of success in the struggle for existence; which may gather about itself all manner of supplementary beliefs, including a belief in spirits and in gods, but which will persist as the deepest and strongest motive of life after science has stripped away from it all its mystical and theological accretions? I hope to show that such is the fact. So believing, I accept as a positive contribution to the theory of human evolution Mr. Kidd's proposition that religion, a thing deeper and more elemental than reason, has been a chief factor in social evolution.

The mention of socialism, when referring to the theories of Benjamin Kidd, may serve to remind us of two further contributions to the Darwinian theory of society still to be mentioned. The Marxian socialist who has taken trouble to read Mr. William Hurrell Matlock's American lectures on socialism, will not be disposed to admit that Mr. Mallock is a competent student of social phenomena. Before passing judgment, however, he should examine Mr. Mallock's "Aristocracy and Evolution," a suggestive and really important work, published in 1898. In this book Mr. Mallock rises above his habit of literary trifling, and digs somewhat below his prejudices, to examine not only fairly, but also cogently, and with illumination, the phenomenon of personal ability as a factor of social achievement. Distinguishing between a struggle for existence merely, and a struggle for domination, he contends that progress in any legitimate sense of the word is attributable to the struggle for domination. No one, I think, can go far in sociological study without seeing that this is a significant distinction for purposes of historical interpretation.

One need not, however, draw the conclusion that democracy is necessarily antagonistic to progress, as Mr. Mallock does. He says:

No student of social evolution would be less likely to dispute these propositions than Mr. Francis Galton, who, in fact, in his studies of natural inheritance and hereditary genius, has done more than any other investigator to establish them on a broad inductive basis. And after Mr. Galton, no investigator has made more valuable studies in this field than Mr. Karl Pearson, and no one more unreservedly than he accepts the conclusion that superiority is necessary to social advance and that personal superiority is a fact of heredity. Yet Mr. Pearson con-


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82 tends that to add artificial advantage to natural superiority is fatal, because superiority can not be maintained unless the herd, as well as the superior individual, is carefully looked after and improved. The superiority that achieves leadership and domination is usually the power to do some particular thing exceptionally well. It is extreme individuation, and it often is purchased at the cost of race vitality. It is as necessary to maintain the one as to develop the other. Mr. Pearson therefore finds the socialistic program not incompatible with continuing progress by selection and inheritance.

From this too brief account of the applications thus far made of Darwinian theory to the problems presented by social relationships, including human institutions, we may turn to the question of further scientific possibilities in this direction. It will have been noted that the theories reviewed are not as they now stand entirely consistent with one another, and that none of them carries explanation back to the actual beginnings and causes of group formation. Perhaps if we could more adequately account, in terms of the struggle for existence, for actual social origins, and for successive stages of social evolution, the various fragments of theory which we now possess would fall into orderly correlation.

Possibly also the most promising starting point for any new attempt to achieve these ends may be found in a careful scrutiny of what is involved in the struggle for existence itself. Close readers of "The Origin of Species" know that although Mr. Darwin, when employing the phrase "a struggle for existence," usually meant by it a struggle for subsistence, he uses it also to mean a struggle with the physical conditions of life, to which an organism that would survive must be or


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Rh must become adapted. "Two canine animals in a time of dearth," he remarks, "may truly be said to struggle with each other which shall get food and live. But a plant on the edge of a desert is said to struggle for life against the drought, though more properly it should be said to be dependent on the moisture." Also, "climate plays an important part in determining the average numbers of a species, and periodical seasons of extreme cold or drought seem to be the most effective of all checks." Yet further, "when we reach the Arctic regions, or snow capped summits, or absolute deserts, the struggle for life is almost exclusively with the elements." Again, Mr. Darwin often means, not a struggle for food or against the elements, but a struggle to avoid being converted into food. "Very frequently," he writes, "it is not the obtaining of food, but the serving as prey to other animals, which determines the average numbers of a species." And some of his most fascinating pages deal with the variations, such as protective markings, colorings and habits, which are helpful in the mere struggle for safety. Once more, in those paragraphs in "The Descent of Man" already referred to, in which Mr. Darwin recognizes the utility of group solidarity, he, by implication, takes account of a struggle on the part of associating individuals to adjust their interests and their activities to one another in such wise that group life may be maintained.

If, then, it is legitimate to use the term, "struggle for existence," "in a large and metaphorical sense," as Mr. Darwin says his practise is, the struggle itself obviously consists of four distinct and specific struggles, namely: (1) the struggle for safety; (2) the struggle for subsistence; (3) the struggle for adaptation by every organism to the objective conditions of its life, and, (4) the struggle for adjustment, by group-living individuals to one another.

And this large use of the term is legitimate in fact. Mr. Darwin's only mistake was in calling it "metaphorical." For, as Karl Pearson has pointed out, "the true measure of natural selection is a selective death rate," and any circumstance, whether it be danger, or scarcity of food, or non-adaptation to physical conditions, or mal-adjustment of associating individuals to one another, which affects the selective death rate, is a factor in the struggle for existence.

If so much be granted, a number of difficult questions get a real illumination. What are the true relations of esthetic and economic, of ethical and social phenomena to one another, and to life in its wide inclusiveness? What, especially, is the precise point of departure of


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84 social evolution from all that precedes it and prepares for it? And what is the precise discrimination needful of things social from things merely organic or psychological? The modes and the phases of the struggle for existence suggest intelligible answers.

Quite obviously the struggle for safety is the shaping cause of our esthetic life, the life of sensitiveness and of appreciation. On this point Mr. Darwin's data and conclusions are exhaustive. Instant reaction, if the organism is unconscious, discrimination if it is conscious, and due estimate of light and shade, of color and form, of sound and of pressure, in all their objective degrees and proportions, dissonances and harmonies—these are the readiness and the responsiveness requisite for safety from each instant of life to the next. Obviously, moreover, the esthetic life, so understood, is elemental and precedent. For an organism must in fact survive from moment to moment before it can have further need or power, even to eat.

The struggle for subsistence initiates and broadens into the economic life. The struggle for adaptation becomes the ethical life. For adaptation, in its beginnings a mere taking on or perfecting of useful characters, develops, in time, into self-control, self-direction and self-shaping.

Between adaptation and adjustment, no distinction whatever has been made by a majority of evolutionist writers. Spencer uses the word "adjustment" to include all that biologists and psychologists commonly mean by adaptation. Yet the two things are not at all the same. The struggles which they involve are not identical struggles, and, for the purposes of sociological theory, the distinction is of fundamental importance.

Adaptation—which, as it goes on, widens into and includes the ethical life, at first is a mere conforming of the organism through variation, selection and inheritance, to the physical conditions under which it happens to live; that is to say, to altitude, temperature, light or darkness, dryness or moisture, enemies, food supply, and so on. Through adaptation, and because non-adaptation means extinction, the individuals of any given species congregated and dwelling in any given region where adequate food supplies are found become increasingly alike, and the first two conditions of social life, as Mr. Bagehot rightly explained it, namely, grouping and substantial resemblance, are provided. But, since they are alike, individuals of the same variety or race, so brought together in one habitat, necessarily want the same things, and in like ways try to get them. They may compete in obtaining those things which each is able to get by his own efforts, or they may combine their efforts to obtain those things that no one could get unaided. In either case their interests and activities sooner or later must fall into adjustment. And, since any failure of adjustment may be as fatal as non-adaptation or starvation, there will be a struggle, at


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Rh first perhaps unconscious, but in course of time becoming conscious, to maintain adjustment and to perfect it. This struggle for adjustment is the beginning of social life and is the differentiating mark of all true social phenomena.

Or, to put the matter in slightly different words, while the struggle for safety develops the esthetic life, and the struggle for subsistence becomes the economic life, and the struggle for adaptation broadens into the ethical life, the struggle of resembling creatures to adjust their similar adaptations to one another, is the beginning and the continuing process of the social life.

Through success in all these struggles, and not in any one alone, there results a survival of the fit, that is, of those organisms that are so equipped with proper parts and habits that they on the whole fit into and conform to all the essential conditions of life provided by the environment in which they are forced or elect to dwell. Holding their own in such unremitting and remorseless contests, those among them in whom consciousness has awakened, inevitably come to feel a certain sense of vital adequacy, a will and power to live, and an assurance of unexhausted opportunity. There is born in them a faith, inarticulate at first but effective, in the possibilities of life. Impelled by this faith and equipped with social instinct, man, outstripping all other creatures, presses forward into the wider conflicts of a collective struggle for existence.

Here a word must be said about the subjective aspect of society, which, in its objective aspect, as we have seen, is merely the struggle and process of adjustment. What is the relation of adjustment to sympathy and to understanding, to communication and to concerted purpose, to the evolution of a social constraint through which the community controls and shapes the individual, to cooperation and to social organization?

These questions are not really so difficult as some others. We have seen that adjustment arises because like creatures want the same things and in like ways try to get them. Now, wanting the same things, and trying in like ways to get them, are essentially psychological phenomena, and under analysis they resolve into one elementary phenomenon in particular, namely, like response to the same, or to similar, or to common stimulation. Responding in like ways to the same, or to common stimulation, associating individuals, acting upon one another also by suggestion and example, and imitating one another in a thousand ways, have identical feelings and develop identical or closely resembling ideas. Sympathy and understanding, as the psychologist explains, are byproducts of all these things. Sympathy and understanding, supplemented by communication, and backed up by the enormous mass of common feelings and ideas, find expression in those common and usual


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86 ways of doing things, those norms and elements of custom which Professor Sumner has so admirably named "the folkways."

Folkways, customs, mores, enforced by collective instinct and feeling, constrain the individual. They become that "most terrible of all tyrannies known to man," of which Mr. Bagehot wrote. But that tyranny, as Bagehot demonstrated, perfects the group in the unity of essential likeness, and in the consciousness of likeness, and holds it together in the bonds of solidarity. Conscious of the usefulness of solidarity, the group, as it becomes self-conscious, endeavors by definite policies so far to prescribe individual conduct as to control and limit variation from type. Society thus becomes a type-conforming group of associates, endeavoring, by self-instituted discipline, to maintain, as a type, its distinctive characteristics.

To observe the successive stages, and the complications of man's collective struggle for existence, is to examine the evolution of tribal society and to follow the history of civilization—a large undertaking. The few words that I have to offer upon these subjects at the present time will refer only to some of the relations that seem to hold between very general influences, on the one hand, and some of the larger results, on the other.

Group safety is the first consideration. It is attained through unity of action, a prerequisite of which is the sense of solidarity. To the making of solidarity, everything that we are in the habit of calling conventionality contributes. Not only the fundamentally important conventions of language, but also those of manners, of costume and of ceremonial have here an essential function.

Doubtless it is at this initial stage of the collective struggle, when life is a day by day hazard, and man's overmastering emotion is dread, that religion acquires its first intellectual coefficient. Since Edward B. Tylor developed his theory of a primitive animism, much new light has been thrown upon the earliest religious notions of the race. The new discoveries have not convinced us that animism was, indeed, the actual beginning of religion, much less have they proven that the ghost theory of Spencer's exposition was. On the contrary, research apparently has demonstrated that religion, before it was spiritistic or even animistic, was quite impersonal. It was a recognition and an ever-present dread of external power, conceived merely as strength or might. Mana, or Manitou, was not the Great Spirit of the missionary's imagination; it was merely The Great Big, The Great Mighty, The Great Dreadful, and the earlier way of establishing working relations with external might lay not through sacrifice or prayer, but through the ingenious trickery of the black art, that is to say, of magic.

But was even magic the very first mode of worship? Speaking for myself only, I doubt it. In the folkways and folklore of every people


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Rh we find, deep down in the stratum, the arts of augery, of divination, of fortune telling. In these, I suspect, we discover the earliest religious ideas and practises, as distinguished from religious feeling or faith. Before man thought of fooling, or tricking, or bribing, or importuning the powers that control his fate, he tried simply to find out what they were likely to do to him. He tried to learn whether and how far he was safe, to foresee his fate.

It has been in view of such considerations as these, and especially because of the strong probability that religion was impersonal before it became animistic, that I have thought it legitimate to identify religion in its ultimate essence or principle, with that elementary and primordial faith in the possibilities of life which springs from success in the struggle for existence.

Collective economic effort takes at first the form of a group exploitation of various natural sources of subsistence. Each horde becomes identified with a particular region or hunting-ground, and sometimes with a particular kind of food. The notion arises that the human group and its food, plant or animal, had a common origin and are now kindred. Magic is developed as the means relied on to preserve and to increase the food supply. This idea and resulting practise constitute totemism, which differentiates primitive communities into economic groups and into kinship divisions.

Within each group, the adaptation of individuals to prevailing life conditions is furthered by the folkways, imposing upon every person a common morality, and, through initiation ceremonies, or other formidable disciplines, developing in him some power of self-control. Prom experiences of discipline received and imparted, and of self-mastery, springs a crude theory of personal power or agency. Here, probably, is the true origin of animism as a theory of causation, and from this point religion tends to become animistic.

The ever-recurring conflicts between group and group call forth leadership, establish the simpler forms of personal government and mark out the elementary social distinctions. It is now that ideas of spirits separable from material bodies, and, as ghosts surviving bodily death, begin to take shape. Religion becomes spiritistic. The habit of making obeisance to the powerful or the clever, and of propitiating them, which has grown up step by step with leadership and personal government, is transferred to the realm of shades. Ghosts must be looked after and prayed to, or they might do mischief. Remembered, fed and honored, the kindred ghosts of a community are friendly, protecting powers. Religion becomes the bond of the living with the dead.

Through all these struggles, adaptations and adjustments, the fit that survive become in a degree socialized, and in the degree that they become social they become better assured of further survival. By the integration of small hordes of kindred into tribes, and the combination of


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88 tribes into federations, ethnic society is evolved. The ghosts of tribal chieftains are supposed to be more powerful and important than ordinary ghosts; they enjoy, therefore, extraordinary honor and attention. They become gods. Religion becomes theistic.

The struggle for existence has now been won. The collective struggle for advantage begins. From every side confederated tribes of barbarian men press toward those regions that offer exceptional opportunities; such regions in early days were the shores and back country of the Caspian Sea, the valleys of the Euphrates and the Nile. This is the struggle for situation. Bringing together in one habitat a motley multitude of tribes, and fragments of shattered tribes, it grinds the tribal system to destruction. It assembles and mingles the human elements for an evolution of civil society.

When the struggle for place and opportunity has been won, and command of territory has been achieved, every energy is enlisted in the economic struggle for abundance. The new social order is not yet established. Miscellaneous men jostle each other, as in a mining camp. Each lives among his fellows on sufferance, or toleration. Society is merely approbational, and its interests are purely materialistic. The deities are gods of crops and generation.

This state of things, of course, can not last. The struggle for abundance begets the struggle for efficiency. Ideas and standards of efficiency appear. The efficient find each other out. They like each other and each other's ways. They dislike the inefficient, and begin in all possible ways to make life unpleasant for them. Efficiency and the habits that make therefor are identified with righteousness. The gods are credited with righteous impulses, and a desire to have men do right. Society has become congenial, and religion ethical.

The supreme struggle remains—the struggle for supremacy. To conquer, to dominate, to exploit—this alone can satisfy the state that has become strong enough to impose its yoke upon environing peoples. Armies are mustered and drilled, coercive rule and regimentation transform the domestic order. Society becomes despotic, and, since the gods of the conquerors must be worshipped by the conquered, religion becomes authoritative.

To show how despotic society breaks down, how in such frontier outposts as were the islands and shores of the Ægean Sea, intellect at last becomes dynamic, and political habit revolutionary, and how, under the hammering of these forces, society becomes contractual or constitutional, and religion rationalistic, would be to tell an enthralling story, for which no time remains. In one favored place, the Athenian city state, society became for a brief time idealistic, that is to say, its bonds were those of a common purpose, or ideal, and religion became non-theological. After two thousand years of arrest and slow recovery,


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Rh the cosmopolitan society of the western world is, possibly, once more approximating the Athenian model.

And the goal is what? If it be true, indeed, that through the ages an increasing purpose runs, is it made manifest in something that we may legitimately call progress? For progress, rightly defined, is more than evolution. It is race survival with individuation, or it is increasing individual power, capacity and happiness not entailing race extermination. Have we made sure of this? We hate to think ill of ourselves. Yet the question recurs: Has the survival of the fit become, at length, a survival of the best?


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90

HAT the publication of the "Origin of Species" marked an epoch in the development of the natural sciences is well known to the layman. That the combination of the very words origin and species embodied an intellectual revolt and introduced a new intellectual temper is easily overlooked by the expert. The conceptions that had reigned in the philosophy of nature and knowledge for two thousand years, the conceptions that had become the familiar furniture of the mind, rested on the assumption of the superiority of the fixed and final; they rested upon treating change and origin as signs of defect and unreality. In laying hands upon the sacred ark of absolute permanency, in treating the forms that had been regarded as types of fixity and perfection as originating and passing away, the "Origin of Species" introduced a mode of thinking that in the end was bound to transform the logic of knowledge, and hence the treatment of morals, politics and religion.

No wonder then that the publication of Darwin's book, a half century ago, precipitated a crisis. The true nature of the controversy is easily concealed from us, however, by the theological clamor that attended it. The vivid and popular features of the anti-Darwinian row tended to leave the impression that the issue was between science on one side and theology on the other. Such was not the case—the issue lay primarily within science itself, as Darwin himself early recognized. The theological outcry he discounted from the start, hardly noticing it save as it bore upon the "feelings of his female relatives." But for two decades before final publication he contemplated the possibility of being put down by his scientific peers as a fool or as crazy; and he set, as the measure of his success, the degree in which he should affect three men of science: Lyell in geology, Hooker in botany and Huxley in zoology.

Religious considerations lent fervor to the controversy, but they did not provoke it. Intellectually, religious emotions are not creative but conservative. They attach themselves readily to the current view of the world and consecrate it. They steep and dye intellectual fabrics in the seething vat of emotions; they do not form their warp


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Rh and woof. There is not, I think, an instance of any large idea about the world being independently generated by religion. However much the ideas that rose np like armed men against Darwinism owed their intensity to religious associations, their origin and meaning are to be sought elsewhere.

Few words in our language foreshorten intellectual history as does the word species. The Greeks in initiating the intellectual life of Europe, were impressed by characteristic traits of the life of plants and animals; so impressed indeed that they made these traits the key to defining nature and to explaining mind and society. And truly life is so wonderful that a seemingly successful reading of its mystery might well lead men to believe that the key to the secrets of heaven and earth was in their hands. The Greek rendering of this mystery, the Greek formulation of the aim and standard of knowledge, was in the course of time embodied in the word species and controlled philosophy for two thousand years. To understand the intellectual face-about expressed in the phrase "Origin of Species," we must, then, understand the long dominant idea against which it was a protest.

Consider how men were impressed by the facts of life. Their eyes fell upon certain things slight in bulk, and frail in structure. To every appearance, these perceived things were inert and passive. Suddenly, under certain circumstances, these things—henceforth known as seeds or eggs or germs—begin to change, to change rapidly in size, form and qualities. Rapid and extensive changes occur, however, in many things—as when wood is touched by fire. But the changes in the living thing are orderly; they are cumulative; they tend constantly in one direction; they do not, like other changes, destroy or consume, or pass fruitless into wandering flux; they realize and fulfil. Each successive stage, no matter how unlike its predecessor, preserves its net effect and also prepares the way for a fuller activity on the part of its successor. In living beings changes do not happen as they seem to elsewhere, any which way; the earlier changes are regulated in view of later results. This progressive organization does not cease till there is achieved a true final term, a τελὸς, a completed, perfected end. This final form exercises in turn a plenitude of functions, not the least noteworthy of which is production of germs like those from which it took its own origin, germs capable of the same cycle of self-fulfilling activity.

But the whole miraculous tale is not yet told. The same drama is enacted to the same destiny in countless myriads of individuals so sundered in time, so severed in space, that they have no opportunity for mutual consultation and no means of interaction. As an old writer


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92 quaintly said, "things of the same kind go through the same formalities"—celebrate, as it were, the same ceremonial rites. This formal activity which operates throughout a series of changes and holds them to a single course; that subordinates their aimless flux to its own perfect manifestation; which, leaping the boundaries of space and time, keeps individuals in spite of their being distant in space and remote in time to a uniform type of structure and function: this principle seemed to give insight into the very nature of reality itself. To it Aristotle gave the name, εῖδος. This term the scholastics translated as species.

The force of this term was deepened by its application to everything in the universe that observes order in flux and manifests constancy through change. From the casual drift of daily weather, through the uneven recurrence of seasons and unequal return of seed time and harvest, up to the majestic sweep of the heavens—the image of eternity in time—and from this to the unchanging pure and contemplative intelligence beyond nature lies one unbroken fulfilment of ends. Nature, as a whole, is a progressive realization of purpose strictly comparable to the realization of purpose in any single plant or animal.

The conception of εῖδος, species, the fixed form and final cause, was the central principle of knowledge as well as of nature. Upon it rested the logic of science. Change as change is mere flux and lapse; it insults intelligence. Genuinely to know is to grasp a permanent end that realizes itself through changes, holding them thereby within the metes and bounds of fixed truth. Completely to know is to relate all special forms to their one single end and good: pure contemplative intelligence. Since, however, the scene of nature which directly confronts us is in change, nature as directly and practically experienced can not satisfy the conditions of knowledge. Human experience is also in flux, and hence the instrumentalities of sense-perception and of inference based upon observation are condemned in advance. Science is compelled to aim at realities lying behind and beyond the processes of nature, and to carry on its search for these realities by means of rational forms transcending ordinary modes of perception and inference.

There are, indeed, but two alternative courses. We must either find the appropriate objects and organs of knowledge in the mutual interactions of changing things; or else, to escape the infection of change, we must seek them in some transcendent and supernal region. The human mind, deliberately as it were, exhausted the logic of the changeless, the final and the transcendent, before it essayed adventure on the pathless wastes of generation and transformation. We dispose all too easily of the efforts of the schoolmen to interpret nature and mind in terms of real essences, hidden forms and occult faculties, forgetful of the seriousness and dignity of the ideas that lay behind. We


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Rh dispose of them by laughing at the famous gentleman who accounted for the fact that opium put people to sleep on the ground it had a dormitive faculty. But the doctrine, held in our own day, that knowledge of the plant that yields the poppy consists in referring the peculiarities of an individual to a type, to a universal form, a doctrine so firmly established that any other method of knowing was conceived to be unphilosophical and unscientific, was a survival of precisely the same logic. This identity of conception in the scholastic and anti-Darwinian theory may well suggest greater sympathy for what has become unfamiliar and greater humility regarding the further unfamiliarities that history has in store.

Darwin was not, of course, the first to question the classic philosophy of nature and of knowledge. The beginnings of the revolution are in the physical science of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. When Galileo said: "It is my opinion that the earth is very noble and admirable by reason of so many and so different alterations and generations which are incessantly made therein," he expressed the changed temper that was coming over the world; the transfer of interest from the permanent to the changing. When Descartes said: "The nature of physical things is much more easily conceived when they are beheld coming gradually into existence, than when they are only considered as produced at once in a finished and perfect state," the modern world became self-conscious of the logic that was henceforth to control it, the logic of which Darwin's "Origin of Species" is the latest scientific achievement. Without the methods of Copernicus, Kepler, Galileo and their successors in astronomy, physics and chemistry, Darwin would have been helpless in the organic sciences. But prior to Darwin the impact of the new scientific method upon life, mind and politics, had been arrested for the most part, because between these ideal or moral interests and the inorganic world there intervened the kingdom of plants and animals. The gates of the garden of life were barred to the new ideas while only through this garden was there access to mind and politics. The influence of Darwin upon philosophy resides in his having freed the new logic for application to mind and morals by conquering the phenomena of life. When he said of species what Galileo had said of the earth, e pur se muove, he emancipated once for all genetic and experimental ideas as an organon of asking questions and looking for explanations in philosophy.

The exact bearings upon philosophy of the new logical outlook are, of course, as yet, uncertain and inchoate. We live in the twilight of intellectual transition. One must add the rashness of the prophet to the stubbornness of the partisan to venture a systematic exposition of


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94 the influence upon philosophy of the Darwinian method. At best, we can but inquire as to its general bearing—the effect upon mental temper and complexion, upon that body of half-conscious, half instinctive intellectual aversions and preferences which determine, after all, our more deliberate intellectual enterprises. In this vaguer inquiry there happens to exist as a kind of touchstone one problem of great historic significance that has also been much discussed in Darwinian literature. I refer to the old problem of design versus chance, mind versus matter, as the causal explanation, first and final, of things.

As we have already seen, the classic notion of species carried with it the idea of purpose. In all living forms, a specific type is present directing the earlier stages of growth to the realization of its own perfection. Since this purposive regulative principle is not visible to the senses, it follows that it must be an ideal or rational force. Since, however, the perfect form is gradually approximated through the sensible changes, it also follows that in and through a sensible realm a rational ideal force is working out its own ultimate manifestation. These two inferences were extended to nature: (a) She does nothing in vain; but all for an ulterior purpose. (b) Within natural sensible events there is therefore contained a spiritual causal force, which as spiritual escapes perception, but is apprehended by an enlightened reason, (c) The manifestation of this principle brings about a subordination of matter and sense to its own realization, and this ultimate fulfilment is the goal of nature and of man. The design argument thus operated in two directions. Purposefulness accounted for the intelligibility of nature and the possibility of science, while the absolute or cosmic character of this purposefulness gave sanction and worth to the moral and religious endeavors of man. Science was underpinned and morals authorized by one and the same principle, and their mutual agreement was eternally guaranteed.

This philosophy remained, in spite of sceptical and polemic outbursts, the official and the regnant philosophy of Europe for over two thousand years. The expulsion of fixed first and final causes from astronomy, physics and chemistry had indeed given the doctrine something of a shock. But, on the other hand, increased acquaintance with the details of plant and animal life made a counterbalance and perhaps even strengthened the argument from design. The marvellous adaptations of organisms to their environment, of organs to the organism, of unlike parts of a complex organ—like the eye—to the organ itself; the foreshadowing by lower forms of the higher; the preparation in earlier stages of growth for organs that only later had their functioning—these things were increasingly recognized with the progress of botany, zoology, paleontology and embryology. Together they added such prestige to the design argument that by the late