a motor nerve severed from its centre from which he expressly excludes it. So much as to the alleged invariable connexion of feeling and central function. It may be so, but it is not yet fully proved; and this being so, it seems to me that the negative testimony of consciousness must be regarded as to some extent discrediting the supposition.

Let us now pass to the second stage of Mr. Lewes's argument. Even if feeling were found to be invariably conjoined with the action of central organs this would not amount to a scientific proof of the identity of the two. Mr. Lewes would, no doubt, say that his idea of identity is simply a hypothesis. Yet is it not an essentially unverifiable hypothesis, and very much akin to all metempirical attempts to transcend experience? And further, if material processes are ever, in any of their forms, identical with feeling, would it not be more consistent to follow Hartmann and predicate a mental side of all physical facts? I do not know whether Mr. Lewes would be ready to carry his monism to this length. Yet this seems to me to be the only form of monism which is thoroughly intelligible, and which, moreover, can lay claim to a philosophical raison d'être, namely, the supposed need of resolving the mystery of the genesis of consciousness.

The automatist theory is not, then, I imagine, finally disproved by Mr. Lewes's line of reasoning. So far as this theory asserts that the chain of bodily events is distinctly conceivable (by help of the doctrine of the conservation of energy), as a self-sufficient physical process, it seems to me to be unassailable. Moreover, the facts of approximately unconscious secondary-automatic actions show how much the organism can do without the immediate interposition of the mental element. At the same time I admit that the automatist goes beyond the evidence if he asserts that all the higher actions of the organism could just as well take place without consciousness. It must be remembered that in no case is precisely the same nervous action at one time conscious, and at another time unconscious. In secondary automatic actions, and in the marvellous feats executed by Dr. Mesmet's now celebrated soldier in his abnormal states, we have every reason to suppose that the sum-total of the nervous conditions and processes somehow differs from that which underlies similar actions when consciously performed. In all such blind mimetic actions consciousness is clearly an antecedent, even though a remote antecedent. Hence

the question still remains whether such actions could ever be performed without the previous intervention of consciousness. It seems to me that we must still accept the old mystery of the union of body and soul as an ultimate fact which we cannot interpret, just because we have no other kindred facts with which to classify it. Looked at in the light of physical events in general, the actions of organisms seem to be self-sufficient. Yet the invariable appearance of consciousness with certain conditions in a living nervous organism is a fact which remains unexplained, and automatism obviously has no means of explaining it.

To this extent, then, I adopt the theory of automatism-so far as it affirms the à priori conceivability of complex nervous actions as purely physical processes. Accordingly, I hold that in the absence of the testimony of our own consciousness, and of organic conditions which clearly resemble those of human consciousness, inference respecting the existence of feeling in the physical world is, from a strictly scientific point of view, not only not necessary, but excedingly precarious.

B.

PHYSIOLOGY OF PLEASURE AND PAIN.

I HAVE not thought it worth while to enter into the question whether our maximum pains exceed our maximum pleasures. This point has not, so far as I am aware, been insisted on by the pessimists. It may be conceded that the worst conceivable combination of pains far surpasses the most delightful conceivable assemblage of pleasures. It would be hardly possible to name an intensity of enjoyment capable of neutralising a minute's bodily torture on the rack. It is this fact, probably, which has given rise to such sayings as that of Petrarch (Mille piacer non vagliono un tormento). Possibly, too, the concession of the English optimists of the last century, that our pains are in the main more intense than our pleasures, was deduced from this same circum

stance.

The consequences of this fact, supposing it to be ascertained, are not very important. That our organism is susceptible of a

deeper and intenser amount of suffering than of enjoyment in a given time seems to be an alarming announcement, yet it is plain that it tells us little apart from the relative frequency of the causes of these maximum intensities of feeling. It by no means follows from this that our average pains surpass our average pleasures in intensity, and I think that this last proposition, though apparently admitted by certain optimists, is by no means true in the case of a healthy and fairly prosperous man or woman. Still, the point is worth considering in a complete survey of the question of pessimism. Let us see what light physiology throws on it.

In a work just published by Mr. Grant Allen, entitled 'Physiological Esthetics,' pleasure is referred to the normal action of a well-recruited nerve, pain to the destruction (disruption or exhaustion) of sentient tissue. In this common physiological theory of pleasure and pain the author ingeniously seeks an explanation of the fact that our maximum pains exceed our maximum pleasures. 'Massive pleasure can seldom or never attain the intensity of massive pain, because the organism can be brought down to almost any point of innutrition or exhaustion; but its efficient working cannot be raised very high above the average. Similarly, any special organ or plexus of nerves can undergo any amount of violent disruption or wasting away, giving rise to extremely acute pains; but organs are very seldom so highly nurtured and so long deprived of their appropriate stimulant as to give rise to very acute pleasure' (pp. 25, 26).

There seems to be considerable force in these observations. On a first view of the matter it looks as if the destruction of a tissue is unlimited, whereas the pleasurable normal action of a nerve is obviously limited by the store of energy at its disposal. Yet it seems to me that Mr. Allen presses the point too far. The painful wearing away of a single nerve is limited by the fact of total exhaustion, which, as I have remarked, is accompanied with insensibility. This effect may be produced instantaneously by a destructively violent stimulation, or after protracted stimulation. It is true that this stage of total exhaustion is rarely reached, and that painful stimulation of great force may go on for long intervals; yet it clearly presents a limit. If, instead of a small area of nerve, we take a large tract, the limit becomes still more distinct. The supposition of the whole nervous system being

racked with immeasurable torture for a single minute seems to be plainly opposed to the laws of life. Such a concurrence of violent stimulations would clearly destroy the organism. So, too, protracted intense pain in all sentient elements is biologically inconceivable. The facts of disease show plainly enough that such an amount of destructive action vastly reduces the capacity for suffering. Indeed, the very fact that pain is destructive, suggests on a deeper reflection that the sum of human torment, both for any particular interval, and absolutely, is a limited quantity.

Another point connected with the differences of pleasure and pain on which physiology might seem to throw light is the recollection of pleasure and pain. I have assumed in this work that where there is no special sensibility to pleasure or to pain, pleasures and pains are recalled with equal facility and in equal distinctness. Dr. Maudsley, in his recent volume The Physiology of Mind' (pp. 537, 538), speaks of a special obstacle to the recollection of pain, and thus appears to argue that pains are less easily recalled than pleasures. This obstacle lies in the fact that pains imply a disorganisation or disturbance of nerve element.' The reasoning is ingenious, and offers a tempting rejoinder to some of the arguments of Hartmann in favour of the predominance of pain. Does it, however, answer to the facts? Do we experience any greater difficulty in recalling a bodily pain, as that of sea-sickness, than a bodily pleasure, as that of a choice dish? The fact seems to be that the lower organic pains and pleasures are equally irrecoverable in idea, whereas the 'mental pains'-for example, those of defeated ambition are just as well remembered as mental pleasures. What determines the recoverability of a feeling is not its painful or pleasurable character, but its intellectual aspects and surroundings. Dr. Maudsley plainly recognises this in the passage from which I have just quoted. I would just add that in the case of a thoroughly healthy organism there appears to be, independently of volition, a special disposition to pleasure, and in this case, it is clear, pleasures will more readily survive in memory than pains.

INDEX.