CHAPTER II.

THE INNER WORLD.

A SUSSEX COAST.

Can we have absolute certainty about anything, and if so, what is the criterion and what are the grounds and motives of all certainty? GEORGE MAXWELL was sitting on the beach at Eastbourne under the shade of a breakwater, or groin, reading Lyell's' Principles of Geology.' On his right he saw the chalk-cliffs, leading on past the Wish Tower and the Meads, towards Beachy Head. On his left, beyond Pevensey Marshes, he could descry in the distance Bexhill, and further on the white houses of St. Leonards. The tide had only just turned, and the breaking of the calm sea's small waves was but slightly audible, as was the cry of a sea-gull sailing in circles slowly overhead in the gently-blowing south wind. He was lost in a reverie, wherein distinct reminiscences of the place in bygone years rose up. He was a child again, and plainly saw in imagination the shape of a particularly large castle of sand and shingle once raised against the advancing tide. Recollections of walks to what had seemed well named 'Paradise,' of the noisy arrival of the London coach, and of the mysterious charm of Pevensey Castle ruins, recurred one after the other. Suddenly the band on the pier struck up the overture to

'Fra Diavolo,' and recalled to his mind details of the first time he had heard that opera, with Miss Betts as Lady Allcash. He then noted how different were the feelings with which he years before had gone to an opera, from those he experienced when, three evenings ago, he heard 'L'Africaine' at Covent Garden, with the friend who had the night before travelled down with him, and whom he had left at the old Anchor Hotel studying Hume. He returned to his book, and considered the author's arguments as to the sufficiency of altered distributions of land and water, to account for such past changes of local climate as geology reveals. Recollecting the evidences which recent deep-sea explorations have furnished in favour of the past persistence of our existing continents and cceans, he was doubting Lyell's hypothesis, when the crunch of rapidly nearing footsteps on the shingle made him look up. As his friend put his hand on his shoulder the better to help himself to perch on the breakwater, Maxwell said: Do you think, Frankland, that Lyell, if he were alive, would now maintain his views as to the probable cause of climatic change in the world?

Frankland. Who knows? These are not days in which any opinion long maintains itself, and I should think he would change his. Nothing endures! Who can feel any certainty about anything when the whole world is perhaps but a set of changing appearances?

M. I see you are fresh from your Hume. Has he made you still more of a sceptic?

F. Indeed he has, for he has made me sceptical as to the sincerity of his own scepticism. I am half

inclined to believe he is all the time laughing in his sleeve at followers who take him au sérieux. In other respects he leaves me as he found me.

M. Whether anything endures altogether or not, things at any rate endure for a time, and I want to know what you think as to this supposed cause of the non-endurance of climate. Is there any real proof

F. Real proof! That is a grand expression! Are there really any such things as 'proofs' at all? There are fancies no doubt, and my fancies vary pretty often. I see no certainty about anything but my own state of feeling for the moment. I feel no such certainty as to my own continued permanent existence from day to day; and as to yours, my dear fellow, I really have the very gravest doubts. For the last six months I have, as you know, been a sceptic —that is, I have a present fancy that I have been so extraordinarily constant in my views. I will only call it a 'fancy,' for can I have any absolute certainty that what seem to me to be the feelings of an enduring 'me,' may not really be those of something utterly unknown? May not all men's thoughts and feelings, if there are such things, be phenomena of some great unknown and unknowable entity? May not all life be a dream within a dream, and rather the dream of somebody else than my dream?

M. I know very well that you like to amuse yourself with dialectical gymnastics, but I do not care about talking for talking's sake, and have no talent for badinage. If you like to discuss the question of certainty and its foundations seriously, I am your man; if not, I would rather stroll with you on the pier and listen to the band.

F. I hate your adverb! It reminds me of those objectionable advertisements which begin 'Wanted in a serious family,' and which suggest tracts, bad dinners, and long faces, as substitutes for bank-notes, good cookery, and laughter. I, however, was quite earnest and sincere in what I said, and should like to examine the subject of certainty with you as thoroughly as it is possible for us to do it.

M. Sincerely, then, if not 'seriously,' are you not certain-absolutely certain-that you are now listening, that both your legs are not being broken, that you are not a fluid being poured into a cask, or a fish with a hook entering its gills?

F. I have already said that I have certainty as to my present state of feeling. I know, for example, that I have a feeling of a very hot sun on my back. As to this, I have the highest possible certainty-certainty, of which neither God nor Devil can either deprive me, without depriving me of my conscious existence, or deceive me about its existence while I have it. But such certainty I cannot attain about anything else whatever-not even as to my own existence, and most certainly not as to yours.

M. You seem to have a spite against my existence. Now, I have not even the faintest doubt about yours; and I quite agree with you as to the manifest impossibility that any power could deceive you as to any actual present state of feeling. As to your having a feeling, and what that feeling is, you may indeed have complete certainty. But come and sit down here with me in the shade, and tell me if you have not certainty about more than that. Are you

not certain in the highest degree that you came down here with me last night by rail, that you have not two heads, and that you are not the Empress of China?

F. Of course, I am what is commonly called certain' about such absurdities, but still as to them and as to my existence, my certainty is inferior in degree compared with my certainty as to my present state of consciousness, and compared with that does not merit to be called 'certainty,' still less 'the highest degree of certainty.'

M. You admit, however, that there is such a thing as absolute and complete certainty.

F. I have admitted and do admit that there is such a thing-namely, certainty about my present feelings.

M. So far so good! We at least agree that there is such a thing as absolute and complete certainty. But now, how do you know that you have a feeling? How do you know that any present state of consciousness exists?

F. I know it directly and immediately. There is no 'how' to be considered in the matter.

M. Pardon me, I admit that you have feelings directly and immediately, but not that you know that you have them (so as to say to yourself, 'This feeling or state really exists'), directly and immediately. In order to make this assertion you must, as it were, turn your mind in upon itself, and reflect on your feeling. Without this you could not say that you knew that the feeling or state of consciousness existed.

F. But to know that we are conscious of any