the higher nature are apprehended with fresh clearness and tenacity, and motives that before seemed adequate now reveal themselves as lamentably inadequate. In the pre-moral stage there was neither morality nor immorality, selfishness nor unselfishness; in the incipient stage of morals there are both. And as time goes on, the permanent self of Reason comes more and more into prominence, the transitory self of Impulse falls more and more into the background. The Darwinians rightly place morality in the relation of the individual to society; but they fix upon the external and unessential features, instead of the internal and essential. They are right in stating that men at first identify their highest good with the good of their own tribe; but they do not see that this is because there is then only a feeble conception of the truth that only in self-identification with others can one's true nature be realized. The imperfect conception of moral progress which the advocates of Evolution have adopted must thus be merged in the larger and truer conception of a progress that is conscious and rational, and therefore moral.

3. The ultimate end and standard of morality, as conceived by the advocates of Evolution, is in close connection with that account of the general nature and history of morality which has just been examined. "The moral sense," says Mr. Darwin,* "is fundamentally identical with the social instincts; and in the case of the lower animals these instincts have been developed for the general good of the community. The term, general good, may be defined as the means by which the greatest possible number of individuals can be reared in full vigour and health, with all their faculities perfect, under the conditions to which they are exposed. As the social instincts both of man and the lower animals have no doubt been developed by the same steps, it would be advisable, if found practicable, to use the same definition in both cases, and to take, as the test of morality, the general good or welfare of the community."

To this conception of the proper standard of right conduct, Mr. Sidgwick† pertinently objects that, "if pressed to its logical results, it would present to us all equally numerous

Descent of Man, vol. i. p. 94.

+ Mind, No. i. p. 58.

species as prima facie on a par in respect of goodness, except indeed that the older (and so generally the 'lower,' as we commonly estimate) would seem the better, in so far as we have more evidence of their capacity to exist under the physical conditions of our globe." Waiving this objection, it is to be remarked that the elimination of self-consciousness as a factor in the constitution of morality is here obtrusively suggested. For it is implied in the standard of right set up by Mr. Darwin, that there is no essential difference between the actions of animals, which are admittedly dependent upon instinct alone, and the actions of man, in which reason plays a prominent part. Provided only that "the greatest number of individuals" is reared "in full health and vigour," the end of morality is achieved; which is simply to say, that an action done from a perception of its adequacy to the nature of the being performing it, is no more rational than an action which is done under the guidance of a blind instinct. But if this is a correct account of the true end of action, it seems to follow that right and wrong are, at least in relation to the doer of an act, meaningless terms. If the standard of conduct is the preservation of the species, the cat in catching mice is as much performing a moral act as the patriot who sacrifices himself for the good of his fellow-men, under the conviction that his moral nature demands this supreme act of self-abnegation. So paradoxical a result may well make us suspect that there is some radical flaw in the conception which leads to it. That flaw evidently consists in the tacit assumption, that the presence of reason to animal instincts effects no change in the character of an act. But in reality it is just here that the essentially moral element steps in and transforms a blind impulse into a moral motive. The beginning of all morality, whether in the individual or the race, lies in the condemnation of mere impulse or passion-in looking down upon it as beneath the dignity of a rational being; and until this divine contempt of the old Adam has been felt, the notion of a moral law is an impossibility. And although the highest kind of morality does not end with the mere condemnation of the natural desires, as Asceticism has wrongly supposed, yet this negative attitude is the necessary condition of all moral advancement. Until the part

played by self-consciousness in breathing the breath of moral life into the dry bones of the natural man is appreciated, morality is a dream and responsibility an insoluble enigma. If man does not differ toto cœlo from the animals in his capacity of turning against any or all of his immediate impulses; of weighing them in the balance and rejecting those that are found wanting; of subordinating them to an end consciously determined by himself; not only is his ineradicable sense of responsibility a delusion, but it is inconceivable that it should ever have got into his consciousness at all. Mr. Darwin admits that the moral consciousness has grown up from a perception of the superiority of one kind of impulse over another; but he does not recognise that an impulse brought into relation with a permanent subject of it is by that very act no longer an impulse, but a consciously determined end of action. Only in view of this distinction is it possible to understand why abandonment to an unworthy motive should be followed by regret, and in graver aberrations by remorse. The "welfare of the community," in the higher sense suggested by an appreciation of the transforming influence of reason, may be rightly enough defined as the ultimate end of right condact; for in our conception of it must be included whatever is most conducive to the development of the higher nature. Judged by this high standard it is easy to see why selfishness is wrong and unselfishness right; why the enlightened statesman, the patriot, and the reformer are entitled to the highest honour and esteem; why the good citizen, the tender husband and father, and the dutiful son are worthy of commendation. But if a conscious conformity to the "general good," as the supreme standard of right conduct, is an act the same in kind with that performed by a pointer dog when

it points at a hare;* the notion of Duty is thoroughly depleted of all that makes it moral.

The result of this inquiry is, in brief:-In the first place, that the doctrine of Evolution, being concerned solely with the explanation of material changes, throws no light whatever upon the nature or history of morality; secondly, that, while serving as at least a provisional conception to bind together biological phenomena, it supplies no data for the settlement of ethical problems, nor can a proper conception of moral progress be extracted from it; and, lastly, that the standard of morality set up by Mr. Darwin and his followers is not a standard of morality at all, since it omits the very element that distinguishes moral from natural courses. The attempt of Evolutionists to solve ethical questions by a method fundamentally unsound can only be regarded as one more example of the futile effort which some physicists are at present making to transcend the proper sphere of scientific investigations; and, if so, our ethical text-bookst cannot be purged of any imperfections with which they may be burdened by the aid of the Darwinian theory of development, or of any so-called system of morality based upon it.

"Any instinct which is permanently stronger or more enduring than another, gives rise to a feeling which we express by saying that it ought to be obeyed. A pointer dog, if able to reflect on his past conduct, would say to himself, I ought (as indeed we say of him) to have pointed at that hare, and not have yielded to the passing temptation of hunting it."-Darwin's Descent of Man, vol. ii. p. 375.

+ Of course I am not defending the text-books in common use. No one familiar with recent ethical

speculation needs to be told that such books as Stewart's Outlines of Moral Philosophy and Wayland's Elements of Moral Science are practically obsolete.

TH

CHAPTER XIII.

THREE MONTHS.

HE stepping into a fortune of twenty thousand pounds did not tend to raise the spirits of Dorcas Halfday. From the night of the discovery of her grandfather's will, she became taciturn and thoughtful and all the variable moods. which had distinguished her, the passion, jealousy, and those stronger impulses of her nature which had rendered her difficult to comprehend or control, became submerged in her deep study of the future. content to think, and thought did not appear of much use to her. Before her, it was evident, lay an intricate problem, and it was beyond her power to solve it. There were too many lives and too many varied interests involved for her to see the end, let her act as she would, or as she wished.

She was

Mabel Westbrook, always a shrewd young woman in her way, affected not to notice this change in her companion, and Dorcas in her heart was grateful for her silence. It was her brother Brian who drove her mad with his advice, who wrote to her letters which she did not answer, and who called to take her for long walks until she rebelled and refused to be preached at any longer. What the advice was which Brian tendered to his sister, Mabel did not know, but thought that she could guess at—and Brian did not condescend in any way to enlighten her; sometimes she fancied that Brian had never wholly forgiven her remarks upon Angelo Salmon's courtship, his manner was so strange, and he looked at her with such

"" Little Kate Kirby,” &c.

studious gravity of expression. He did not speak again of the will to her; but he might be waiting the result of his sister's coming into the property. He would have a great deal to say then by way of making up for lost time, perhaps.

There were occasions even when Mabel Westbrook fancied that this odd, angular man, to whom the custody of Penton Museum was entrusted, was disposed to evade her company. After Dorcas had declined to go out with him any more, or to accept any more of his advice, he kept away from the cottage on the Penton Road for weeks together, as though his interest in Mabel were dying out, or he preferred his studies in the dusty room where he had first warned her to be cautious, to the company of one whom he had never been able to comprehend. Women had been always a riddle to him; he had not had the time or inclination to understand them; let him go back to his study of dead worlds, of facts in stone and marble, and of mysteries of primeval periods which his clear mind had had the power to pierce. These waited for his analysis, and woman was never still or twice alike. Surely this was Brian Halfday's reasoning in the lull before the storm that was rising from the lower ground, and of which no one took heed. Mabel believed that this was his reasoning at all events, and she accepted the position philosophically. Men were enigmas to her too, and they professed too much. Brian Halfday was not the earnest being who had talked to her in the churchyard at Datchet Bridge, but a new man altogether-as cold and impenetrable as the fossils in his big glass cases.

The story of her mission to England had become trite and stale to him by this time, she considered-he had been roused to action by her sudden intrusion on his hard, dry world, but it was a galvanic action, not a life that had stirred him to his heart's depths. So much the better; she had not wished for anything else, and she should not be sorry to get back to America. As for the twenty thousand pounds and its ultimate destination, she scarcely gave one moment's consideration to the question. The money never troubled her; it seemed still to belong to the Halfdays rather than to her; she had brought it from America to give them, and all that followed afterwards were parts of a strange dream to her. She had kept her promise to her grandfather and had done her duty, and there was an end of it-at least, there would have been an end of it, she considered, if this tiresome man with the long, black hair would have only let the

matter rest.

There were the law's delays in the matter of the proving of Adam Halfday's will, and Dorcas had, wisely enough for her own interests, placed the case in a solicitor's hands. She would have no more of Brian's interference than she could help, although it was Brian who had been appointed executor to the little document which old Adam had one day taken it into his head to concoct, on the strength of the seventy pounds which he had scraped together from his fees and perquisites at St. Lazarus. The money did not pass quickly into the hands of Dorcas Halfday, who betrayed more restlessness as time went on-who even came back, by degrees, to her old excitable self. That there was a mystery in Dorcas's life beyond Mabel's power to penetrate had always been evident, but Mabel had not asked for her confidence, and was content to wait for it. She had gained the love of this girl, and confidence would follow in good time, Mabel was assured. Meanwhile let her think of her own plans, and prepare for a journey across the sea; England was no longer a home to her, in her own thoughts, and she was biding her time to go away.

It was in the middle of September that the law took decisive action in the case of the will of Adam Halfday. The time had come to prove the document; there had been an urgent necessity for delay, and the explanation came at last from the faltering

lips of Dorcas. There had been many letters for Dorcas during the past week, and she entered the room with them and other papers in her hands. It was a quiet evening, with the house to themselves, the hour was late, and there were no visitors to interrupt them.

"Will you read every one of those, Miss Westbrook?" said Dorcas, piling them on the work-table at which Mabel sat.

"The Fates forbid!" cried Mabel, looking with amazement at the letters which had been heaped suddenly before her.

"I would rather you did," said Dorcas. "My dear child, what good would the perusal of all those documents do me, when a few words can explain most of them?" inquired Mabel.

"A few words?" quoted Dorcas scornfully, "oh, no. Words of mine are always misunderstood, or something escapes me which I ought to have kept back. I am a bad hand at explanations; please to read the letters."

"For what particular reason, Dorcas ?" "Because Brian thinks I am not to be trusted," she replied; "that I am weak, and easily led, and false; as if a girl like me could have his iron nerves and iron will, and see the world as he does, and believe not in any living man or woman in it." "Is he so sceptical ? "

'Yes, unless

"Go on."

"Unless it's you," said Dorcas bluntly; "he does talk of you as if he had some faith at last, and you were a woman he could believe in. But then you brought money to us, and he thinks too much of money."

"Have you quarrelled with Brian again?" "Almost. He interferes," she said; "he will not give me my own way; he distrusts me."

Dorcas sat down by the table, and added impatiently—

"Please read the letters. I am waiting to take them to my room again. You will find my whole life there the whole story that I have been keeping from you for a time, but which I wanted you to know, when I thought you had learned to understand me."

"Have I learned that, Dorcas ?"
Hardly, but that's my fault."

"You are wrong. I trust you implicitly," said Mabel; "if you are impulsive, irritable,