quite so fully agree with him. We do agree that the extreme advocates of Women's Rights would be disappointed by many unexpected results if they had their own way. We also agree that there need be no more harm or degradation in a wife obeying her husband in the government of the household than in the first lieutenant obeying the captain in the government of the ship. But it seems to us that Mr. Stephen rather misses two points: First, that the legal authority of the husband rests not on his own strength, but on the strength of society: Second, that notwithstanding the law to the contrary, it is within the range of experience that the wife sometimes, as a matter of fact, commands the husband.

As to married women's property, Mr. Stephen freely admits the absurdity of the present law of England; of which, by the way, AngloIndian legislation has made very short work indeed. But on the wider question, with great respect for all the argument that has been used for and against women's rights and men's authority, we think no better practical conclusion of the whole matter is to be found anywhere than in the nursery rhyme of Jack Sprat and his wife.

It is true

that one reason why that pair had no difficulty in coming to the wellknown and satisfactory arrangement between them both may have been that the law and their neighbours let them alone.

Assuming that all authority is bad in itself leads also to the attempt to make out that the more civilised society becomes the less it rests upon force. On this Mr. Stephen excellently replies, "To say that the law of force is abandoned because force is regular, unopposed,

and beneficially exercised, is to say that day and night are now such well-established institutions that the sun and moon are mere superfluities.'

Force reigns as much as ever, nay more; what we gain by civilisation is that force is organised, economised, and rightly directed. For the many who choose, political freedom means the power of choosing intelligently and for the common good whom they will obey; for the few who are chosen, it means the duty of ruling for the common good and for no other purpose. But what becomes, it may be said, of the 'liberty of the subject' so dear to English traditions? We reply that if we are to understand a general tendency to regard lawful authority with distrust and discontent, it has done all the useful work it had to do, as far as England is concerned, and had better be put out of the way. We do not remember to have heard of the 'liberty of the subject' lately, except as a fine name for the unlimited liberty of the publican to make the subject drunk, or as a cry in the mouth of an ignorant and scandalous agitation. And if it were possible to procure a short Act of Parliament to abolish the liberty of the subject henceforth, and prevent the name of it from operating to prejudge any cause, we do not see why any scientific and enlightened reformer should have a word to say against it.

Mr. Stephen's chapter on Fraternity is one which provokes more active thought than the rest of the book, and is yet difficult to give any account of. His point of view is probably that of a great many people who would rather not avow it as explicitly as he does; and Mr.

Stephen has the merit of being, so far as we know, the first to speak out definitely. Fraternity, like Liberty and Equality, is in itself a term of uncertain extent; but we think it is less misleading, and does contain an element of more permanent importance. The assertion, that all men are brothers, is, in the first instance, no more than what Mr. Fitzjames Stephen would call a pathetic way of stating the very safe and venerable dogma that man is a social animal. So far we presume nobody denies it. But it is not so with the modern expressions of the idea, to wit:

Man has constantly tended and is still tending to become more social, and to develope a higher morality with the higher development of his social nature.

The social feelings thus developed will some day give a sufficient sanctioning force to maintain a high standard of morality independent of any existing religious system.

These propositions are both important and disputed. The first is affirmed by the doctrine of evolution, and we believe it to be capable of scientific proof. It is to some extent affirmed by implication in Mr. Mill's ethical writings; but he either did not see the importance of its being part of the account given by science of the world in general, and thus furnishing a scientific basis for morals, or he could not bring himself to depart so openly from the school in which he had formed his philosophy as he must have done, had he fully recognised this. He therefore did not insist on it explicitly, and his utilitarianism is pervaded by a faith whose source does not and which he nowhere justifies. Mr. Stephen denies the proposition more explicitly than Mr. Mill affirms it, but still not very explicitly: he also seems hardly to perceive that its truth or

appear,

VOL. VIII.-NO. XLIII. NEW SERIES.

falsehood is vital to the question at issue.

The second proposition follows naturally (we do not say necessarily) from the scientific way of looking at the world. It cannot perhaps be called certain, but we believe it to be the most reasonable inference as to the future that can be drawn from past experience of the world and man. We may say, with this qualification, that the doctrine of evolution affirms it. Mr. Mill affirms it, though in a somewhat different manner, and we think not on the strongest grounds. Mr. Stephen denies it.

He objects that, without the belief in a God and a future state, 'happiness means whatever each man likes,' and 'love for mankind becomes a matter of taste, sanctioned by the fear of being called a fool or a brute, as the case may be, by people who do not agree with you.'

Now, in the first place, all morality is in some sense a matter of taste, whatever the sanctions may be. The lawgiver and educator say: If you behave thus and thus you will incur such and such legal and social penalties, you will spoil the welfare of yourself and your children, and you will also be doing your best to hinder the improvement of mankind. The priest adds: Besides all this, you will also be damned. Surely a man may disregard the one as well as the other if he can answer that he cares not for the welfare of mankind, his children, or himself in this world, he may likewise answer that he cares not what may happen in the next. Of course it is a matter of choice whether we will or will not take note of the order of nature, including individual and collective human nature, and govern selves accordingly; but experience has hitherto shown that if we do. not, it is the worse for us. And the specific sanction assigned by Mr. Stephen is not a very light one.

H

our

When the community is once so educated in the importance of any moral doctrine as to call those who disagree with it fools or brutes, then, on Mr. Stephen's own principles of justifiable compulsion, there will be sanction enough and to spare. Moreover, apart from this, the morality which bids men live so as to continue the ever higher development of humanity, is enforced gradually indeed, but irresistibly, by the grandest and most certain of all sanctions-the law of natural selection. But why, it is asked, should people care whether their descendants are to improve or degenerate in a future in which they themselves have no part? Because it is their inherited nature, a nature by which chiefly the race has been preserved, and which accumulated inheritance is always strengthening, to care for their children and their children's children, and by this time they could not help it even if they set to work to persuade themselves that it would be pleasanter not to care. We e already feel in this gene ration a kind of duty to leave coal enough in our land for the Englishmen of generations to come in a time we shall not live to see. Certainly no such duty can be deduced from any scheme of morality which assumes that the present is all, nor yet, it seems to us, from any scheme of religion which assumes that the present and future of the individual are all. Call it sentimental, paradoxical, or what you will, the belief that all men born are mortal, but not man,' is no mere dream, but a conviction grounded on knowledge. Some men are living and working in the strength of it now, and more will so live and work hereafter. We do not say it is complete or final, for we hold no form of belief to be so. But we think it may well be more lasting and more fruitful of worthy deeds than a hesitating judgment that, on the whole balance of probabilities, it seems

the part of a reasonable man to ac as if there was a God and a future state rather than not.

It

For such is the residuary condi tion in which the fundamental elements of religion come out of Mr Stephen's hands. The faith on which morals and society rest appears to be directed to a future state of which we know very little, and a God of whom we know nothing except that He made the world as it is and not otherwise, and that, being so made, we have to make the best of it; a Creator whom it is unmeaning to call good, and for whom we may feel an awful respect, but not love. Such a God is much nearer to the Kosmos of Marcus Aurelius or the Universum of Strauss than to the person to whom religious sentiment clings as capable of receiving and returning human affection. seems to us a merely speculative question whether will or consciousness should be attributed to this inscrutable power. The bond of love is gone, the command is expressed only in the order of nature, and the sanction of virtue and morality is, therefore, exactly the same as if the order of nature itself were supposed the ultimate fact. A person who consciously held this creed might be a very good Stoic, but he would not be a religious man in any usual sense of the term. This is not said in disparagement, for the Stoic ideal of life was perhaps the noblest one ever systematised and acted upon by a number of persons sufficient to exercise any appreciable influence on human affairs. But the frank and unreserved way in which Mr. Stephen puts forward this very inadequate conception (as theology must consider it) as the working religion, so to speak, of reasonable men nowadays, strikes us as remarkable sign of the times. We must give one important paragraph in his own words:

Some forms of religion are distinctly

unfavourable to a sense of social duty. Others have simply no relation to it whatever, and of those which favour it (as is the case in various degrees with every form of Christianity) some promote it far more powerfully than others. I should say that those which promote it 'most powerfully are those of which the central figure is an infinitely wise and powerful Legislator, whose own nature is confessedly inscrutable to man, but who has made the world as it is for a prudent, steady, hardy, enduring race of people, who are neither fools nor cowards, who have no particular love for those who are, who distinctly know what they want, and are determined to use all lawful means to get it. Some such religion as this is the unspoken deeply rooted conviction of the solid,established part of the English nation. They form an anvil which has worn out a good many hammers, and will wear out a good many more, enthusiasts and humanitarians notwithstanding. Obviously this is far from the serene and saintly faith in which the Church seeks her ideal. To the Gospel Beatitudes it adds another very different one, which might run thus: Blessed are the strong and valiant, for of such is the empire of England. We give no opinion whether this can be made to agree with the Sermon on the Mount or not, but it is what the greater part of the English believe in their hearts.

The frame of mind towards the great problems of the world which we find throughout this chapter is one of doubt; believing not much in the comforts of the past, and very little in any promises of the future, and seeing less hope than may be seen by those who will, yet not cast down, but brave and steadfast. Mr. Stephen's concluding sen

tence is such that neither those who abide by their old beliefs nor those who have found any new one can wholly take it to themselves. We believe that the intellectual phase it represents cannot be permanent. But it deserves to live for the high-minded sincerity which animates it. If all men went forth thus to seek the truth, upright and have found it ere now. fearless, surely many more would

These are questions with which all must deal as it seems good to them. They are riddles of the Sphinx, and in some way or other we must deal with them. If we decide to leave them unanswered, that is a choice. If we waver in our answer, that too is a choice; but whatever choice we make, we make it at our peril. If a man chooses to turn his back altogether on God and the future, no one can prevent him. No one can show beyond all reasonable doubt that he is mistaken. If a man thinks otherwise, and acts as he thinks, I do not see how any one can prove that he is mistaken. Each must act as he thinks best, and if he is wrong so much the worse for him. We stand on a mountain pass in the midst of whirling snow and blinding mist, through which we get glimpses now and then of paths which may be deceptive. If we stand still, we shall be frozen to death. If we take the wrong road, we shall be dashed to pieces. We do not certainly know whether there is any right one. What must we do? Be strong and of a good courage.' Act for the best, hope for the best, and take what comes. Above all, let us dream no dreams, and tell no lies, but go our way, wherever it may lead, with our eyes open and our heads erect. If death ends all, we cannot meet it better. If not, let us enter whatever may be the next scene like honest men, with no sophistry in our mouths and no masks on our faces.

F. P.

I

Umritsur, the city of eternal life,' is famous as the headquarters of the Sikh religion, and for its Golden Temple, one of the most beautiful buildings in India, and second only to the Taj of Agra. In the centre of the city is a large square tank or artificial lake, the sides of which are paved with marble. A marble pathway, with gilt lamps and railings, leads from one side of the lake to a marble platform in the centre, on which the Golden Temple is built. The temple itself is of the usual style of Indian architecture, surmounted by various domes and spires, and from half-way up the walls to the topmost spire it is gilt all over. The walls and arches are built of white marble, inlaid with precious stones; and inside the temple, under a green velvet canopy embroidered with gold, lies the Grunt' or original Bible of the Sikhs, a very old manuscript. A priest sits behind this book and brushes away the dust and flies with a yak's tail all day, and musicians play and sing in the temple.

Every evening the' Grunt' is carried in procession from the temple to a room on the borders of the lake, where it is placed on a bed for the night, and it is brought back to its place in the temple at sunrise.

In the lake are some enormous fish, which are considered holy, and

are fed by the priests. The Govern ment have built an aqueduct by which the water is renewed from time to time. Visitors to the temple are obliged to take their shoes off they are supplied with green list slippers instead. Even with this pre caution they are not allowed to con taminate the sleeping place of the Grunt' with their presence.

At Lahore the bridge over the river Ranee had broken down, and after two days of a forced delay, I started in a dâk carriage, drawn by two horses instead of one, as the road was so bad. After thirteen hours' hard work, driving much of the way through mud and through water, we reached Wazeerabad, distant twenty-five miles.

The country between Lahore and Wazeerabad is very low and flat, and, being almost entirely under water, looked like a dismal swamp. I put up at the dâk bungalow or staging house built on the banks of the Chenaub, and here I heard the disagreeable news that I could not get on in any direction. The bridge over a branch of the river Chenaub had been carried away, the only boat there had gone after the remains of it, and the road to Sealkote was impracticable for carriages.

The prospect of living for an indefinite time in a house built, apparently, on a small island in the middle of a sea, with no companions, was not inviting, so I determined to ride to Sealkote, twenty-six miles, on the dâk horses, changing every six or eight miles.

The road was up to the girths in water nearly the whole way: at one time my horse fell into a deep hole with his head under water; he came up after a struggle, dead lame, which necessitated a walk of six miles to the next stage. A small bundle of dry clothes fastened be