CHAPTER I

UNIVERSAL REPETITION

I

CAN we have a science or only a history, or, at most, a philosophy of social phenomena? This question is always open. And yet, if social facts are closely observed from a certain point of view, they can be reduced, like other facts, to series of minute and homogeneous phenomena and to the formulas, or laws, which sum up these series. Why, then, is the science of society still unborn, or born but recently, among all its adult and vigorous sister sciences? The chief reason is, I think, that we have thrown away the substance for its shadow and substituted words for things. We have thought it impossible to give a scientific look to sociology except by giving it a biological or, better still, a mechanical air. This is an attempt to light up the known by the unknown. It is transforming a solar system into a non-resolvable nebula in order to understand it better. In social subjects we are exceptionally privileged in having veritable causes, positive and specific acts, at first hand; this condition is wholly lacking in every other subject of investigation. It is unnecessary, therefore, to rely for an explanation of social facts upon those so-called general causes which physicists and naturalists are obliged to create under the name of force, energy, conditions of existence, and other verbal palliatives of their ignorance of the real groundwork of things.

But are we to consider that human acts are the sole factors of history? Surely this is too simple! And so we bind ourselves to contrive other causes on the type of those useful fictions which are elsewhere imposed upon us, and we congratulate ourselves upon being able at times to give an entirely impersonal colour to human phenomena by reason of our lofty, but, truly speaking, obscure, point of view. Let us ward off this vague idealism. Let us likewise ward off the vapid individualism which consists in explaining social changes as the caprices of certain great men. On the other hand, let us explain these changes through the more or less fortuitous appearance, as to time and place, of certain great ideas, or rather, of a considerable number of both major and minor ideas, of ideas which are generally anonymous and usually of obscure birth; which are simple or abstruse; which are seldom illustrious, but which are always novel. Because of this latter attribute, I shall take the liberty of baptising them collectively inventions or discoveries. By these two terms I mean any kind of an innovation or improvement, however slight, which is made in any previous innovation throughout the range of social phenomena—language, religion, politics, law, industry, or art. At the moment when this novel thing, big or little as it may be, is conceived of, or determined by, an individual, nothing appears to change in the social body,—just as nothing changes in the physical appearance of an organism which a harmful or beneficent microbe has just invaded,—and the gradual changes caused by the introduction of the new element seem to follow, without visible break, upon the anterior social changes into whose current they have glided. Hence arises the illusion which leads philosophers of history into affirming that there is a real and fundamental continuity in historic metamorphoses. The true causes can be reduced to a chain of ideas which are, to be sure, very numerous, but which are in themselves distinct and discontinuous, although they are connected by the much more numerous acts of imitation which are modelled upon them.

Our starting-point lies here in the re-inspiring initiatives which bring new wants, together with new satisfactions, into the world, and which then, through spontaneous and unconscious or artificial and deliberate imitation, propagate or tend to propagate, themselves, at a more or less rapid, but regular, rate, like a wave of light, or like a family of termites. The regularity to which I refer is not in the least apparent in social things until they are resolved into their several elements, when it is found to lie in the simplest of them, in combinations of distinct inventions, in flashes of genius which have been accumulated and changed into commonplace lights. I confess that this is an extremely difficult analysis. Socially, everything is either invention or imitation. And invention bears the same relation to imitation as a mountain to a river. There is certainly nothing less subtle than this point of view; but in holding to it boldly and unreservedly, in exploiting it from the most trivial detail to the most complete synthesis of facts, we may, perhaps, notice how well fitted it is to bring into relief all the picturesqueness and, at the same time, all the simplicity of history, and to reveal historic perspectives which may be characterised by the freakishness of a rock-bound landscape, or by the conventionality of a park walk. This is idealism also, if you choose to call it so; but it is the idealism which consists in explaining history through the ideas of its actors, not through those of the historian.

If we consider the science of society from this point of view, we shall at once see that human sociology is related to animal sociologies, as a species to its genus, so to speak. That it is an extraordinary and infinitely superior species, I admit, but it is allied to the others, nevertheless. M. Espinas expressly states in his admirable work on Sociétés animales, a work which was written long before the first edition of this book, that the labours of ants may be very well explained on the principle “of individual initiative followed by imitation.” This initiative is always an innovation or invention that is equal to one of our own in boldness of spirit. To conceive the idea of constructing an arch, or a tunnel, at an appropriate point, an ant must be endowed with an innovating instinct equal to, or surpassing, that of our canal-digging or mountain-tunnelling engineers. Parenthetically it follows that imitation by masses of ants of such novel initiatives strikingly belies the spirit of mutual hatred which is alleged to exist among animals.¹ M. Espinas is very frequently impressed in his observation of the societies of our lower brethren by the important rôle which is played in them by individual initiatives. Every herd of wild cattle has its leaders, its influential heads. Developments in the instincts of birds are explained by the same author as “individual inventions which are afterwards transmitted from generation to generation through direct instruction.”² In view of the fact that modification of instinct is probably related to the same principle as the genesis and modification of species, we may be tempted to enquire whether the principle of the imitation of invention, or of something physiologically analogous, would not be the clearest possible explanation of the ever-open problem of the origin of species. But let us leave this question and confine ourselves to the statement that both animal and human societies may be explained from this point of view.

In the second place, and this is the special thesis of this chapter, the subject of social science is seen, from this standpoint, to present a remarkable analogy to the other domains of general science, and, in this way, to become re-embodied, so to speak, in the rest of the universe, where it had before this the air of an outsider.

In every field of study, affirmations pure and simple enormously outnumber explanations. And, in all cases, the first data are simply affirmed; they are the extraordinary and accidental facts, the premises and sources from which proceeds all that which is subsequently explained. The astronomer states that certain nebulæ, certain celestial bodies of a given mass and volume and at a given distance, exist, or have existed. The chemist makes the same statement about certain chemical substances, the physicist, about certain kinds of ethereal vibrations, which he calls light, electricity, and magnetism; the naturalist states that there are certain principal organic types, to begin with, plants and animals; the physiographer states that there are certain mountain chains, which he calls the Alps, the Andes, et cetera. In teaching us about these capital facts from which the rest are deduced, are these investigators doing the work, strictly speaking, of scientists? They are not; they are merely affirming certain facts, and they in no way differ from the historian who chronicles the expedition of Alexander or the discovery of printing. If there be any difference, it is, as we shall see, wholly to the advantage of the historian. What, then, do we know in the scientific sense of the word? Of course, we answer that we know causes and effects. And when we have learned that, in the case of two different events, the one is the outcome of the other, or that both collaborate towards the same end, we say that they have been explained. But let us imagine a world where there is neither resemblance nor repetition, a strange, but, if need be, an intelligible hypothesis; a world where everything is novel and unforeseen, where the creative imagination, unchecked by memory, has full play, where the motions of the stars are sporadic, where the agitations of the ether are unrhythmical, and where successive generations are without the common traits of an hereditary type. And yet every apparition in such a phantasmagoria might be produced and determined by another, and might even, in its turn, become the cause of others. In such a world causes and effects might still exist; but would any kind of a science be possible? It would not be, because, to reiterate, neither resemblances nor repetitions would be found there.

This is the essential point. Knowledge of causes is sometimes sufficient for foresight; but knowledge of resemblances always allows of enumeration and measurement, and science depends primarily upon number and measure. More than this is, of course, necessary. As soon as a new science has staked out its field of characteristic resemblances and repetitions, it must compare them and note the bond of solidarity which unites their concomitant variations. But, as a matter of fact, the mind does not fully understand nor clearly recognise the relation of cause and effect, except in as much as the effect resembles or repeats the cause, as, for example, when a sound wave produces another sound wave, or a cell, another cell. There is nothing more mysterious, one may say, than such reproductions. I admit this, but when we have once accepted this mystery, there is nothing clearer than the resulting series. Whereas, every time that production does not mean reproduction of self, we are entirely in the dark.¹

When like things form parts of the same or of supposedly the same whole, like the molecules of a volume of hydrogen, or the woody cells of a tree, or the soldiers of a regiment, the resemblance is referred to as a quantity instead of a group. In other words, when the things which repeat themselves remain united as they increase, like vibrations of heat or electricity, accumulating within some heated or electrified object, or like cells multiplying in the body of a growing child, or like proselytes to a common religion, in such cases the repetition is called a growth instead of a series. In all of this I fail to see anything which would differentiate the subject of social science.

Besides, whether resemblances and repetitions are intrinsic or extrinsic, quantities or groups, growths or series, they are the necessary themes of the differences and variations which exist in all phenomena. They are the canvas of their embroidery, the measure of their music. The wonder world which I was picturing would be, at bottom, the least richly differentiated of all possible worlds. How much greater a renovator than revolution is our modern industrial system, accumulation as it is of mutually imitative actions! What is more monotonous than the free life of the savage in comparison with the hemmed-in life of civilised man? Would any organic progress be possible without heredity? Would the exuberant variety of geological ages and of living nature have sprung into existence independently of the periodicity of the heavenly motions or of the wave-like rhythm of the earth’s forces?

Repetition exists, then, for the sake of variation. Otherwise, the necessity of death (a problem which M. Delbœuf considers in his book upon animate and inanimate matter, almost impossible of solution), would be incomprehensible; for why should not the top of life spin on, after it was wound up, forever? But under the hypothesis that repetitions exist only to embody all the phases of a certain unique originality which seeks expression, death must inevitably supervene after all these variations have been fully effected. I may note in this connection, in passing, that the relation of universal to particular, a relation which fed the entire philosophic controversy of the Middle Ages upon nominalism and realism, is precisely that of repetition to variation. Nominalism is the doctrine in accordance with which individual characteristics or idiosyncracies are the only significant realities. Realism, on the other hand, considers only those traits worthy of attention and of the name of reality through which a given individual resembles other individuals and tends to reproduce himself in them. The interest of this kind of speculation is apparent when we consider that in politics individualism is a special kind of nominalism, and socialism, a special kind of realism.

All repetition, social, vital, or physical, i. e., imitative, hereditary, or vibratory repetition (to consider only the most salient and typical forms of universal repetition), springs from some innovation, just as every light radiates from some central point, and thus throughout science the normal appears to originate from the accidental. For the propagation of an attractive force or luminous vibration from a heavenly body, or of a race of animals from an ancestral pair, or of a national idea or desire or religious rite from a scholar or inventor or missionary, seem to us like natural and regular phenomena; whereas we are constantly surprised by the strange and partly non-formulable sequence or juxtaposition of their respective centres, i. e., the different crafts, religions, and social institutions, the different organic types, the different chemical substances or celestial masses from which all these radiations have issued. All these admirable uniformities or series,—hydrogen, whose multitudinous, star-scattered atoms are universally homogeneous, protoplasm, identical from one end to the other of the scale of life, the roots of the Indo-European languages, identical almost throughout civilisation, the expansion of the light of a star in the immensity of space, the unbroken sequence from geological times of incalculable generations of marine species, the wonderfully faithful transmission of words from the Coptic of the ancient Egyptians to us moderns, etc.,—all these innumerable masses of things of like nature and of like affiliations, whose harmonious co-existence or equally harmonious succession we admire, are related to physical, biological, and social accidents by a tie which baffles us.

Here, also, the analogy between social and natural phenomena is carried out. But we should not be surprised if the former seem chaotic when we view them through the medium of the historian, or even through that of the sociologist, whereas the latter impress us, as they are presented by physicist, chemist, or physiologist, as very well ordered worlds. These latter scientists show us the subject of their science only on the side of its characteristic resemblances and repetitions; they prudently conceal its corresponding heterogeneities and transformations (or trans-substantiations). The historian and sociologist, on the contrary, veil the regular and monotonous face of social facts,—that part in which they are alike and repeat themselves,—and show us only their accidental and interesting, their infinitely novel and diversified, aspect. If our subject were, for example, the Gallo-Romans, the historian, even the philosophic historian, would not think of leading us step by step through conquered Gaul in order to show us how every word, rite, edict, profession, custom, craft, law, or military manœuvre, how, in short, every special idea or need which had been introduced from Rome had begun to spread from the Pyrenees to the Rhine, and to win its way, after more or less vigorous fighting against old Celtic customs and ideas, to the mouths and arms and hearts and minds of all the enthusiastic Gallic imitators of Rome and Cæsar. At any rate, if our historian had once led us upon this long journey, he would not make us repeat it for every Latin word or grammatical form, for every ritualistic form in the Roman religion, for every military manœuvre that was taught to the legionaries by their officer-instructors, for every variety of Roman architecture, for temple, basilica, theatre, hippodrome, aqueduct, and atriumed villa, for every school-taught verse of Virgil or Horace, for every Roman law, or for every artistic or industrial process in Roman civilisation that had been faithfully and continuously transmitted from pedagogues and craftsmen to pupils and apprentices. And yet it is only at this price that we can get at an exact estimate of the great amount of regularity which obtains in even the most fluctuating societies.

Then, after the introduction of Christianity, our historian would certainly refrain from making us renew this tedious peregrination in connection with every Christian rite which propagated itself, in spite of resistance, through heathen Gaul, like a wave of sound through air that is already in vibration. Instead of this, he would inform us at what date Julius Cæsar conquered Gaul, or, again, at what date certain saints came to that country to preach Christianity. He might also enumerate the diverse elements out of which the Roman civilisation and the Christian faith and morality that were introduced into the Gallic world, were composed. In this case, his problem is to understand and rationally, logically, and scientifically, describe the extraordinary superposition of Christianity upon Romanism, or rather, the gradual process of Christian upon the gradual process of Roman assimilation. In the separate treatment of both Romanism and Christianity, he will meet with an equally difficult problem in giving a rational explanation of the strange juxtaposition of the very heterogeneous Etruscan, Greek, Oriental, and other fragments which constituted the former, and of the incoherent Jewish, Egyptian, and Byzantine ideas, ideas which were incoherent even in each distinct group, which constituted the latter. This, however, is the arduous task which the philosopher of history sets before himself and which he thinks that he cannot slur over if he is to do the work of a scholar. He will, therefore, wear himself out in trying to bring order out of disorder by discovering some law or reason for these historic chances and coincidences. He would do better to investigate how and why harmonies sometimes proceed from these coincidences and in what these harmonies consist. I will undertake to do this further on.

In short, a historian of this kind is like the botanist who would feel bound to ignore everything about the generation of plants of the same species or variety, as well as everything about their growth or nutrition, a kind of cellular generation or regeneration of tissues; or like the physicist who disdained to study the propagation of light or heat or sound waves as they passed through different mediums which were themselves in vibration. Can we conceive of the former believing that the proper and exclusive object of his science was an interlinking of unlike species, beginning with the first alga and ending with the last orchid, plus a profound justification of such a concatenation? Can we conceive of the latter convinced that the sole end of his studies was investigation into the reason why there were precisely seven known kinds of luminous undulation, and why, including electricity and magnetism, there were no other kinds of ethereal vibration? These are certainly interesting questions, but although they are open to philosophic, they are not open to scientific, discussion, since their solution does not seem capable of admitting of that high kind of probability which science exacts. It is clear that the first condition of becoming an anatomist or physiologist is the study of tissues, the aggregates of homogeneous cells and fibres and blood vessels, or the study of functions, the accumulations of minute homogeneous contractions, innervations, oxidations, or deoxidations, and then, and above all, belief in the great architect of life, in heredity. It is equally clear that it is of primary importance to the chemist and physicist to examine many kinds of gaseous, liquid, and solid masses, masses composed of corpuscles which are absolutely alike, or of so-called physical forces which are prodigious accumulations of minute, homogeneous vibrations. In fact, in the physical world, everything refers, or is in course of being referred, to vibration. Here everything is taking on more and more an essentially vibratory character, just as in the animate world the reproductive faculty, or the property of transmitting the smallest peculiarities (which are usually of unknown origin) through inheritance, is coming more and more to be thought inherent in the smallest cell.

And now my readers will realise, perhaps, that the social being, in the degree that he is social, is essentially imitative, and that imitation plays a rôle in societies analogous to that of heredity in organic life or to that of vibration among inorganic bodies. If this is so, it ought to be admitted, in consequence, that a human invention, by which a new kind of imitation is started or a new series opened,—the invention of gunpowder, for example,¹ or windmills, or the Morse telegraph,—stands in the same relation to social science as the birth of a new vegetal or mineral species (or, on the hypothesis of a gradual evolution, of each of the slow modifications to which the new species is due), to biology, or as the appearance of a new mode of motion comparable with light or electricity, or the formation of a new substance, to physics or chemistry. Therefore, if we are to make a just comparison, we must not compare the philosophic historian who strives to discover a law for the odd groups and sequences of scientific, industrial, æsthetic, and political inventions, to the physiologist or physicist, as we know him, to Tyndall or Claude Bernard, but to a philosopher of nature like Schelling or like Haeckel in his hours of riotous imagination.

We should then perceive that the crude incoherence of historic facts, all of which facts are traceable to the different currents of imitation of which they are the point of intersection, a point which is itself destined to be more or less exactly copied, is no proof at all against the fundamental regularity of social life or the possibility of a social science. Indeed, parts of this science exist in the petty experience of each of us, and we have only to piece the fragments together. Besides, a group of historic events would certainly be far from appearing more incoherent than a collection of living types or chemical substances. Why then should we exact from the philosopher of history the fine symmetrical and rational order that we do not dream of demanding from the philosopher of science? And yet there is a distinction here which is entirely to the credit of the historian. It is but recently that the naturalist has had any glimpses that were at all clear of biological evolution, whereas the historian was long ago aware of the continuity of history. As for chemists and physicists, we may pass them by. They dare not even yet forecast the time when they will be able to trace out, in their turn, the genealogy of simple substances, or when a work on the origin of atoms, as successful as Darwin’s Origin of Species, will be published. It is true that M. Lecoq de Boisbaudran and M. Mendelejeff thought that they had distinguished a natural series of simple substances, and it is true that Boisbaudran’s discovery of gallium was made in connection with his eminently philosophic speculations along this line. But upon close consideration, perhaps neither the remarkable attempts of these scientists nor the various systems of our evolutionists on the genealogical ramification of living types present any greater degree of precision or certainty than sparkles in the ideas of Herbert Spencer, or even in those of Vico, upon the so-called periodic and predestined evolutions of society. The origin of atoms is much more mysterious than the origin of species, and the origin of species is, in turn, more mysterious than the origin of civilisations. We can compare extant living species with those which have preceded them, the remains of which we find in the earth’s strata; but we have not the slightest trace of the chemical substances which must have preceded in prehistoric astronomy, so to speak, in the unfathomable and unimaginable depths of the past, the actual chemical substances of the earth and stars. Consequently, chemistry, which cannot even propound a problem of origins, is less advanced, in this essential particular, than biology; and, for like reason, biology is, in reality, less advanced than sociology.

From the foregoing, it is evident that social science and social philosophy are distinct; that social science must deal exclusively, like every other science, with a multitude of homogeneous facts, with those facts which are carefully concealed by the historians; that new and heterogeneous facts, or historical facts, strictly speaking, are the special domain of social philosophy; that from this point of view social science might be as advanced as the other sciences, and that social philosophy is actually much more so than any other philosophy.

In the present volume, we are concerned only with the science of society; moreover, we shall confine our discussion to imitation and its laws. Later on, we shall have to study the laws, or pseudo-laws, of invention.¹ The two questions are quite different, although they cannot be wholly separated.

II

After these long preliminaries, I must develop an important thesis which has so far been obscure and involved. Science, as I have said, deals only with quantities and growths, or, in more general terms, with the resemblances and repetitions of phenomena.

This distinction, however, is really superfluous and superficial. Every advance in knowledge tends to strengthen the conviction that all resemblance is due to repetition. I think that this may be brought out in the three following propositions:

1. All resemblances which are to be observed in the chemical, or physical, or astronomical worlds (the atoms of a single body, the waves of a single ray of light, the concentric strata of attraction of which every heavenly body is a centre), can be caused and explained solely by periodic, and, for the most part, vibratory motions.

2. All resemblances of vital origin in the world of life result from hereditary transmission, from either intra- or extra-organic reproduction. It is through the relationship between cells and the relationship between species that all the different kinds of analogies and homologies which comparative anatomy points out between species, and histology, between corporeal elements, are at present explained.

3. All resemblances of social origin in society are the direct or indirect fruit of the various forms of imitation,—custom-imitation or fashion-imitation, sympathy-imitation or obedience-imitation, precept-imitation or education-imitation, naive imitation, deliberate imitation, etc. In this lies the excellence of the contemporaneous method of explaining doctrines and institutions through their history. It is a method that is certain to come into more general use. It is said that great geniuses, great inventors, are apt to cross each other’s paths. But, in the first place, such coincidences are very rare, and when they do occur, they are always due to the fact that both authors of the same invention have drawn independently from some common fund of instruction. This fund consists of a mass of ancient traditions and of experiences that are unorganised or that have been more or less organised and imitatively transmitted through language, the great vehicle of all imitations.

In this connection we may observe that modern philologists have relied so implicitly upon the foregoing proposition, that they have concluded, through analogy, that Sanskrit, Latin, Greek, German, Russian, and other kindred tongues, belong in reality to one family, and that it had a common progenitor in a language which was transmitted, with the exception of certain modifications, through tradition. Each modification was, in truth, an anonymous linguistic invention which was, in turn, perpetuated by imitation. In the next chapter I will return to the development and re-statement of our third proposition.

There is only one great class of universal resemblances which seem at first as if they could not have been produced by any form of repetition. This is the resemblance of the parts of infinite space whose juxtaposition and immobility are the very conditions of all motion whatsoever, whether vibratory, or reproductive, or propagative and subduing. But we must not pause over this apparent exception. It is enough to have mentioned it. Its discussion would lead us too far afield.

Turning aside from this anomaly, which may be illusory, let us maintain the truth of our general proposition, and note one of its direct consequences. If quantity signifies resemblance, if every resemblance proceeds from repetition, and if every repetition is a vibration (or any other periodic movement), a phenomenon of reproduction or an act of imitation, it follows that, on the hypothesis that no motion is, or ever has been, vibratory, no function hereditary, no act or idea learned and copied, there would be no such thing as quantity in the universe, and the science of mathematics would be without any possible use or conceivable application. It also follows upon the inverse hypothesis, that if our physical, vital, and social spheres were to enlarge the range of their vibratory, reproductive, and propagative activities, our field of calculation would be even more extensive and profound. This fact is apparent in our European societies where the extraordinary progress of fashion in all its forms, in dress, food and housing, in wants and ideas, in institutions and arts, is making a single type of European based upon several hundreds of millions of examples. Is it not evident that it is this prodigious levelling which has from its very beginning made possible the birth and growth of statistical science and of what has been so well called social physics, political economy? Without fashion and custom, social quantities would not exist, there would be no values, no money, and, consequently, no science of wealth or finance. (How was it possible, then, for economists to dream of formulating theories of value in which the idea of imitation had no part?) But the application of number and measure to societies, which people are trying to make nowadays, cannot help being partial and tentative. In this matter the future has many surprises in store for us!

III

At this point we might develop the striking analogies, the equally instructive differences, and the mutual relations of the three main forms of universal repetition. We might also seek for the explanation of their majestically interwoven rhythms and symmetries; we might question whether the content of these forms resembled them or not, whether the active and underlying substance of these well-ordered phenomena shared in their sage uniformity, or whether it did not perhaps contrast with them in being essentially heterogeneous, like a people which gave no evidence in its military or administrative exterior of the tumultuous idiosyncracies which constituted it and which set its machinery in motion.

This twofold subject would be too vast. In the first part of it, however, there are certain obvious analogies which we should note. In the first place, repetitions are also multiplications or self-spreading contagions. If a stone falls into the water, the first wave which it produces will repeat itself in circling out to the confines of its basin. If I light a match, the first undulation which I start in the ether will instantly spread throughout a vast space. If one couple of termites or of phylloxeras are transported to a continent, they will ravish it within a few years. The pernicious erigeron of Canada, which has but quite recently been imported from Europe, flourishes already in every uncultivated field. The well-known laws of Malthus and Darwin on the tendency of the individuals of a species to increase in geometrical progression, are true laws of human radiation through reproduction. In the same way, a local dialect that is spoken only by certain families, gradually becomes, through imitation, a national idiom. In the beginning of societies, the art of chipping flint, of domesticating dogs, of making bows, and, later, of leavening bread, of working bronze, of extracting iron, etc., must have spread like a contagion; since every arrow, every flake, every morsel of bread, every thread of bronze, served both as model and copy. Nowadays the diffusion of all kinds of useful processes is brought about in the same way, except that our increasing density of population and our advance in civilisation prodigiously accelerate their diffusion, just as velocity of sound is proportionate to density of medium. Every social thing, that is to say, every invention or discovery, tends to expands in its social environment, an environment which itself, I might add, tends to self-expansion, since it is essentially composed of like things, all of which have infinite ambitions.

This tendency, however, here as in external nature, often proves abortive through the competition of rival tendencies. But this fact is of little importance to theory; besides, it is metaphorical. Desire can no more be attributed to ideas than to vibrations or species, and the fact in question must be understood to mean that the scattered individual forces which are inherent in the innumerable beings composing the environment where these forms propagate themselves, have taken a common direction. In this sense, this tendency towards expansion presupposes that the environment in question is homogeneous, a condition which seems to be well fulfilled by the ethereal or aërial medium of vibrations, much less so by the geographical and chemical medium of species, and infinitely less so by the social medium of ideas. But it is a mistake, I think, to express this difference by saying that the social medium is more complex than the others. On the contrary, it is perhaps because it is numerically much more simple, that it is farther from presenting the required homogeneity; since a homogeneity that is real on the surface merely, suffices. Besides, as the agglomerations of human beings increase, the spread of ideas in a regular geometrical progression is more marked. Let us exaggerate this numerical increase to an extreme degree, let us suppose that the social sphere in which an idea can expand be composed not only of a group sufficiently numerous to give birth to the principal moral varieties of the human species, but also of thousands of uniform repetitions of these groups, so that the uniformity of these repetitions makes an apparent homogeneity, in spite of the internal complexity of each group. Have we not some reason for thinking that this is the kind of homogeneity which characterises all the simple and apparently uniform realities which external nature presents to us? On this hypothesis, it is evident that the success of an idea, the more or less rapid rate at which it circulated on the day of its appearance, would supply the mathematical reason, in a way, of its further progression. Given this condition, producers of articles which satisfied prime needs and which were therefore destined for universal consumption, would be able to foretell from the demand in a given year, at a certain price, what would be the demand in the following year, at the same price, providing no check, prohibitive or otherwise, intervened, or no superior article of the same class were discovered.

It has been said that the faculty of foresight is the criterion of science. Let us amend this to read, the faculty of conditional foresight. The botanist, for example, can foretell the form and colour of the fruit which a flower will produce, provided it be not killed by drought, or provided a new and unexpected individual variety (a kind of secondary biological invention) do not develop. The physicist can state, at the moment a rifle-shot is discharged, that it will be heard in a given number of seconds, at a given distance, provided nothing intercept the sound in its passage, or provided a louder sound, a discharge of cannon, for example, be not heard during the given period. Now it is precisely on the same ground that the sociologist is, strictly speaking, a scientist. Given the centres, the approximate velocities, and the tendency to separate or concurrent motion of existing imitations, the sociologist is in a position to foretell the social conditions of ten or twenty years hence, provided no reform or political revolution occur to hinder this expansion and provided no rival centres arise meanwhile.

In this case, to be sure, the conditioning of events is highly probable, more probable, perhaps, than in the others. But it is only a difference of degree. Besides, let us observe (as a matter that belongs to the philosophy and not to the science of history), that the successful discoveries and initiatives of the present vaguely determine the direction of those of the future. Moreover, the social forces of any real importance at any period are not composed of the necessarily feeble imitations that have radiated from recent inventions, but of the imitations of ancient inventions, radiations which are alike more intense and more widespread because they have had the necessary time in which to spread out and become established as habits, customs, or so-called physiological “race instincts.”¹ Our ignorance, therefore, of the unforeseen discoveries which will be made ten, twenty, or fifty years hence, of the art-inspiring masterpieces which are to appear, of the battles and revolutions and deeds of violence which will be noised abroad, does not hinder us from almost accurately predicting, on the foregoing hypothesis, the depth and direction of the current of ideas and aspirations which our statesmen and our great generals, poets, and musicians will have to follow and render navigable, or stem and combat.

As examples in support of the geometrical progress of imitations, I might cite statistics of locomotive construction, or of the consumption of coffee, tobacco, etc., from the time they were first imported, to the time they began to overstock the market.¹ I will mention a discovery which appears to be less favourable to my argument, the discovery of America. This discovery was imitated in the sense that the first voyage from Europe to America, which was conceived of and executed by Columbus, came to be repeated more and more frequently by subsequent navigators. Every variation in these after-voyages constituted a little discovery, which was grafted upon that of the great Genoese, and which, in turn, found imitators.

I will take advantage of this example to open a parenthesis. America might have been discovered two centuries earlier, or two centuries later, by an imaginative navigator. If two centuries earlier, if in 1292, the opening out of a new world had been offered to Philip the Fair, during his bouts with Rome and his bold attempt at secularisation and administrative centralisation, his ambition would have surely been excited, and the arrival of the Modern Age precipitated. Two centuries later, in 1692, America would unquestionably have been of greater value to the France of Henry IV. than to Spain, and the latter country, not having had this rich prey to batten upon for two hundred years, would have been, at that time, less rich and prosperous. Who knows whether, under the first hypothesis, the Hundred Years’ War might not have been precluded and, under the second, the empire of Charles V.? At any rate, the need of having colonies, a need which was both created and satisfied by the discovery of Christopher Columbus and one which has played such a leading rôle in the political life of Europe since the fifteenth century, would not have arisen until the seventeenth century, and, at the present time, South America would belong to France, and North America would not as yet amount to anything politically. What a difference to us! And to think that Christopher Columbus succeeded by a mere hair’s breadth in his enterprise! But a truce to these speculations upon the contingencies of the past, although, in my opinion, they are as well-founded and as significant as those of the future.

Here is another example, the most striking of all. The Roman Empire has perished; but, as has been well said, the conquest of Rome lives on forever. Through Christianity, Charlemagne extended it to the Germans; William the Conqueror extended it to the Anglo-Saxons; and Columbus, to America. The Russians and the English are extending it to Asia and to Australia, and, prospectively, to the whole of Oceanica. Already Japan wishes for her turn to be invaded; it seems as if China alone would offer any serious resistance. But if we assume that China also will become assimilated, we can say that Athens and Rome, including Jerusalem, that is to say, the type of civilisation formed by the group of their combined and co-ordinated initiatives and master-thoughts, have conquered the entire world. All races and nationalities will have contributed to this unbounded contagious imitation of Greco-Roman civilisation. The outcome would certainly have been different if Darius or Xerxes had conquered Greece and reduced it to a Persian province; or if Islam had triumphed over Charles Martel and invaded Europe; or if peaceful and industrious China had been belligerent during the past three thousand years, and had turned its spirit of invention towards the art of war as well as towards the arts of peace; or if, when America was discovered, gunpowder and printing had not yet been invented and Europeans had proved to be poorer fighters than the Aztecs or Incas. But chance determined that the type to which we belong should prevail over all other types of civilisation, over all the clusters of radiant inventions which have flashed out spontaneously in different parts of the globe. Even if our own type had not prevailed, another type would certainly have triumphed in the long run, for one type was bound to become universal, since all laid claim to universality, that is to say, since all tended to propagate themselves through imitation in a geometrical progression, like waves of light or sound, or like animal or vegetal species.

IV

Let me point out a new order of analogies. Imitations are modified in passing from one race or nation to another, like vibrations or living types in passing from one environment to another. We see this, for example, in the transition of certain words, or religious myths, or military secrets, or literary forms, from the Hindoos to the Germans, or from the Latins to the Gauls. In certain cases, the record of these modifications has been sufficiently full to suggest what their general and uniform trend has been. This is especially true of language; Grimm’s, or, better still, Raynouard’s, laws might well be called the laws of linguistic refraction.

According to Raynouard, when Latin words come under Spanish or Gallic influences, they are consistently and characteristically transformed. According to Grimm’s laws, a given consonant in German or English is equivalent to another given consonant in Sanskrit or Greek. This fact means, at bottom, that in passing from the primitive Aryan to the Teutonic or Hellenic or Hindoo environments, the parent-language has changed its consonants in a given order, substituting, in one case, an aspirate for a hard check, in another a hard check for an aspirate, etc.

If there were as many religions as there are languages (and there are hardly enough of these to give an adequate basis of comparison to certain general observations that might be formulated into linguistic laws), and, above all, if religious ideas were as numerous in every religion as words in a language, we might have laws of mythological refraction analagous to those of language. As it is, we can only follow a given myth like that of Ceres or Apollo, for example, through the modifications which have been stamped upon it by the genius of the different peoples who have adopted it. But there are so few myths to compare in this way, that it is difficult to see any appreciable common traits in the turns which they have been given by the same people at different times, or anything more than a general family resemblance. And yet have we not much to observe in a study of the forms which the same religious ideas have taken on as they passed from the Vedas to the doctrines of Brahma or Zoroaster, from Moses to Christ or Mahomet, or as they circulated through the dissentient Christian sects of the Greek, Roman, Anglican, and Gallic churches? Perhaps I should say that all that could be has already been observed along this line and that we have only to draw upon this material.

Art critics have likewise had a confused premonition of the laws of artistic refraction, so to speak. These laws are peculiar to every people, in all epochs, and belong to every definite centre of painting, music, architecture, and poetry, to Holland, Italy, France, etc. I will not press my point. But is it purely metaphorical and puerile to say that Theocritus is refracted in Virgil; Menander, in Terence; Plato, in Cicero; Euripides, in Racine?

Another analogy. Interferences occur between imitations, between social things, as well as between vibrations and between living types. When two waves, two physical things which are pretty much alike, and which have spread separately from two distinct centres, meet together in the same physical being, in the same particle of matter, the impetus of each is increased or neutralised, as its direction coincides with, or is diametrically opposed to, the direction of the other. In the first case, a new and complex wave sets in which is stronger than the others and which tends to propagate itself in turn; in the second, struggle and partial destruction follow, until one of the two rivals has the better of the other. In the same way we know what happens when two specific and sufficiently near types, two vital things, which have been reproduced independently of each other, generation after generation, come into mutual contact, not merely in one place (as in the case of animals which fight or devour one another, which would be a strictly physical encounter), but, more than that, in the same living being, in a germ cell fertilised by hybrid copulation, the only kind of encounter and interference which is really vital. In this case, either the offspring has greater vitality than its parents and, being at the same time more fruitful and prolific, transmits its distinctive characteristics to a more numerous progeny, a veritable discovery of life, or it is more puny, and gives birth to a few stunted descendants, in whom the divorce of the incompatible characters of their unnaturally united progenitors is hastened by the distinct triumph of one in expelling the other. In the same way, when two beliefs or two desires, or a belief and a desire, in short, when two social things (in the last analysis all social facts are beliefs or desires under the different names of dogmas, sentiment, laws, wants, customs, morals, etc:), have for a certain time travelled their separate roads in the world by means of education or example, i. e., of imitation, they often end by coming into mutual contact. In order that their encounter and interference may be really psychological and social, co-existence in the same brain and participation in the same state of mind and heart is not only necessary, but, in addition, one must present itself either in support of, or in opposition to the other, either as a principle, of which the other is a corollary, or as an affirmative, of which the other is the negative. As for the beliefs and desires which seem neither to aid nor injure, neither to confirm nor contradict, each other, they cannot interfere with each other any more than two heterogeneous waves or two living types which are too distant from each other to unite. If they do appear to help or confirm each other, they combine by the very fact of this appearance or perception into a new practical or theoretic discovery, which is, in turn, bound to spread abroad, like its components, in contagious imitation. In this case, there has been a gain in the force of desire or belief, as in the corresponding cases of propitious physical or biological interference there was a gain in motor power or vitality. If, on the other hand, the interfering social things, theses or aims, dogmas or interests, convictions or passions, are mutually hurtful and antagonistic in the soul of an individual, or in that of a whole people, both the individual and the community will morally stagnate in doubt and indecision, until their soul is rent in two by some sudden or prolonged effort, and the less cherished belief or passion is sacrificed. Thus life chooses between two miscoupled types. A particularly important case and one which differs slightly from the preceding is that in which the two beliefs or desires, as well as the belief and the desire, which interfere happily or unhappily in the mind of an individual, are not experienced exclusively by him, but in part by him, and in part by one of his fellows. Here the interference consists in the fact that the individual is aware of the confirmation or disproof of his own idea by the idea of others, and of the advantage or injury accruing to his own will from the will of others. From this, sympathy and agreement, or antipathy and war, result.¹

But all of this, I feel, needs to be elucidated. Let us distinguish between three hypotheses the propitious interference of two beliefs, of two desires, and of a belief and a desire; and let us subdivide each one of these divisions as the subjects of interference are, or are not, found in the same individual. Later on, I shall have a word to say about unpropitious interferences.

1. If a conjecture which I have considered fairly probable comes into my mind while I am reading or remembering a fact which I think is almost certain, and if I suddenly perceive that the fact confirms the conjecture of which it is a consequence (i. e., the particular proposition which expresses the fact is included in the general proposition which expresses the conjecture), the conjecture immediately becomes much more probable in my eyes, and, at the same time, the fact appears to me to be an absolute certainty. So that there is a gain in belief all along the line. And the perception of this logical inclusion is a discovery. Newton discovered nothing more than this when, having brought his conjectured law of gravitation face to face with the calculation of the distance from the moon to the earth, he perceived that this fact confirmed his hypothesis. Let us suppose that, for a century long, an entire people is led by one of its teachers, by St. Thomas Aquinas, for example, or by Arnaud or Bossuet, to prove, or to think that it is proving, that a like agreement exists between its religious dogmas and the contemporaneous state of its sciences. Then we shall see such an overflowing river of faith as that which fructified the logical and inventive and warlike thirteenth and the Janseist and Gallican seventeenth centuries. A harmony like this is nothing less than a discovery. The Summa, the catechism of Port-Royal and the French clergy, and all the philosophic systems of the period, from Descartes himself to Leibnitz, are, in different degrees, its various expressions. Now let us somewhat modify our general proposition. Let us suppose that I am inclined to endorse a principle which the friend with whom I am talking absolutely refuses to accept. On the other hand, he tells me certain facts which he thinks are true, but which I take to be unverified. Subsequently, it seems to me, or rather, if flashes upon me, that if these facts were proved, they would fully confirm my principle. From now on, I, also, am inclined to credit them; but the only gain in belief has been one in regard to them, not in regard to my principle. Besides, this kind of discovery is incomplete; it will have no social effect until my friend either succeeds in imparting to me, through proofs, his belief, which is greater than mine, in the reality of the facts, or I myself can prove to him the truth of my principle. Here is precisely the advantage of a wide and free intellectual commerce.

2. The first mediæval merchant who was both vain and avaricious and who, in his unwillingness to forego either commercial wealth or social position, came to perceive the possibility of making avarice serve the ends of vanity, through the purchase of a title of nobility for himself and his family, thought he had made a fine discovery. And, as a matter of fact, he had numerous imitators. Is it not true that after this unhoped-for prospect, both his passions redoubled in strength? Did not his avarice increase because gold had gained a new value in his eyes, and his vanity, because the object of his ambitious and hitherto-despaired-of dream had come within reach? To give, perhaps, a more modern illustration, the first lawyer who reversed the usual order of things by going into politics in order to make his fortune, introduced neither a bad idea nor an ineffective initiative. Let us take other instances. Suppose that I am in love and that I also have a passion for rhyming. I turn my love to inspiring my metromania. My love quickens and my rhyming mania is intensified. How many poetical works have originated in this kind of an interference! Suppose, again, that I am a philanthropist and that I like notoriety. In this case, I will strive to distinguish myself in order to do more good to my fellows, and I will strive to be useful to them, in order to make a name for myself, etc., etc. In history the same phenomenon occurs. After a long period of mutual opposition, Christian zeal combined with the contemporary passion for warlike expeditions and produced the outbreak of the Crusades. The invasion of Islam, the Jacqueries of ’89 and of the years following, and all revolutions in which so many base passions are yoked to noble ones, are notable examples. But, happily, a still more contagious example was set in the beginnings of social life by the first man who said: “I am hungry and my neighbour is cold; I will offer him this garment, which is useless to me, in exchange for some of the food which he has in excess, and so my need of food will help satisfy his need of clothing, and vice versa. In this excellent and very simple, but, for that time, highly original, idea, industry, commerce, money, law, and all the arts originated. (I do not date the birth of society from this idea, for society undoubtedly existed before exchange. It began on the day when one man first copied another).

Let us note that all new forms of professional work, that all new crafts, have arisen from analogous discoveries. These discoveries have generally been anonymous, but they are none the less positive and significant.

3. In historical importance, however, no mental interference equals that of a desire and a belief. But the numerous cases in which a conviction or opinion fastens itself upon an inclination, and effects it merely through inspiring another desire, must not be included in this category. After these cases have been eliminated, there still remains a considerable number in which the supervening idea acts directly upon the desire it has fallen in with and stimulated. Suppose, for example, that I would like to be an orator in the Chamber of Deputies, and I am straightway persuaded by the compliment of a friend that I have recently displayed true oratorical talent. This conviction enhances my ambition, and my ambition itself contributed to my conviction. For the same reason, there is no historical error, no atrocious or extravagant calumny or madness, which is not readily entertained by the very political passion which it helps to inflame. A belief will also stimulate a desire, now by making its object seem more attainable, now by stamping it with its approval. It also happens, to complete our analysis, that a man may realise that his own scheme will be helped by the belief of others, although he may have no share in their belief, nor they in his scheme. Such a realisation is a find that many an impostor has exploited and still exploits.

This special kind of interferences and the important unnamed discoveries which result from them, are to be counted among the chief forces which rule the world. What was the patriotism of Greek or Roman but a passion nourished by an illusion and vice versa; what was it but ambition, avarice, and love of fame nourished by an exaggerated belief in their own superiority, by the anthropocentric prejudice, the mistake of imagining that this little point in space, the earth, was the universe, and that on this little point Rome or Athens was alone worthy of the gods’ consideration? What are, in large part, the fanaticism of the Arab, the proselytism of the Christian, and the propagandism of Jacobin and revolutionary doctrines but prodigious outgrowths of illusionfed passions and passion-fed illusions? And these forces always arise from one person, from a single centre, long in advance, to be sure, of the moment when they break forth and take on historical importance. An enthusiast, eaten up with an impotent desire for conquest, or immortality, or human regeneration, chances upon some idea which opens an unhoped-for door to his aspirations. The idea may be that of the Resurrection or the Millennium, the dogma of popular sovereignty or some other formula of the Social Contract. He embraces the idea, it exalts him, and behold, a new apostle! In this way a political or religious contagion is spread abroad. In this way a whole people may be converted to Christianity, to Islam, and, to-morrow, perhaps, to socialism.

In the preceding paragraphs we have discussed only interference-combinations, interferences which result in discovery and gain and add to the two psychological quantities of desire and belief. But that long sequence of operations in moral arithmetic, which we call history, ushers in at least as many interference-conflicts. When these subjective antagonisms arise between the desires and beliefs of a single individual, and only in this case, there is an absolute diminution in the sum of those quantities. When they occur obscurely, here and there, in isolated individuals, they pass by unnoticed except by psychologists. Then we have (1) on the one side, the deceptions and gradual doubts of bold theorists and political prophets as they come to see facts giving the lie to their speculations and ridiculing their predictions, and the intellectual weakening of sincere and well-informed believers who perceive the contradiction between their science and their religion or philosophic systems; and, on the other side, the private and juristic and parliamentary discussions in which belief is rekindled instead of smothered. Again, we have (2) on the one side, the enforced and bitter inaction, the slow suicide of a man struggling between two incompatible aptitudes or inclinations, between scientific ardour and literary aspirations, between love and ambition, between pride and indolence, and, on the other side, those various rivalries and competitions which put every spring into action—what we call in these days the struggle for existence. Finally, we have (3) on the one side, the malady of despair, a state of intense longing and intense self-doubt, the abyss of lovers and of those weary with waiting, or the anguish of scruple and remorse, the feeling of a soul which thinks ill of the object of its desire, or well of the object of its aversion; and, on the other side, the irritating resistance which is made to the undertakings and eager passions of children and innovators by parents who are convinced of their danger and impracticability and by people of prudence and experience.

When these same phenomena (at bottom they are always the same) are enacted upon a large scale and multiplied by a large and powerful social current of imitation, they attain historical importance. Under other names, they become, (1) on the one hand, the enervating scepticism of a people caught between two hostile churches or religions or between the contradictions of its priests and its scientists; on the other, the religious wars which are waged by one people against another merely because of differences in religious belief; (2) on the one hand, the failure and inertia of a people or class which has created for itself artificial passions contrary to its natural instincts (i. e., at bottom, to passions which also began by being artificial, by being adopted from foreign sources, but which are much older than the former passions), or desires inconsistent with its permanent interests, the desire for peace and comfort, for example, when a redoubling of military spirit was indispensable; on the other hand, the majority of external political wars; (3) on the one hand, civil warfare and oppositions strictly speaking, struggles between conservatives and revolutionists; on the other, the despair of a people or class which is gradually sinking back into the historical oblivion whence it had been drawn by some outburst of faith and enthusiasm, or the irritation and oppression of a society distressed by a conflict between its ancient maxims and traditions and its new aspirations, between Christianity and chivalry, for example, and industrialism and utilitarianism.

Now in the case of both individuals and societies, the doleful states of scepticism, inertia, and despair, and, still more, the violent and more painful states of dispute, combat, and opposition are quick to push man on to their own undoing. Nevertheless, although man often succeeds in delivering himself for long periods from the former, which imply the immediate weakening of his two master forces, he never overcomes the latter, or if he does free himself from them it is merely to fall into them again, since, up to a certain point, they bring with them momentary gains of belief and desire. Whence the interminable dissensions, rivalries, and contradictions which befall mankind and which each one can settle for himself only by adopting some logical system of thought and conduct. Whence the impossibility, or the seeming impossibility, of extirpating the wars and litigations from which everybody suffers, although the subjective strife of desires and opinions which afflicts some people generally ends for them in definite treaties of peace. Whence the endless rebirth of the eternal hydra-headed social question, a question which is not peculiar to our own time, but which belongs to all time, for it does not investigate into the outcome of the debilitating, but into that of the violent, states of desire and belief. In other words, it does not ask whether science or religion will, or should, ultimately prevail in the great majority of minds; whether desire for social order or rebellious outbursts of social envy, pride, and hatred will, or should, ultimately prove the stronger in human hearts; whether a positive and courageous resignation of old pretensions or, on the contrary, a new outburst of hope and self-confidence will help our sometime ruling classes to rid themselves to their honour of their present torpor; whether the old morality will have the right and the power to influence society again, or whether the society of the future will legitimately establish a code of honour and morality in its own likeness. The solution of these problems will not be long delayed, and it is not difficult, even at present, to foresee its nature. Whereas the problems which really constitute the social question are arduous and difficult. The problems are these: Is it a good or a bad thing for a complete intellectual unanimity to be established through the expulsion or the more or less tyrannical conversion of a dissenting minority, and will this ever come about? Is it a good or a bad thing for commercial or professional or personal competition between individuals, as well as political and military competition between societies, to come to be suppressed, the one through the much-dreamed-of organisation of labour, or, at least, through state socialism, and the other through a vast, universal confederation, or, at least, through a new European equilibrium, the first step towards the United States of Europe? Does the future hold this in store for us? Is it a good or a bad thing for a strong and free social authority, an absolutely sovereign authority, capable of grandiose things, as philanthropic and intelligent as possible, to arise, untrammelled by outside control or resistance, as a supreme imperial or constitutional power in the hands of a single party or a single people? Have we any such prospect in view?

This is the question, and stated thus it is a truly redoubtable one. Mankind, as well as the individual man, always moves in the direction of the greatest truth and power, of the greatest sum of conviction and confidence, in a word, of the greatest attainable belief; and we may question whether this maximum can be reached though the development of discussion, competition, and criticism, or, inversely, through their suppression and through the boundless opening out through imitation of a single expanding and at the same time compact thought or volition.

V

But the preceding digression has made us anticipate questions which can be discussed more advantageously elsewhere. Let us return to the subject of this chapter, and, after reviewing the principal analogies between the three forms of Repetition, let us note for a moment their equally instructive points of difference. In the first place, the solidarity of these forms is not reciprocal, it is one-sided. Generation depends upon undulation, but undulation does not depend upon generation. Imitation depends upon them both, but they do not depend upon imitation. After two thousand years, the manuscript of Cicero’s Republic was recovered and published. It became a source of inspiration. This posthumous imitation would not have occurred if the molecules of the parchment had not surely continued to vibrate (if only from the effect of the surrounding temperature); and if, in addition, human reproduction had not gone on from Cicero to us without interruption. It is remarkable that here, as elsewhere, the most complex and unconditioned term is always supported by those which are least so. The inequality of the three terms in this respect is, indeed, obvious. Vibrations are linked together, being both isochronous and contiguous, whereas living things are detached and separate from each other, and their duration varies considerably. Moreover, the higher up in the scale they are, the more independent they become. Generation is a free kind of undulation, whose waves are worlds in themselves. Imitation does still better; its influence is exerted not only over a great distance, but over great intervals of time. It establishes a pregnant relation between the inventor and his copier, separated as they may be by thousands of years, between Lycurgus and a member of the French Convention, between the Roman painter of a Pompeiian fresco and the modern decorator whom it has inspired. Imitation is generation at a distance.¹ It seems as if these three forms of repetition were three undertakings of its single endeavour to extend the field of its activity, to successfully cut off every chance of revolt in elements which are always quick to overthrow the yoke of law, and by more and more ingenious and potent methods to constrain their tumultuous crowd to proceed in orderly masses of constantly increasing strength and organisation. This advance may be illustrated by comparing it to that of a cyclone or epidemic or insurrection. A cyclone whirls from neighbourhood to neighbourhood; none of its blast ever tears from it to leap over intervening space and carry its virus to a distance. An epidemic, on the other hand, rages in a zig-zag line; it may spare one house or village among many, and it strikes down almost simultaneously those which are far apart. An insurrection will spread still more freely from workshop to workshop, or from capital to capital. It may start from a telegraphic announcement, or, at times, the contagion may even come from the past, out of a dead and buried epoch.

There is still another important difference. In imitation, the product is generally in a state of complete development; it is spared the fumblings of the first workman. This artistic kind of process is consequently much more rapid than the vital process; embryonic phases and phases of infancy and adolescence are suppressed. And yet life itself does not ignore the art of abbreviation. For if, as is thought, embryonic phases repeat (with certain restrictions) the zoölogical and paleontological series of preceding and allied species, it is clear that this individual recapitulation of a prolonged race elaboration must have become marvellously succinct at last. But during the course of the generations which pass under our own observation, periods of gestation and growth are not noticeably curtailed. The only fact that can be determined in this direction is the reproduction of hereditary traits or diseases at an earlier age in the offspring than in the parent. Let us compare this slight advance with the progress of our manufactures. Our watches, pins, textiles, all our goods, are manufactured in one-tenth or one-hundredth part of the time which they originally required. As for vibration, in what an infinitesimal degree it shares in this faculty of acceleration! Successive waves would be strictly isochronous, that is, would take the same amount of time to be born, mature, and die in, if their temperature remained constant. But their oscillation necessarily results in the heating of their medium (this fąct is known, at least, in the case of sound waves, according to the correction made in Newton’s formula by La Place), and in the consequent acceleration of their rate. This brings with it but little saving of time, however. There is infinitely more time gained from the mechanisms for repetition which characterise life and, especially, society; for the products of imitation, as I have said before, are entirely free from the obligation to traverse, even in abridgment, the steps of prior advances. Changes in the world of life are also much less rapid than those in society. The most earnest upholder of the doctrine of rapid evolution will readily admit that the wing of the bird did not replace the limb of the reptile as rapidly as our modern locomotives were substituted for stage-coaches. One of the consequences of this observation is to relegate historic naturalism to its true place. According to this view, social institutions, laws, ideas, literature, and arts must always, of necessity, spring from the very bottom of a people to slowly germinate and blossom forth like bulbs. Nothing can ever be created, complete in all its parts, in a nation’s soil. This proposition holds true as long as a community has not passed beyond the natural phase of its existence, that in which, under the dominating rule of custom-imitation, to which I will refer later on, its changes are as much conditioned by heredity as by imitation pure and simple. But as soon as imitation becomes freer, as soon as a spirit of radicalism arises which threatens to carry out its revolutionary programme overnight, we must beware of any undue reassurance, against the possibility of such a danger, that we might base upon the alleged laws of historic growth. It is a mistake in politics not to believe in the improbable and never to foresee what has not already been seen.