upon us no inevitable compulsion. It is not the blind necessity of an instinct. It is our own fault if we are enslaved instead of being merely assisted by habit. Human agency ought to be able to assert its freedom in this as in every other department of thought and action. The habit should be like a steed, so well broken, that though the will may have thrown the reins on its neck while otherwise occupied, it can in a moment gather them up and come to a sudden halt.'1

To the power of custom in general, Bacon's essay (XXXIX.) bears witness: Men's thoughts are much according to their inclination; their discourse and speeches according to their learning and infused opinions; but their deeds are often as they have been accustomed; and therefore, as Machiavel well noteth (though in an ill-favoured instance) there is no trusting to the force of nature, nor to the bravery of words, except it be corroborate by custom. ... The predominancy of custom is everywhere visible, insomuch as a man would wonder to hear men profess, protest, engage, give great words, and then do just as they have done before, as if they were dead images and engines, moved only by the wheels of custom. . . . Many examples may be put of the force of custom, both upon mind and body; therefore since custom is the principal magistrate of man's life, let men by all means endeavour to obtain good customs. Certainly custom is most perfect when it beginneth in young years: this we call education, which is in effect but an early custom. So we see, in languages, the tongue is more pliant to all expressions and sounds, the joints are more supple to all feats of activity and motions in youth, than afterwards; for it is true that late learners cannot so well take the ply except it be in some minds that have not suffered themselves to fix, but have kept themselves open and prepared to receive continual amendment, which is exceeding rare. But if the force of custom simple and aggregate be great, the force of custom copulate and conjoined and collegiate is far greater; for there example teacheth, company comforteth, emulation quickeneth, glory raiseth; so as in such places the force of custom is his exaltation.'

The value of that which is established is seen by a consideration of the evils which follow innovation. Burke's 'Reflections on the Revolution in France' will furnish us with an excellent example.

VOL. II.

1 Symonds, On Habit. London, 1871, p. 319 et seq.

GG

§ 37. Among the pains of regularity are those we commonly indicate by the term monotony:

Too much rest is rust.

There's ever cheer in changing."

How dull it is to pause, to make an end,

To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!

As tho' to breathe were life, life piled on life
Were all too little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and board myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire

To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Beyond the utmost bound of human thought."2

I will now refer by the following passage to the evils of custom considered generally: "The despotism of custom is everywhere the standing hindrance to human advancement, being in unceasing antagonism to that disposition to aim at something better than customary which is called, according to circumstances, the spirit of liberty or that of progressive improvement. The spirit of improvement is not always a spirit of liberty, for it may aim at forcing improvements on an unwilling people; and the spirit of liberty in so far as it resists such attempts, may ally itself locally and temporarily with the opponents of improvements; but the only unfailing and permanent source of improvement is liberty, since by it there are as many possible independent centres of improvement as there are individuals. The progressive principle however, in either shape, whether as the love of liberty or of improvement, is antagonistic to the sway of custom, involving at least emancipation from that yoke; and the contest between the two constitutes the chief interest of the history of mankind. The greater part of the world has, properly speaking, no history, because the despotism of custom is complete. This is the case over the whole East. Custom is there in all things the final appeal; justice and right mean conformity to custom; the argument of custom, no one, unless some tyrant intoxicated with power, thinks of resisting. And we see the result. Those nations must once have had originality; they did not start out of the ground populous, lettered, and versed in many of the arts of life; they made themselves all this, and were then the greatest and most powerful 2 Tennyson, Ulysses.

1 Old song.

nations in the world. What are they now? The subjects or dependents of tribes whose forefathers wandered in the forests when theirs had magnificent palaces and gorgeous temples, but over whom custom exercised only a divided rule with liberty and progress. A people, it appears, may be progressive for a certain length of time, and then stop: when does it stop? When it ceases to possess individuality.''

§ 38. Without entering upon a more extended illustration of the pains of regularity, many of which have already received exemplification in earlier portions of this chapter and in the former one, we will bring to a close our study of this subdivision, and with it the present chapter, with a quotation from Bulwer's 'Caxtoniana,' which will serve the purpose of a summing up.

'As the body for health needs regularity in habits and will even reconcile itself to habits not in themselves best fitted for longevity with less injury to the system than might result from abrupt changes to the training by which athletes attain their vigour, so the mind for health needs a certain clockwork of routine; we like to look forward with a tranquil sentiment of security; when we pause from the occupation of to-day, which custom has made dear to us, there is a charm in the mechanical confidence with which we think that the same occupation will be renewed at the same hour to-morrow. And thus monotony itself is a cause and element of happiness which, amid the shifting tumults of the world we are apt to ignore. . . . As the pleasure the ear finds in rhyme is said to arise from its recurrence at measured periods, from the gratified expectation that at certain intervals certain effects will be repeated—so it is in life: the recurrence of things same or similar, the content in the fulfilment of expectations so familiar and so gentle that we are scarcely conscious that they were formed, have a harmony and a charm, and where life is enriched by no loftier genius, often make the only difference between its poetry and its prose.'

J. S. Mill, On Liberty.

CHAPTER LXII.

TERTIARY PLEASURES AND PAINS.

§ 1. THE expositions in the preceding chapters have been sufficiently full to render unnecessary any general discussion of the subject of this chapter. We will therefore proceed at once with the delineation of certain special groups.

LIFE-DEATH.

§ 2. The pleasures of life may be a general term to include all our pleasures. Everything pleasurable in our experience may be embraced under this title. Life means living, experiencing; all the pleasures we have then are the pleasures of life. But the pleasures of life are considered chiefly when we contrast them. with the pains of death. It is in the apprehension of the loss of pleasures which we have known that we come to value most especially the pleasures of life. Noting, therefore, that these pleasures are all pleasures held together under a general notion, we place beside this the further fact that as constituting some of the pleasures of life, we add the absence of the pains of death. And by an examination of the pains of death we shall best understand the pleasures of the opposite state.

§ 3. A large group of the pains of death is that which contains the pains of disintegration of the body and prostration. It needs no argument to make evident the fact that those pains are associated with the idea of death. A re-examination of the sections devoted to the subjects of disintegration and prostration, in Chapter LX., will be of advantage to the reader in this connection.

A distinction must be drawn between the pains of death which relate primarily to the Ego when dead, and those which have reference to the unpleasant surroundings of death as they appear in the community or the world generally. The ideas of darkness and cold which are represented when we think of death do not arise from the notion that we when dead shall be cold or in darkness, but that in dying those pains represented by cold and darkness will come upon us; from the circumstance that the dying person whom we have seen, and the corpse, are cold and clammy;

that the abodes of the dead, vaults, churchyards, and tombs are cold and cheerless. Probably, too, the use of dark colours as symbols of mourning greatly increases this effect. So also we do not fear the pains of disintegration after we are dead, but only dread them as appertaining to the act of dying. The pain is that of disintegration and prostration which we associate with death. The sorrow is that of the valley of the shadow of death.'

§ 4. Indeed, all the primary pains are involved in the ideas of death. We have already seen how inextricably involved they are with one another; how we cannot have one without the associations of all the others. If then we find the pains of death include the pains of disintegration and prostration, we are warranted in saying that they comprise all the primary pains. In truth, the notions of pain in general and death are closely allied. So far forth as a man is in pain he is dying. We have in this consideration another corroboration of the theory which connects pain with loss and absence of vitality, and pleasure with its presence and increase.

§ 5. Next to the ideas of pain as resulting from disintegration we will notice those of pain as resulting from the loss of familiar associations, from innovation, and mal-adjustment in highly representative degrees. The following extracts will illustrate.

"When I die, I must depart not only from sensual delights, but from the more manly pleasures of my studies, knowledge, and converse with many wise and godly men, and from all my pleasure in reading, hearing, public and private exercises of religion, etc. I must leave my library and turn over those pleasant books no more; I must no more come among the living nor see the faces of my faithful friends, nor be seen of man; houses and cities and fields and countries, gardens and walks, will be nothing as to me. I shall no more hear of the affairs of the world, of man, or wars, or other news, nor see what becomes of that beloved interest of wisdom, piety, and peace which I desire may prosper,' etc. '

1

§ 6. Another variety of this same collection of pains appears

Richard Baxter, Dying Thoughts.

2 James Shirley.