. ,8Mft ,„,. . •%*;?* -:;:-:::: ^:>::::::^:^*^'' ;^^^-A '-•:^v""^n^ pff^ Siiirf? L.;:;:^^v l * I . AA' : f ;^«^«*:^A-- k _ A A '^ A '. AA n^fX^ m x^2S'w; 3 - - ^' •"•--" "alfiai, f^^a9MinJUtt^A£aft.»w^w;valA?2A2 BIOLOQT LIBS. Y^ LIBRARY UNIVERSITY OP V CAIIFORNIA/ ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA NINTH EDITION THE ENCYCLOPEDIA BEITANNICA OF ARTS, SCIENCES, AND GENERAL LITERATURE NINTH EDITION VOLUME XX NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS MDCCCLXXXVI [ All Eights reserved. ] Add'l GIFT BIOLOGY UBRARV ENCYCLOPEDIA BRITANNICA. PKU-PEU PRUDENTIUS, ATJRELIUS CLEMENS, a Christian verse- writer, apparently a native of Spain, who flourished during the latter half of the 4th century and in the begin- ning of the 5th. According to the meagre and vague auto- biographical notices given by himself in the preface to his poems he was born in the year 348, and, after receiving a liberal education, practised at the bar and subsequently held judicial office in two important cities. At the time of the publication of his poems in 405 he held from the emperor a high military appointment at court. Of his subsequent history nothing is known. His extant works, besides the preface already referred to and an epilogue, are the following: — (1) Cathemerinon Liber, a series of twelve hymns (KaOrj/j-epiViov vfu>un>) in various metres to be repeated or sung at particular periods of the day or seasons of the year ; (2) Apotheosis, a poem of 1085 hexameter verses on the divinity of Christ ; (3) Hnmartigenia (967 hexameter verses) on the origin of evil and sin ; (4) Psychomachin, or the conflict between virtue and vice for the soul (915 hexameter verses) ; (5) Contra Symmachum, two books, of 658 and 1131 hexameter verses respectively, directed against the petition of Symmachus to the emperor for the restora- tion of the altar and statue of Victory which Gratian had cast down ; (6) Peristephanon Liber, fourteen poems in various metres, in honour of certain saints who had won the crown of martyrdom (hence the name, irepl y.vuv},— these, which are often vigorous and graphic, are generally considered to show Prudentius at his best ; (7) Diptychon or Dittochseon, a series of forty-nine hexameter tetrastichs on various events and characters mentioned in Scripture. The editio princeps appeared at Deventer in 1472 ; among modern editions may be named those of Faustus Arevalus (2 vols., Rome, 1788-89), Obbarius (Tubingen, 1845), and Dressel (Leipsic, 1860). PRUD'HON, PIERRE (1758-1823), French painter, born at Cluny on the 4th of April 1758, was the thfrd son of a mason. The monks of the abbey undertook his education. The paintings which decorated the monastery excited his emulation, and by the aid of Moreau, bishop of Macon, he was placed with Devosges, director of the art school at Dijon. In 1778 Prud'hon went to Paris armed with a letter to Wille, the celebrated engraver, and three years later he obtained the triennial prize of the states of Burgundy, which enabled him to go to Rome, where he became intimate with Canova. He returned to Paris in 1787, and led for some time a precarious existence, paint- ing portraits and making designs for booksellers. The illustrations which he executed for the Daphnis and CMoe published by Didot brought him into notice, and his reputation was extended by the success of his decorations 108 in the Hotel de Landry (now Rothschild), his ceiling paint- ing of Truth and Wisdom for Versailles (Louvre), and of Diana and Jupiter for the Gallery of Antiquities in the Louvre. In 1808 he exhibited Crime pursued -by Venge- ance and Justice (Louvre, engraved by Royer), which had been commissioned for the assize courts, and Psyche carried off by Zephyrs (engraved by Massard). These two remark- able compositions brought Prud'hon the Legion of Honour ; his merit was widely recognized ; he received innumerable orders, and in 1816 entered the Institute. Easy as to fortune, and consoled for the misery of his marriage by the devoted care of his excellent and charming pupil, Mademoiselle Mayer, Prud'hon's situation seemed enviable ; but Mademoiselle Mayer's tragical suicide on 26th May 1821 brought ruin to his home, and two years later (16th February 1823) Prud'hon followed her to the grave. The classic revival which set in towards the close of the 18th century, and of which Louis David was the academic chief, found in Prud'hon an interpreter whose gifts of grace and naivete tempered by seriousness atoned by the personal charm which they imparted to all he did for the want of severity and correctness in his execution. Mademoiselle Mayer (1778-1821) was his ablest pupil. Her Aban- doned Mother and Happy Mother are in the Louvre. Voiart, Notice historique de la vie et ceuvres de P. Prud'hon ; Arch, de Tart franqais ; Qu. de Quincy, Discours prononce sur la tombe de Prud'hon, Fev. 1823 ; Eugene Delacroix, Rev. des Deux Mondcs, 1846 ; Charles Blanc, Hist, des peintrcs franqais. PRUSSIA (Ger., Preussen • Lat., £orussia), a kingdom Plate I. of northern Europe and by far the most important mem- ber of the German empire, occupies almost the whole of northern Germany, between 5° 52' and 22° 53' E. long, and 49° 7' and 55° 53' N. lat. It now forms a tolerably compact mass of territory, with its longest axis from south- west to north-east ; but within the limits just indicated lie the "enclaves" Oldenburg, Mecklenburg, Brunswick, and other small German states, while beyond them it possesses Hohenzollern, in the south of Wiirtemberg, and other " exclaves " of minor importance. On the N. Prussia is bounded by the North Sea, Denmark, and the Baltic ; on the E. by Russia and Poland; on the S. by Austrian Silesia, Moravia, Bohemia, Saxony, the Thuringian states, Bavaria, Hesse-Darmstadt, the Rhenish Palatinate, and Lorraine ; and on the W. by Luxemburg, Belgium, and XX. — i PRUSSIA HISTORY. the Netherlands. With the exception of the sea on the north and the mountain -barrier on the south-east, the frontiers are political rather than geographical, a fact that has always been characteristic of Prussia's limits and that has had considerable influence in determining its history. The Prussian monarchy, with an area of 134,490 square miles, comprises nearly two-thirds of the entire extent of the German empire. Its kernel is the Mark of Branden- burg, round which the rest of the state has been built up gradually, not without costly and exhausting wars. The territory ruled over by the first Hohenzollern elector (1415-40) did not exceed 11,400 square miles, an area that had been quadrupled before the death of the first king in 1713. Frederick the Great left behind him a realm of 75,000 square miles, and the following two monarchs, by their Polish and Westphalian acquisitions, brought it to a size not far short of its present extent (122,000 square miles in 1803). After the disastrous war of 1806 Prussia shrank to something smaller than the kingdom of Frederick the Great (61,000 square miles), and the readjustment of Europe in 1815 still left it short by 14,000 square miles of its extent in 1803. Fully one-fifth of its present area is due to the war of 1866, which added Hanover, Hesse-Cassel, Hesse-Nassau, Schleswig-Holstein, and the city of Frankfort-on-the-Main to the Prussian dominions. HISTORY. The claims which Prussian history makes upon our attention are based neither upon venerable antiquity nor upon uniformity of origin. The territorial and political development of the country has taken place wholly within the last thousand years ; and the materials out of which it has been built up — marquisates and duchies, ecclesiastical principalities and free imperial cities — are of the most heterogeneous description. The history of Prussia acquires its primary significance from the fact that this state was the instrument by which the political regeneration of Germany was ultimately effected from within, and the unity and coherence of the narrative are best observed when we consider it as a record of the training that fitted the country for this task. This role was forced upon Prussia rather by the exigencies of its geographical position than by its title to be racially the most representative German state. The people who have established the power of Germany cannot rank in purity of Teutonic blood with the inhabitants of the central, western, and southern parts of the empire. The conquest of the Slavonic regions that form so great a part of modern Prussia did not occur without a considerable intermingling of race, and Prussia may perhaps be added to the list of great nations that seem to owe their pre-eminence to the happy blending of their composite parts. It is perhaps also worthy of remark that this state, like its great rival, was developed from a marchland of the German empire, — Prussia arising from the North Mark erected against the Wends, and Austria from the East Mark erected against the Hungarians. In tracing the early development of Prussia three main currents have to be noticed, even in a short sketch like the present, which do not completely unite until the beginning of the 17th century; indeed many writers begin the history of modern Prussia with the accession of the Great Elector in 1640. We have (1) the history of the Mark of Bran- denburg, the true political kernel of the modern state; (2) the history of the district of Preussen or Prussia, which gave name and regal title to the monarchy; and (3) the history of the family of Hohenzollern, from which sprang the line of vigorous rulers who practically deter- mined the fortunes of the country. Mark of Brandenburg. — Whether Teutons or Slavs were the earlier inhabitants of the district extending from the Elbe on the west to the Oder and the Vistula on the east is a question mainly of antiquarian interest and one upon which authorities are not wholly agreed. In the open- ing centuries of the Christian era we find it occupied by Slavonic tribes, whose boundaries reach even to the west of the Elbe, and the conquest and absorption of these by the growing German power form the subject of the early history of Brandenburg. Hand in hand with the territorial extension of the Germans went the spread of Christianity, which, indeed, often preceded the arms of the conquering race. The Slavs to the east of the Elbe were left un- molested down to the foundation of the German monarchy, established by the successors of Charlemagne about the middle of the 9th century. Then ensued the period of formation of the German "marks" or marches, which served at once as bulwarks against the encroachments of external enemies and as nuclei of further conquest. The North Estab- Mark of Saxony, corresponding roughly to the northern lishment part of the present province of Saxony, to the west of the °f ^ Elbe, was established by the emperor Henry I. about the Mart, year 930, and formed the beginning of the Prussian state. The same energetic monarch extended his career of con- quest considerably to the east of the Elbe, obtaining more or less firm possession of Priegnitz, Ruppin, and the district round the sources of the Havel, and even carried his arms to the banks of the Oder. His son Otho I. (936- 973) followed in his father's footsteps and founded the bishoprics of Havelberg and Brandenburg, the latter taking its name from the important Wendish fortress of Bran- nibor. Towards the end of the 10th century, however, the Wendish flood again swept over the whole territory to the east of the Elbe, and the Germans were confined to the original limits of the North Mark. Christianity was rooted out and the bishop of Brandenburg reduced to an episcopus in partibm. The history of the next century and a half is simply a record of a series of desultory struggles between the margraves of the North Mark and the encom- passing Wends, in which the Germans did no more than hold their own on the left bank of the Elbe. Things begin to grow a little clearer in 1134, when the Albert emperor Lothair rewarded the services of Albert the the Bear Bear, a member of the house of Anhalt and one of the most powerful princes of the empire, by investing him with the North Mark. Albert seems to have been a man of great vigour and considerable administrative talent, and by a mixture of hard fighting and skilful policy he ex- tended his power over the long-lost territories of Priegnitz, Ruppin, the Havelland, and the Zauche. He also shifted the centre of power to the marshy district last-mentioned and changed his title to margrave of Brandenburg. The North Mark henceforth began to be known as the Altmark, or Old Mark, while the territory round Brandenburg was for a short time called the New Mark, but more per- manently the Mittelmark, or Middle Mark. The soil of Albert's new possessions was for the most part poor and unpromising, but he peopled it with industrious colonists from Holland and elsewhere, and began that system of painstaking husbandry and drainage which has gradually converted the sandy plains and marshes of Brandenburg into agricultural land of comparative fertility. The clergy were among his most able assistants in reclaiming waste land and spreading cultivation, and through them Christ- ianity was firmly established among the conquered and Germanized Slavs. Albert's descendants, generally known Ascani as the Ascanian line from the Latinized form of the name >ine- of their ancestral castle of Aschersleben, ruled in Branden- burg for nearly two hundred years ; but none of them seem to have been on a par with him in energy or ability. On the whole, however, they were able to continue in the course marked out by him, and, in spite of the pernicious practice VOL . XX PRUSSIA PLATE 1 KIWCHDOM OJF PRUSSIA I8f6, **»»*»< rNC'r;;iOP-4D!A BRITANNICA. NINTH HISTORY.] PRUSSIA 3 of dividing the territory among the various scions of the reigning house, the Mark grew steadily in size and import- ance. Before the end of the 1 2th century the margrave was created arch-chamberlain of the German empire, an office that eventually brought in its train the privilege of belong- ing to the electoral college. Berlin became a fortified post of the margraves in 1 240 and soon began to take the place of Brandenburg as the political centre of the margraviate. Under Waldemar, who succeeded in 1309, the scattered possessions of the house were again gathered into one hand. His sway extended over the Altmark ; Priegnitz, or the Vormark ; the Middle Mark, now extending to the Oder ; the lands of Krpssen and Sternberg beyond the Oder; the Ukermark, to the north ; Upper and Lower Lusatia ; and part of Pomerania, with a feudal superiority over the rest. No other German prince of the time had a more ex- tensive territory or one less exposed to imperial interference. With Waldemar's death in 1319 the Ascanian line be- came extinct and a period of anarchy began, which lasted for a century and brought the once flourishing country to the verge of annihilation. Its neighbours took advan- tage of its masterless condition to help themselves to the outlying portions of its territory, and its resources were further wasted by intestine conflicts. In 1320 the emperor Bavarian Louis the Bavarian took possession of the Mark as a lapsed mar~ fief, and conferred it upon his son Louis, at that time a ves' mere child. But this connexion with the imperial house proved more of a curse than of a blessing : the younger Louis turned out a very incompetent ruler, and Branden- burg became involved in the evils brought upon the Bavarian house by its conflict with the pope. To crown all, a pretender to the name of Waldemar appeared, whose claims to Brandenburg were supported by the new emperor, Charles IV. ; and in 1351 Louis, wearied of his profitless sovereignty, resigned the margraviate to his brothers, Louis the Roman and Otho. The first of these died in 1365, and Otho soon became embroiled with Charles IV. But he was no match for the astute emperor, who in- vaded the Mark, and finally compelled the margrave to resign his territory for a sum of ready money and the Luxem- promise of an annuity. The ambition of Charles was burg directed towards the establishment of a great east German monarchy, embracing Bohemia, Moravia, Silesia, Lusatia, and Brandenburg, and he had the sagacity to recognize the commercial importance of the last-named as offering an outlet by the Baltic Sea. Charles, however, died in 1378, and with him perished his far-reaching plans. He was succeeded in the electorate of Brandenburg — for as such it had been formally recognized in the Golden Bull of 1356 — by his second son Sigismund. This prince was too greatly hampered by his other schemes to bestow much attention on Brandenburg, and in 1388 his pecuniary embarrassments were so great that he gave the electorate in pawn to his cousin Jobst or Jodocus of Moravia. The unfortunate country seemed now to have reached the lowest point consistent with its further independent existence. Jobst looked upon it merely as a source of income and made little or no attempt at government. Internal order completely disappeared, and the nobles made war on each other or plundered the more peaceful citizens without let or hindrance. Powerful neighbours again took the op- portunity of appropriating such parts of Brandenburg as lay most convenient to their own borders, and the final dissolution of the electorate seemed imminent. Jobst died in 1411 ; and Sigismund, who succeeded to the imperial throne mainly through the help of Frederick VI., burgrave of Nuremberg, conferred the electorate of Brandenburg on this stout supporter, partly in gratitude for services rendered and partly as a mortgage for money advanced. Sigismund also may possibly have recognized in Frederick the fitting mar- graves ruler to checkmate any attempt on the part of the Polish- Lithuanian power, which had just overthrown the Teutonic Order (see p. 6), to push forward the Slavonic settlements to their old frontier on the Elbe. At first Frederick was merely appointed administrator of Brandenburg; but in 1415 he was declared the actual feudal superior of the land, and two years later formally installed as elector. The Brandenburg to which Frederick succeeded was con- Interna siderably smaller than it had been in the best days of the c°n~ Ascanians, consisting merely of the Altmark, Priegnitz, g^tl0^ *j the Mittelmark, part of the Ukermark, and the territory of ^urg, Sternberg. Including his family possessions of Ansbach nth to and Baireuth, he ruled over a territory of about 11,400 14th cei square miles in extent. The internal condition of Branden- turjr' burg had declined as much as its territorial extension had decreased. The central power had become weakened and the whole inner organization relaxed, while the electorate had also lost most of the advantages that once favourably distinguished it from other imperial fiefs. Under the first margraves the official side of their position had been pro- minent, and it was not forgotten that technically they were little more than the representatives of the emperor. In the 13th century this feeling began to disappear, and Brandenburg enjoyed an independent importance and carried out an independent policy in a way not paralleled in any other German mark. The emperor was still, of course, the suzerain of the country, but his relations with it had so little influence on the course of its development that they may be practically ignored. Within the Mark the power of the margraves was at first almost unlimited. This arose in part from the fact that few great nobles had followed Albert the Bear in his crusade against the Wends, and that consequently there were few large feudal manors or lordships with their crowds of dependent vassals. The great bulk of the knights, the towns, and the rural com- munes held their lands and derived their rights directly from the margraves, who thus stood in more or less im- mediate contact with all classes of their subjects. The towns and villages were generally laid out by contractors (locatores), not necessarily of noble birth, who were installed as hereditary chief magistrates of the community and re- ceived numerous encouragements to reclaim waste lands. This mode of colonization was especially favourable to the peasantry, who seem in Brandenburg to have retained the disposal of their persons and property at a time when villainage or serfdom was the ordinary state of their class in feudal Europe. The dues paid by these contractors in return for their concessions formed the principal revenue of the margraves. As the expenses of the latter increased, chiefly in consequence of the calls of war, lavish donations to the clergy, and the attempt to maintain court establish- ments for all the members of the reigning house, they were frequently driven to pawn these dues for sums of ready money. This gave the knights or barons an opportunity to buy out the village magistrates and replace them with creatures of their own ; and the axe was laid at the root of the freedom of the peasants when Louis the Bavarian formally recognized the patrimonial or manorial juris- diction of the noblesse. Henceforth the power of the nobles steadily increased at the expense of the peasants, who were gradually reduced to a state of feudal servitude. Instead of communicating directly with the margrave through his burgraves and vogts (bailiffs), the village com- munities came to be represented solely by the knights who had obtained feudal possession of their lands. Many of the towns followed in their wake. Others were enabled to maintain their independence, and also made use of the pecuniary needs of the margraves, until many of them practically became municipal republics. Their strength, however, was perhaps more usefully shown in their ability PRUSSIA [HISTORY. to resist the barons, which saved industry and commerce from extinction at a time of unbridled laAvlessness, when the central power could do nothing for their aid. In the pecuniary embarrassments of the margraves also originated the power of the Stande, or estates, consisting of the noblesse, the clergy, and the towns. The first recorded instance of a diet co-operating with the ruler occurs in 1 170, and in 1280 we find the margraves solemnly binding themselves not to raise a " bede " or special voluntary con- tribution (like the English " benevolence ") without the consent of their estates. By 1355 the estates had secured the appointment of a permanent councillor, without whose concurrence the decrees of the margraves were invalid. In the century that followed the extinction of the Ascanians liberty degenerated into licence, and the land was given over to an almost total anarchy. Only the most powerful towns were able to maintain their independence, and many of them and of the clergy paid regular black-mail to the nearest nobles. Thus rotten within, it is no wonder that the electorate completely lost its independent political importance. The The Hohenzollenis. — The new ruler who had to face this Hohen- state of affairs was a member of an old Swabian family, ' which took its name of Hohenzollern from the ancestral castle in the Swabian Alb. Recent investigation has traced back the line to Hunfrid, duke of Rhsetia and Istria at the beginning of the 9th century, a member of the widely-spread family of the Burkardingians, while it finds the actual progenitors of the Swabian branch of the family in two Alemannian dukes of the 10th century. At a later period the Hohenzollerns were conspicuous for their loyal services to the Hohenstauffen emperors, under whom they acquired extensive possessions in Franconia and Moravia, and also the office of burgrave of Nuremberg (1191). They were ultimately recognized as among the most powerful princes of the empire, and, though they never attained to the electoral dignity, they frequently exercised considerable influence in the transference of the imperial crown. Rudolf of Hapsburg owed his succession in 1273 to the exertions of one Hohenzollern burgrave, and Louis the Bavarian owed the victory of Miihldorf (1322) to another. The two sons of the first burgrave, Conrad and Frederick, divided their inheritance between them, the former retaining the Franconian estates and the dignity of burgrave, the latter the ancestral possessions in Swabia. From the first of these descended the rulers of Prussia, while the other line also still exists in the person of the mediatized prince of Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen. Elector Frederick (1415-1440), who as elector of Brandenburg Freder- assumed the style of Frederick I., showed himself equal to the troublesome task before him, and would have been still more successful had his interests been limited to the elec- torate. By a prudent mixture of lenity and firmness, which did not shrink from actual fighting, he controlled the law- lessness of the Quitzows and other robber barons, restored a fair degree of internal order, and made his subjects feel that the central power was a fact that could not be ignored. While thus regulating the affairs of Brandenburg, Frederick was also a conspicuous figure in imperial politics, especially in the Hussite wars. His candidature for the imperial throne in 1438 may be regarded as the first occasion on which the houses of Hohenzollern and Hapsburg came into Freder- competition. Frederick was succeeded in Brandenburg by ick II. his son Frederick II. (1440-1470), and in his Franconian possessions by his son Albert. The former followed in his father's footsteps by taking energetic measures to consoli- date his power and restore the electorate to its former extent. His chief struggle was with the large towns, which had cordially welcomed the Hohenzollerns as cham- pions against the freebooting barons, but were unwilling to allow any intervention in their own affairs. Frederick subdued the resistance of Berlin, among other towns, and by a somewhat unwarrantable stretch of his prerogative erected a royal castle within its walls. He also regained possession of the Neumark, which had been given in pledge to the Teutonic Order in 1402, and would have added Lusatia and Pomerania to his domains if the emperor had not placed obstacles in his way. A long-standing feud with the archbishop of Magdeburg was also finally settled in this reign. Under his brother and successor Albert (1470-1486), surnamed "Achilles " from his chival- Albert rous valour and military talent, the Franconian lands were (Achilles; again united with Brandenburg. Albert allowed his devo- tion to the emperor to interfere to some extent with his own interests, but he carried on successful wars with Mecklenburg and Pomerania, and effectually resisted the attempts of the Teutonic knights to repossess themselves of the Neumark. His name is best remembered by the Dispositio Achillea, a family ordinance providing for the future separation of Brandenburg and Ansbach-Baireuth, and establishing the custom of primogeniture in each. According to Hallam, this was the first instance of the legal establishment of primogeniture, and, when we con- sider the effect it had in keeping the Brandenburg posses- sions together, while those of Saxony (for instance) were frittered away among younger sons and their descendants, we shall not fail to discern its importance in determining Prussia's future. With the accession of John (1486-1499), John surnamed " Cicero " on account of his eloquence or of his (Cicero), knowledge of Latin, begins a short period in which the rulers of Brandenburg take little share in imperial politics. At home John found his hands full in repressing the dis- orders that had arisen through Albert's long absence from the electorate, and he acted with such vigour and address that he succeeded in obtaining from the towns an import- ant excise on beer, frequently refused to his father. The old claim to feudal supremacy over Pomerania, dating from the days of the Ascanians, was compromised in 1493 for an assurance of eventual succession on the extinction of the Pomeranian dukes. The next elector, Joachim I. Joachim (1499-1535), acquired the surname of "Nestor" from his1- (Nes- encouragement of learning, which he showed inter alia by '' the foundation of a university at Frankfort-on-the-Oder. He also effected an important internal reform by the intro- duction of Roman law, looking upon this as an easier way of securing uniformity of procedure than by a codification of the heterogeneous common law of his dominions. The inconvenience arising from the fact that the supreme court followed the sovereign from place to place was now re- moved in Brandenburg, as a short time before in England, by the establishment of a fixed and central court of final jurisdiction (Kammergerichfy. This court had its seat at Berlin, which had recently become the capital and resi- dence of the electors. In curbing the lawlessness of the nobles, who were yet far from being perfectly disciplined, Joachim showed as strong a hand as his predecessors. He adhered strenuously to his Roman Catholic belief in spite of the fact that Protestantism had been embraced by his own family and by most of his subjects, and he regarded with abhorrence the attitude of the Protestant princes towards the emperor. In violation of the family law, Joachim I. bequeathed the Neumark to his younger son John, and thus Joachim II. (1535-1571) succeeded to only Joachim a part of the paternal possessions. John seems to have H- been the more vigorous and decided of the two brothers, and led the way in announcing his transition to the Pro- testant faith, followed by Joachim in 1539. John also joined the Schmalkald League, but was induced to retire from it by his brother, who succeeded in conjoining an adoption of the Reformation in his own dominions with HISTORY. PRUSSIA a careful avoidance of conflict with the emperor and Roman Catholic party. The church ordinance which he framed for Brandenburg was drawn up in such a way that the head of the state became likewise the head of the state church, and henceforth he regarded him- self, like Henry VIII. of England, as standing towards his own country in the place of the pope. The public introduction of the new faith was accomplished without difficulty, and the clergy witnessed the secularization of their property with much equanimity. The funds thus acquired by Joachim, a prince of magnificent ideas and of lavish expenditure, were of great service to him ; but part of them he devoted to the encouragement of science and art. A compact of mutual right of eventual inheritance made in 1537 with the duke of Liegnitz and Brieg was of great ultimate importance as affording Frederick II. a pretext for his claims to Silesia. A still more useful arrangement of a similar kind was carried out by Joachim in 1569, when he secured the right of succession to the duchy of Prussia. Branden- Between the accession of the Hohenzollern dynasty and burg the period at which we have now arrived the area of iTl^ t Brandenburg had been increased to nearly 15,000 square 1571. miles, and its material prosperity had grown in at least an equal ratio. It was still, however, far from being a com- pact or united state, nor had it as yet any pretension to an independent part on the European stage. Perhaps the most marked internal change was the increase in the power of the estates, resulting in great measure from the financial needs of the electors. Their gradual progress towards com- plete recognition as a co-ordinate branch of government may be said to have culminated in the formal declaration of Joachim II., that he would never undertake any action of importance affecting the welfare of his subjects without first consulting the estates. Yet alongside of this growth of the estates there were other causes at work paving the way for the future absolutism of the rulers. Thus the new ecclesiastical constitution brought the elector, as head of the church, into immediate relation with all classes of the people, and the abolition of the distinction between mediate and immediate subjects in the religious sphere prepared the way for a similar position in secular matters. So too the introduction of Roman law accustomed the mind to dwell on the central authority and administration, and its very terminology promoted the conception of the elector as a "royal" ruler. A more important cause, however, than either of these was the gradual decline of the power of the towns, with the accompanying revival of that of the nobles. The practical independence and com- parative wealth of the towns had been followed by intestine feuds, in which the patricians were arrayed against the guilds, and these not only weakened the towns directly, but also gave the electors frequent pretexts to interfere and curtail their privileges. At the end of the reign of Joachim II. the elector and the diet, the noblesse and the municipalities, were still in a state of comparative and promising equilibrium. But it was evident that the power . of the diet was now almost wholly confined to its command of the purse, and that an elector who could make himself independent of its subsidies would be in a position to defy its claims ; while it was equally evident that the growing weakness of the towns was incapacitating them for any effectual resistance to an ambitious prince, who might utilize the congenial support of the noblesse as a stepping- stone to arbitrary power. The short-sighted and selfish neglect of general questions now making way among the separate sections of the diet, and their increasing tendency to appear at those sittings only in which their own peculiar interests were under discussion, also helped to free the hands of the electors. The condition of the peasantry had been steadily deteriorating, and their personal rights were already seriously encroached upon. Under Joachim's son, John George (1571-1598), who John permanently reunited the Neumark with Brandenburg, the George, tendencies just noticed received emphatic expression. All vacant official positions were filled with members of the noblesse, who also received the right of exacting compul- sory service from the peasants and other similar privileges. The elector, who acquired the name of "Oekonom" or steward from his admirable financial management, soon reduced the large debt left by his father, and, leaning on the support he had earned from the barons, was able to act with great independence towards the other elements of the diet. During his undisturbed reign the material prosperity of Brandenburg advanced considerably, and the population was increased by numerous Protestant refugees from France and Holland. Joachim Frederick (1598- Joachim 1608) had the good sense and resolution to oppose the Frederic testament of his father, which had assigned the Neumark to his younger brother, and in the Gera Bond executed a solemn ratification of the Dispositio Achillea. Ansbach and Baireuth were formally relinquished to the younger line, and have never since, except from 1791 to 1806, formed part of the Prussian dominions. This reign is memorable for the establishment of a state council (Staatsrath), which served in some degree as a ministerial cabinet, and may be characterized as the nucleus of the bureaucracy of modern Prussia. John Sigismund (1608-1619) does not seem to John have been a man of marked personal character, but his8'^8' reign is of great importance in the history of Brandenburg mund< on account of the extensive territorial enlargement that fell to its lot. The contingency which had been contem- plated in the treaty with Prussia in 1569 was realized on the death of Duke Albert in 1618 ; and John Sigismund, whose title was strengthened by his marriage with the late duke's daughter, inherited the duchy. His marriage also brought him a claim to the duchies of Cleves and Jiilich and other lands near the Rhine, but this title was disputed by the count palatine of Neuburg. The count was a Roman Catholic, and his contest with the elector soon became a mere incident in the great conflict that now broke out between the two religions. The disputed territories were occupied by Spanish and Dutch troops, and neither claimant derived much advantage from them till after the Thirty Years' War. For a time, however, the outlying possessions of John Sigismund touched on both sides the limits of modern Prussia. In 1613 the elector, either from pure conviction or from a desire to conciliate the Reformed diet of Cleves, announced his adoption of the Reformed (Calvinistic) type of Protestantism, an action that gave great offence in his older dominions. He made, however, no attempt to induce his subjects to follow his example, and may be said to have inaugurated the policy of religious toleration that has since been characteristic of Prussian rulers. During his reign his territories were more than doubled in extent, covering at his death an area of 31,000 square miles ; but the elector of Brandenburg could not yet claim to rank above those of Bavaria and Saxony. Ducky of Prussia, — The duchy of Prussia, thus ac- Duchy o quired by the elector, formed the eastern half of the ter- ritory bearing the name of Preussen, and stretched along the Baltic Sea from the Vistula to the Memel. It still remained a Polish fief, and was separated from the rest of the electoral dominions by West Prussia, which the Teutonic Order had been forced to resign to Poland a century and a half before. The native Prussians were of a race akin to the Letts and Lithuanians, and their name (Pruzi, Prutheni) was probably derived from a Lettish root meaning " intelligence." l Towards the end of the 1 The traditionary connexion of the name with the proximity of PRUSSIA [HISTORY. first century of the Christian era we find authentic accounts ' of the importation by the Romans of amber from the Baltic coast, but the first mention of the Pruzi by name occurs in a document of the 9th century. Their first appearance in German history is connected with the attempt made in 997 by Adalbert, bishop of Prague, to convert them to Christianity. But his efforts, as well as those of his successor Bruno, met with little success, and each of these pious missionaries found a martyr's grave on the shore of the Baltic. The obstinate adherence of the natives to their paganism was strengthened by their natural suspicion of a political aim under covet of missionary enterprise, and they felt that they were fighting for their land as well as for their religion. The next serious attempt at their conversion was made two hundred years later by a Cistercian monk named Christian, who at the outset had some success and was appointed first bishop of Prussia. The Prussians, however, soon expelled Christian and his supporters, and even invaded Polish territory, plundering and exacting tribute. In this extremity Christian and Conrad, duke of Teutonic Masovia, applied for aid to the knights of the TEUTONIC Order. ORDER (q.v.), who gladly embarked on this new crusade. The Prussians made a desperate resistance ; but the military discipline and strength of the Teutonic knights were not in the long run to be withstood, reinforced, as they were, by crowds of crusaders and adventurers anxious to share in the pious work, and assisted on two occasions by the troops of Ottocar of Bohemia. The knights entered Prussia in 1230, and after half a century of hard fighting found them- selves masters of the entire country. They had previously taken care to procure from the emperor and the pope a grant of all the lands they should conquer, as well as of those offered to them by Conrad of Masovia. At first the government of the Order, though arbitrary, was not un- favourable to the welfare of the land. The few native nobles who adopted Christianity were allowed to retain their privileged position, and the ranks of the noblesse were recruited by grants to German knights. Numerous towns and villages were built ; the place of the greatly thinned Prussians was taken by industrious German colonists ; agriculture and commerce were carried on with energy and success ; and all aggression from without was vigorously repelled. The general plan of colonization was similar to that in Brandenburg, except that the place of the margrave was taken by a class of privileged nobles, who divided the power of government among them. In 1309 Pomerelia, to the west of the Vistula, was subdued, and the headquarters of the Order were removed from Venice to the fortress of Marienburg on the Vistula ; and before the end of the century the " Ordensland " of Prussia is said to have contained about fifty walled towns, still more numerous castles, and several hundred villages and hamlets, while it extended from Pomerania to the western frontier of Lithuania. The active trade which now flourished was carried on mainly with England and the Hanseatic towns. As time went on, however, the knights allowed their vows of temperance and chastity to sink into abeyance and became enervated by luxury and excess. Their old military skill declined, and they had sunk to such a state of weakness that the single battle of Tannenberg (1410), in which they were defeated by the Poles, shook their power to its foundations. Their arbitrary and exclusive rule now began to reap its reward : the Prussians took advantage of the weakness of the Order to claim a larger share in the government, and, as their burdens continued to grow more oppressive, finally formed an alliance with its arch-enemy Poland. Attacked from Russia seems unfounded, and the form Borussia or Porussia, which has been adopted as the Latin appellation of the country, is used for the first time by a chronicler of the fifteenth century. without and weakened by dissension within, the Order was at length compelled to succumb ; and a war begun in 1454 ended thirteen years later with the cession of West Prussia to Poland and an acknowledgment of the latter's feudal superiority over the remaining territories of the Order. The knights turned to Germany for help, and endeavoured to persuade powerful German princes to undertake the office of grand master. In 1511 their choice fell on Albert, a member of the Franconian branch of the Hohenzollerns, who undertook the task of reorganization with vigour and attempted to dispense with the oath of fealty to Poland. But, failing to receive any adequate support from the emperor, he at length, acting on the advice of Luther, determined to embrace Protestantism and convert the Ordensland into a secular and hereditary duchy. This momentous transformation was carried out in 1525 with- out interference from either the empire or Poland, and Albert continued to be a vassal of the latter state as duke of Prussia. The people of Prussia, many of whom had already gone over to the new faith, hailed the reform with great satisfaction, and most of the knights contentedly changed their life-rents for feudal holdings, married, and became hereditary nobles. When it passed into the hands of the elector of Brandenburg, Prussia thus consisted of a compact secular duchy, owing fealty to Poland, and pos- sessing the two well-defined estates of nobles and burghers, the first of which held the reins of power. John Sigismund died in 1619, a year after his acquisi- George tion of Prussia, and left his territories to his son George William. William (1619-1640). This unfortunate prince may per- haps be described as the first utterly incompetent ruler of his line, though due allowance must be made for the extreme difficulty of his position. Succeeding to power at the outbreak of the great struggle between Catholicism and Protestantism, he neglected the opportunity of joining with Saxony in the formation of a strong league of German Protestant princes, and by his temporizing policy converted his electorate into the common battle-ground. In the language of Carlyle, "where the Titans were bowling rocks at each other, George William hoped by dexterous skipping to escape share of the game." His own irresolu- tion was aided by the fact that his chancellor and chief adviser, Schwarzenberg, was a Roman Catholic and of strong imperialist sympathies, while the great bulk of his subjects dreaded an increase of the power of Calvinism almost more than that of Roman Catholicism. Branden- burg was overrun in turn by Mansfeld, Tilly, and Wallen- stein, and suffered as much as if it had taken an active part in the war. The Restitution Edict of 1628, however, gave the elector serious cause of alarm, and the appearance of Gustavus Adolphus before Berlin in 1631 confirmed his faltering decision and made him for a time throw in his lot with the Protestant cause. After the death of Gustavus, Brandenburg followed the example of Saxony in negotiating a separate peace with the emperor (1635). But this apostasy brought little relief, as the emperor gave no aid in expelling the Swedes from Brandenburg and Pomerania, which they continued to -occupy for several years. In 1639 the elector removed his court to Konigs- berg in Prussia, the only part of his realms in which he was sure of comparative tranquillity, and there he died in 1 640, leaving a land devastated in great part by fire and sword and at the lowest ebb of dignity and power. Frederick William (1640-1688), whom both his con- Great temporaries and after ages have agreed to dignify with Elector, the title of the " Great Elector," was only twenty years old when he succeeded to the throne, but he at once began to manifest a decided and vigorous character very different from that of his father. He emancipated himself without delay from the guidance of Schwarzenberg, and, in spite of HISTORY.] PRUSSIA the emperor's displeasure, concluded a peace with Sweden, which provided for the withdrawal of the Swedish troops from the electorate. During the following years of war Frederick William preserved a strict neutrality and utilized the opportunity to restore the material resources of his country and reorganize and strengthen his army. The fruits of this line of action were seen at the peace of Westphalia (1648), when Frederick William, as lord of an efficient army of 25,000 men, was able to secure a ready hearing for his claims to territorial extension. He established his right to the whole of Pomerania, but, as the Swedes refused to give up Western or Hither Pomerania (Vorpommern), he received as compensation the rich ecclesiastical principalities of Magdeburg, Halberstadt, and Minden, in central Germany. In the second Swedish and Polish war, which broke out in 1655, he used his inter- mediate position with great skill and unscrupulousness, allying himself first with one and then with the other of the belligerents, as seemed likely to be most profitable. Thus the troops of Brandenburg took a prominent share in the defeat of the Poles at the three days' battle of Warsaw (1656), in return for which service Sweden undertook to recognize the elector as independent sovereign of the duchy of Prussia. Scarcely, however, did the scale of victory begin to turn than the elector deserted his former ally, and in the treaty of Wehlau (1657) received his reward in the formal relinquishment by Poland of its feudal rights over Prussia. This important step, which added the electorate to the independent states of Europe and pre- pared the way for the growth of a great north German power, was ratified three years later at the general peace of Oliva. In 1666 the long-vexed question of the inheritance to the Rhenish duchies was settled by an amicable parti- tion, according to which Cleves, Mark, and Ravensberg fell to the share of Prussia. When Louis XIV. attacked Holland in 1672 Frederick William was at first the only German prince to suspect danger in the ambitious designs of the French monarch. In spite of tempting offers from France, he concluded an alliance with Holland, and at the head of Austrian and Brandenburgian troops joined the Dutch in an ineffectual campaign on the Rhine. In 1673 he was forced, through lack of sufficient support from the emperor, to make peace with France ; but he joined the triple alliance of Holland, Spain, and the empire in the following year and took part in an indecisive campaign in Alsace. There he received intelligence that the Swedes, at the instigation of France, had broken into Brandenburg. Hastening back to his own country without delay, he took the enemy by surprise, and at the head of about 6000 men gained a brilliant victory over twice that number of Swedish troops at Fehrbellin (1675), a small town to the north-west of Berlin. This success over the hitherto invincible Swedes lent great prestige to the elector's arms, and he followed it up by a series of vigorous campaigns, in which, with the aid of Denmark, he swept Branden- burg and Pomerania clear of the invaders, capturing Stettin in 1677 and Stralsund in 1678. The invasion of Prussia from Livonia, which formed the last effort of the Swedes, was also triumphantly repelled, the most memorable inci- dent of the short struggle being the elector's forced march over the frozen surface of the Frische Haff. At the peace of St Germain (1679), however, owing to the influence of France and the lukewarm support of the emperor, Frederick William saw himself forced to restore Hither Pomerania to Sweden. The policy of the last years of the Great Elector may be described as an endeavour to hold the balance between France and the emperor. At first he joined in a somewhat unnatural alliance with Louis XIV., but after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes (1685) he drew nearer to Austria and covered the emperor's rear in his war with the Turks. At his death, which took place in 1688, he was engaged in helping the prince of Orange to prepare for his descent on England. The reign of the Great Elector forms one of the most Branden- signal instances in history of the conquest of adverse cir- cumstances by personal energy and merit ; and it is with reason that Prussian historians describe him as the second Elector, founder of the state. At his accession the greater part of his territory was in the occupation of strangers and de- vastated by war, and in European politics Brandenburg was regarded as merely an appendage of the empire. Its army was of little value; its soil was poor; and its revenue was insignificant. To other sources of weakness were added the scattered nature of the electoral possessions, their mutual jealousies, and their separate interests. At Frederick William's death the new north German state of Brandenburg-Prussia was a power that had to be reckoned with in all European combinations. Inferior to Austria alone among the states of the empire, it was regarded as the head and patron of German Protestantism ; while the fact that one-third of its territory lay outside the empire added to its independent importance. Its area had been raised to 43,000 square miles ; its revenue had multiplied fivefold ; and its small army was nowhere surpassed in efficiency. The elector had overthrown Sweden and in- herited her position on the Baltic, and he had offered a steady and not ineffectual resistance to the ambition of France. While thus winning for himself a position in the councils of Europe, the elector was not less active in strengthening the central authority within his dominions, and the trans^ formation effected during his reign in the internal govern- ment of the state was not less striking than that in its external importance. Frederick William found Branden- burg a constitutional state, in which the legislative power was shared between the elector and the diet ; he left it to his successor as in substance an absolute monarchy. Many circumstances helped him in effecting this change, among the chief of which were the want of harmonious action on the part of the estates and the accelerated decline of the political power of the towns. The substitution of a perma- nent excise for the subsidies granted from time to time by the estates also tended to increase the elector's independ- ence, and the Government officials (Steuerrathe) appointed to collect this tax in the towns gradually absorbed many of the administrative functions of the local authorities. The nobles and prelates generally preferred to raise their quota according to the old method of bede or " contri- bution," and this weakened the last bond of common interest between them and the estate of the burghers. In Brandenburg the elector met with little opposition in establishing his personal sovereignty, and after 1653 no general diet of Brandenburg was held. In Cleves and Mark he gained his end simply by an overwhelming display of force ; but in Prussia, where the spirit of independence was fostered by its history and by its distance from the seat of power, he found much greater difficulty. His emancipation from the suzerainty of Poland gave him a great advantage in the struggle, though the estates on their side averred that their relation with Poland was one that could not be dissolved except by common consent. It was not until the elector had occupied Konigsberg with an armed force, and imprisoned the one (Burgomaster Roth) and executed the other (Baron Kalkstein) of the principal champions of independence, that he was able to bend the estates to his will. Arbitrary and unconstitu- tional as this conduct seems to us, we must not forget that Frederick William's idea of the functions of an absolute prince was very superior to the unqualified egotism of the French monarchs, and that, while he insisted upon being 8 PRUSSIA [HISTORY. master in his own house, it was that he might at the same time be the first servant of the state. In his eyes an absolute government was the best guarantee of the common welfare, and was not sought merely for the sake of personal aggrandizement. It is not without significance in con- nexion with this that beyond his own territories he twice espoused the cause of the people against an absolute ruler, first in opposing Louis XIV., and again in aiding William of Orange. In matters of general administration Frederick William showed himself a prudent and careful ruler, and laid the foundation of the future greatness of Prussia in almost every department. The military and bureaucratic systems of the country both received their first important impulse in this reign. The wounds inflicted by the Thirty Years' War were in a great measure healed, and the finances and credit of the state were established on a firm basis. Agri- culture and commerce were improved and encouraged by a variety of useful measures, and education was not neglected. The elector even established Prussian colonies in Africa, and formed a small but efficient navy. In matters of religion Brandenburg stands out prominently as the only country of the time in which all Christian confessions were not only tolerated but placed upon an equal footing. The condition of the peasantry, however, reached almost its lowest ebb, and the " recess " or charter of 1653 practically recognizes the existence of villainage. While the barons had been losing power on the one side as opposed to the elector, they had been increasing it on the other at the expense of the peasants. The Thirty Years' War afforded them frequent opportunities of replac- ing the village " Schulzen " with manorial courts ; and the fact that their quota of taxation was wholly wrung from the holdings of the peasants made the burden of the latter four or five times as great as that of the towns. The state of public morals also still left much to be desired, while the clergy were too much occupied with squabbles over Lutheranism and Calvinism to be an effective instrument of reform. King The Great Elector's son Frederick I. ( 1 688-1 7 1 3) was an Frederick ostentatious and somewhat frivolous prince, who hazarded the acquisitions of his father by looking on his position as assured and by aiming rather at external tokens of his dignity than at a further consolidation of the basis on which it rested. The Brandenburg troops showed all their wonted prowess in the war of the second coalition against Louis XIV. and in that of the Spanish Succession ; but Frederick's interests were only mediately concerned, and neither the peace of Ryswick (1697) nor that of Utrecht (1713) brought him any very tangible advantage. Bran- denburg soldiers also helped the emperor in his wars with the Turks, and English readers should not forget that Frederick's action in covering the Dutch frontier with 6000 troops left William of Orange free scope in his expedition to England. The most notable incident in Frederick's reign was, however, his acquisition of the title of king of Prussia, which long formed the principal object of his policy, and which led him to make important con- cessions to all whose co-operation was necessary. The emperor's consent was finally purchased by the promise of a contingent of 8000 men to aid him in the War of the Spanish Succession, and on 18th January 1701 Frederick crowned himself at Konigsberg with accompanying cere- monies of somewhat inflated grandeur. Elector Frederick III. of Brandenburg became henceforth King Frederick I. of Prussia,1 the title being taken from that part of his 1 Strictly speaking, the title assumed was "king in Prussia" (Konig in Preussen), this apparently being meant to indicate that there was still a Prussia (West Prussia) of which he was not king, though it has also been otherwise explained. territories in which he had no suzerain to acknowledge. Superficial as this incident may at first sight appear, it added considerably to the moral and political moment- um of the country, and its advantages were reaped by Frederick's two vigorous successors. About the same time (1697) the elector of Saxony also acquired the kingly dignity by his election to the throne of Poland, but in doing so he had to become a Roman Catholic, and thus left the Hohenzollerns without a rival among the Protest- ant dynasties of Germany. Frederick was an extravagant ruler, who lavished large sums in maintaining his personal state ; but his expenditure was not wholly of this profitless nature, since he founded the university of Halle as a school of liberal theology, established academies of art and science at Berlin, and patronized men of literary eminence. In this he was perhaps mainly inspired by his talented wife Sophia Charlotte, a sister of George I. of England. The court of Vienna had consoled itself for the growing power of Prussia under the Great Elector by the reflexion that it was probably of a temporary nature and due mainly to the vigorous individuality of that prince. The events of Frederick I.'s reign seemed to justify this view. At his accession Prussia might fairly claim to rank as the second state of Germany and possessed considerable influence as a European power of all but the first order. This, however, had been changed before the death of Frederick. Bavaria, Saxony, and Hanover had all raised themselves to at least a level with Prussia, which now sank back into the posi- tion of a merely German state and loyal supporter of the empire. Frederick's preoccupation in the western wars had allowed Sweden to reassert her pre-eminence in northern Europe, and it was Russia and not Prussia that now impeded her progress. The internal soundness of the country had also suffered : the finances were in a state of complete disorganization, and the burden of taxation was almost insupportable. If Frederick's successor had not been a man of vigorous character the downhill progress might have continued until it had removed Prussia alto- gether from the list of important states. Perhaps the general estimate of Frederick's character is unduly low owing to the fact that he was followed as well as preceded by a ruler of unusual capacity. His son Frederick William I. (1713-1740) possessed Frederick administrative talents of no mean order and was singularly William painstaking, industrious, and determined in carrying out ' his plans. Though marked by no great external achieve- ments or exciting events, his reign is of the utmost im- portance in the Prussian annals from having checked the threatened downfall of Prussia and paved the way for Frederick the Great. By carefully husbanding his finances Frederick William filled his treasury and was able to keep on foot one of the largest and best disciplined armies in Europe, thereby securing for Prussia an influence in Euro- pean councils altogether disproportionate to its size and population. In internal management he made Prussia the model state of Europe, though his administration was of a purely arbitrary type, in which the estates were never con- sulted and his ministers were merely clerks to register his decrees. The first act of the young king, who was as economical as his father was extravagant, was to institute a salutary reform in the expensive institutions of the court ; and some idea of the drastic nature of this change may be gathered from the fact that the annual allowance for the salaries and pensions of the chief court officials and civil servants was at once reduced from 276,000 to 55,000 thalers. The peace of Utrecht (1713), which added Guelders to the Prussian territories, left Frederick William free to turn his attention to the northern war then raging between Sweden on the one side and Russia, Poland, and Denmark on the other. Though at first disposed to be HISTORY.] PRUSSIA friendly to Sweden, lie was forced by circumstances to take up arms against it. In September 1713 Stettin was captured by the allies and handed over to the custody of Frederick William, who paid the expenses of the siege and undertook to retain possession of the town until the end of the war. But Charles XII. refused to recognize this arrangement and returned from his exile in Turkey to demand the immediate restitution of the town. With this demand the Prussian monarch naturally declined to comply, unless the money he had advanced was reimbursed, and the upshot was the outbreak of the only war in which Frederick William ever engaged. The struggle was of short dura- tion and was practically ended in 1715 by the capture of Stralsund by the united Prussians, Saxons, and Danes under the command of the king of Prussia. The Swedes were driven from Pomerania, and at the peace of 1720 Frederick William received the greater part of Vorpom- mern, including the important seaport of Stettin. Sweden now disappeared from the ranks of the great powers, and Prussia was left without a rival in northern Germany. A detailed history of Frederick William's reign would necessitate the recital of a long and tedious series of diplomatic proceedings, centring in the question of the succession to the duchies of Jiilichand Berg. In 1725 we find the king trusting for support to an alliance with England, while the queen has set her heart on a double marriage between her eldest son and daughter and an English princess and prince. The treaty of Wusterhausen between Austria and Prussia was concluded in the follow- ing year, and was confirmed with some modifications by the treaty of Berlin in 1728. Frederick William engaged to recognize the Pragmatic Sanction, while the emperor on his side undertook to support Prussia's claims to Jiilich and Berg. The policy of the latter, however, was far from straightforward, as he had already entered into a similar compact with the count palatine of Sulzbach, the rival claimant to the succession, who was a Roman Catholic and therefore a more sympathetic ally. Frederick William's intervention in the matter of the succession to the throne of Poland, rendered vacant by the death of Augustus II. in 1733, proved barren of advantage to Prussia and failed to secure the hoped-for reversion of the duchy of Cour- land. A Prussian contingent took part none the less in the ensuing war between Austria and France, but Austria concluded peace in 1735 without consulting her ally. In 1737 the king was resolute enough to withstand the pressure brought to bear upon him by England, France, Holland, and Austria in order to induce him to submit to their settlement of the Jiilich-Berg question ; and in 1739, convinced at last of the confirmed duplicity of the emperor, he turned to his hereditary enemy for help and concluded a defensive alliance with France. This action may be looked upon as marking the end of that phase in the rela- tions of the houses of Hapsburg and Hohenzollern in which the latter regarded the former with simple loyalty as its natural suzerain; the rivalry between Austria and Prussia had begun, and for the rest of the century formed the pivot on which the politics of Europe mainly turned. Frederick William died in 1740, conscious of his diplo- matic failures, but confident that his son would repair his errors. If the external history of Frederick William's reign is not especially glorious, and if in diplomacy he was worsted lliam ky the emperor, the country at least enjoyed the benefits of a twenty-five years' peace and those of a well-meaning, though somewhat too patriarchal, government. During this reign the revenues of Prussia were doubled, and the king left at his death a well-filled treasury and an army of 85,000 men. Though not ranking higher than twelfth among the European states in extent and population, ler Prussia occupied the fourth place in point of military power. The king himself took the greatest interest in the management of his army, in which the discipline was of the strictest ; and he carried the habits of the military martinet into all departments of the administration. His untiring industry occupied itself with the minutest details of government, and his downright blunt character showed there to greater advantage than in diplomatic circles. His chief innovation was the abolition of the distinction between the military and civil funds, and the assignment of the entire financial management of the country to a general directory of finance, war, and domains. Hitherto the proceeds of the excise and contribution had been paid into the military chest, while those of the royal monopolies and domains belonged to the civil service, deficiencies in one department being made good by the surplus of the other. Now, however, the directory was instructed to pay for everything out of a common fund, and so to regulate the expenditure that there should invariably be a surplus at the end of the year. As the army absorbed five-sevenths of the revenue, the civil administration had to be conducted with the greatest economy. The king himself set the ex- ample of the frugality which he expected from his officials, and contented himself with a civil list of 52,000 thalers (£7800). The domains were now managed so as to yield a greater income than ever before, and important reforms were made in the system of taxation. By the substitution of a payment in money for the obsolete military tenure the nobles were deprived of their practical exemption from taxation, and they were also required to pay taxes for all the peasant holdings they had absorbed. Attempts were made to better the condition of the peasants, and the worst features of villainage were abolished in the crown domains. The military system of cantonment, according to which each regiment was allotted a district in which to recruit, was of constitutional as well as military importance, since it brought the peasants into direct contact with the royal officials. The collection of the taxes of the peasantry was removed from the hands of the landowners. The duties of the state officials were laid down with great detail, and their performance was exacted with great severity. Official corruption was punished with extreme rigour. Justice seems to have been administered in an upright if somewhat Draconian manner, though the frequent and often arbitrary inflic- tion of the penalty of death by the king strikes us with astonishment. The agricultural and industrial interests of the country were fostered with great zeal. The most important industrial undertaking was the introduction of the manufacture of woollen cloth, the royal factory at Berlin supplying uniforms for the entire army. The com- mercial regulations, conceived in a spirit of rigid pro- tection, were less successful. In the ecclesiastical sphere the king was able to secure toleration for the Protestants in other parts of Germany by reprisals on his own Roman Catholic subjects, and he also gave welcome to numerous Protestant refugees, including 18,000 exiled peasants from. Salzburg. For art, science, and the higher culture he had no respect, but he has the credit of founding the common- school system of Prussia and of making elementary educa- tion compulsory. After- the accession of Frederick the Great (1740-1786) Frederick the external history of Prussia coincides to such an extent n- with that of the German empire that it has already been treated with considerable detail in the article GERMANY (vol. x. pp. 503-4 ; see also FREDERICK II.). The outline of Frederick's foreign policy was probably determined in some degree by the events of the later years of his father's reign, and Austrian duplicity in the matter of Jiilich gave him a colourable pretext for his hostile attitude in reviving XX. — 2 10 PRUSSIA [HISTORY. the long dormant claims of Prussia to the Silesian duchies. Within a year of his accession he had embarked on the first Silesian War, and this was closely followed by the second, which ended in 1745, leaving Frederick in undis- puted possession of almost the whole of Silesia, with the frontier that still exists. East Friesland, the Prussian claim to which dated from the time of the Great Elector, was absorbed in 1744 on the death without issue of the last duke. The two Silesian wars completely exhausted the stores left by Frederick William, both of grenadiers and thalers, and Frederick gladly welcomed the interval of peace to amass new treasures and allow his subjects time to recover from their exertions. The measures he took were so successful that when the Seven Years' War broke out in 1756 he had an army of 150,000 men at his com- mand, representing about one-seventh of the available male population of his little kingdom. He had also a fund of eleven million thalers in his treasury, though this would have gone but a small way in defraying the expenses of the protracted struggle had he not been assisted by the subsidies of England and able to make the fertile plains of Saxony his chief basis of supply. The succession of brilliant campaigns in which Frederick maintained himself against a coalition embracing nearly the whole of Europe has been narrated in the article AUSTRIA (vol. iii. p. 127 sq.). As Macaulay points out in a somewhat highly -coloured passage, Frederick ruled over a population of less than five million souls, while his adversaries could draw their armies from a joint population of a hundred millions. The disproportion in wealth was at least as great. Nor was the small size of Frederick's land made up for by its strong patriotism and loyalty; on the contrary, the affections of his subjects had been partially alienated by the severity of his rule and the weight of taxation. Prussia had no strong natural bulwarks on its frontiers, but lay exposed to every foe. Yet Frederick's brilliant military genius was able to counteract all these dis- advantages and carry on the contest in spite of all odds. Prussia Though without gain in extent or population, Prussia under emerged from the war as an undoubted power of the first rank, and henceforth completely eclipsed Saxony, Bavaria, and Hanover, while it was plain that Austria Avould no longer stand without a rival for the hegemony of the Ger- man empire. The glorious victories over the French and Kussians also awakened a spirit of German patriotism that had hitherto been almost unknown. But the price paid for these results was enormous. Of the 850,000 soldiers who, as is estimated, perished during the war about 180,000 fell in the service of Prussia, and the gross popu- lation of the kingdom had decreased in seven years to the extent of half a million souls. The misery and poverty indirectly attendant on the war were incalculable. Numer- ous Prussian towns and villages were destroyed or made tenantless ; large tracts were left uncultivated for want of labourers ; and famine reigned to such an extent that even the seed-corn was converted into bread. The development of the country was thrown back for many years, which were almost a repetition of the period succeeding the Thirty Years' War. But, while nearly a century elapsed before the traces of that struggle disappeared, Frederick, who showed himself great in peace as in war, repaired most of the ravages of the Seven Years' War in a tenth of the time. By great dexterity in the management of his finances he had kept clear of debt, and was soon able to advance large sums to the most impoverished districts. Foreign colonists were invited to repeople the deserted villages ; taxes were in several instances remitted for a series of years ; the horses of the army were employed in farm labour; and individual effort in every department was liberally supported by the Government. By 1770 nearly Frederick II. all the ruined villages had been rebuilt ; the ground was again under cultivation ; order had been restored ; the vacant offices had been filled ; and the debased currency had been called in. Throughout the kingdom agriculture was encouraged by the drainage of marshy districts; in- dustry was extended by the introduction of new manu- factures, by bounties, and by monopolies; and commerce was fostered by a series of well-meant, if economically unsound, measures of protection. Frederick's methods of administration did not greatly differ from those of his pre- decessor, though the unrelenting severity of Frederick William was relaxed and the peculiarities of his system toned down. Frederick's industry and activity were a.s great as those of his father, his insight keener, and his views more liberal. His rule was quite as personal and absolute, and the despotism was altered only in so far as the character of the despot was different. His own personal supervision extended to every department, and his idea of his position and duties made him his own first minister in the widest and most exacting sense of the term. He endeavoured to spare his subjects as far as was compatible with the immense army he maintained, and sought to raise the necessary revenues rather by improving the resources of the country than by additional taxation. He kept the charges of the civil administration down to the lowest point consistent with efficiency, and the court establishment was very economical, though it avoided the extreme of shabbi- ness witnessed under Frederick William. His efforts to improve the administration and the bureaucracy were un- ceasing, and he succeeded in training a body of admirable public servants. One of his most sweeping reforms was in the department of law, where, with the able aid of Cocceji, he carried out a complete revolution both in procedure and personnel. The expenses of justice were greatly lightened, and no suit was allowed to drag on for more than a year. A complete divorce was effected between the departments of justice and provincial administration, a change that greatly strengthened the position of the private citizen in any contest with the officials of Government. One of the king's first acts was to abolish legal torture, and he rarely sanctioned capital punishment except in cases of murder. The application of the jirivilegium de non appellando (1746) freed Prussia from all relations with the imperial courts and paved the way for a codification of the common law of the land, Avhich was begun under Frederick but not completed till the end of the century. In matters of reli- gion Frederick not only exercised the greatest toleration, remarking that each of his subjects might go to heaven after his own fashion, but distinctly disclaimed the con- nexion of the state with any one confession. Equal liberty was granted in speaking and writing. Though his finances did not allow him to do much directly for education, his example and his patronage of men of letters exercised a most salutary effect. The old system of rigid social privi- lege was, however, still maintained, and unsurmountable barriers separated the noble from the citizen and the citizen from the peasant. The position of the last was very deplorable ; villainage still to a great extent existed, and the mental attitude of the rural population was servile in the extreme.1 The paramount defect of Frederick's ad- ministration, as future events proved, was the neglect of any effort to encourage independence and power of self- government among the people. Every measure emanated from the king himself, and the country learned to rely on him alone for help in every emergency. Public opinion on political matters could not be said to exist ; and the provincial diets met simply to receive the instructions of the royal agents. 1 One illustration of this is afforded by the fact that the private soldiers felt no resentment at being struck by their officers. HISTORY.] PRUSSIA 11 In 1772 Prussia and Austria, in order to prevent an overweening growth of Russia, joined in the first partition of Poland. Frederick's share consisted of West Prussia and the Netze district, a most welcome addition, filling up the gap between the great mass of his territories and the isolated district of East Prussia. It had also this advan- tage over later acquisitions at Poland's expense, that it was a thoroughly German land, having formed part of the colonizations of the Teutonic Order. In 1778 Prussia found herself once more in opposition to Austria on the question of the Bavarian succession, but the war that ensued was almost entirely nominal, and the difficulty was adjusted without much bloodshed. The same question elicited the last action of importance in which Frederick engaged, — the formation of a " Fiirstenbund," or league of German princes under Prussian supremacy, to resist the encroachments of Austria. The importance of this union was soon obscured by the momentous events of the French Revolution, but it was a significant foreshadowing of the duel of Austria and Prussia for the pre-eminence in Ger- many. Frederick died on 17th August 1786, having in- creased his territories to an area of 75,000 square miles, with a population of five and a half millions. The revenue also had immensely increased and now amounted to about twenty million thalers annually, of which, however, thirteen were spent on the army. The treasury contained a fund of sixty million thalers, and the land was free of debt, rederick A continuation of the personal despotism under which rilliam Prussia had now existed for seventy years, as well as of its disproportionate influence in Europe, would have required a ruler with something of the iron will and ability of Frederick the Great. Unfortunately Frederick's nephew and suc- cessor, Frederick William II. (1786-1797), had neither the energy nor the insight that his position demanded. He was too undecided to grasp the opportunity of adding to Prussia's power by adhering to the vigorous external policy of his predecessor, nor did he on the other hand make any attempt to meet the growing discontent of his subjects under their heavy burdens by putting himself at the head of an internal movement of liberal reform. The rule of absolutism continued, though the power now lay more in the hands of a " camarilla " or cabinet than in those of the monarch ; and the statesmen who now came to the front were singularly short-sighted and inefficient. The freedom of religion and the press left by Frederick the Great was abrogated in 1788 by royal ordinance. In 1787 the army engaged in an expensive and useless campaign against Holland. The abandonment of Frederick's policy was shown in a tendency to follow the lead of Austria, which culminated in an alliance with that power against revolu- tionary France. But in 1795 Prussia, suspicious of the Polish plans of Russia and Austria, concluded the separate peace of Basel, almost the only redeeming feature of which was the stipulation that all north German states beyond a certain line of demarcation should participate in its benefits. This practically divided Germany into two camps and inflicted a severe blow on the imperial system. The indifference with which Prussia relinquished to France German lands on the left bank of the Rhine, compared with her eagerness to increase her Slavonic terri- tories on the east, was certainly one of the great blunders of the reign. Prussia's share in the second and third partitions of Poland (1793 and 1795) nearly doubled her extent, but added little or nothing to her real power. The twelve years following the peace of Basel form one of the most sombre periods of the history of Prussia. Her prestige was lost by her persistent and ill-timed neutrality in the struggle with France ; the old virtues of economy, order, and justice disappeared from the bureaucracy ; the army was gradually losing its excellence and was weakened rather than strengthened by the hordes of disaffected Polish recruits ; the treasury was exhausted and a large debt in- curred ; the newly-awakened feeling of German patriotism had died away, especially among the upper classes. Frederick William III. (1797-1840) possessed many Frederick virtues that did him credit in his private capacity, but he William lacked the vigour that was at this juncture imperatively required from a ruler of Prussia, while he was unfortu- nately surrounded by counsellors who had as little concep- tion as himself of Prussia's proper role. He continued to adhere closely to a policy of timid neutrality and seemed content to let Prussia slip back into the position of a second-rate state, the attitude of which in the great Euro- pean struggle could be of no special importance. Not even the high-handed occupation of Hanover by the French in 1803 could arouse him ; and the last shred of self-respect seemed to have been parted with in 1805 when Prussia consented to receive Hanover, the property of its ally England, from the hands of France. The formation of the Confederation of the Rhine in 1806 and the intelligence that France had agreed to restore Hanover to England at last convinced Frederick William of what he had to fear from Napoleon; while Napoleon on his side, being now free of his other antagonists, was only too glad of an opportunity to destroy his tool. Prussia declared war on 9th October 1806 ; and the short campaign that ensued showed that the army of Frederick the Great had lost its virtue, and that Prussia, single-handed, was no match for the great French commander. On 14th October the Prussian armies were overthrown at Jena and Auerstadt, and a total collapse set in. Disgraceful capitulations of troops and fortresses without a struggle followed one another in rapid succession ; the court fled to East Prussia ; and Napoleon entered Berlin in triumph. At the peace of Tilsit (9th July 1807) Frederick William lost half his kingdom, including all that had been acquired at the second and third partitions of Poland and the whole of the territory to the west of the Elbe. An enormous war indemnity was also demanded, and the Prussian fortresses were occupied by the French until this should be paid. Prussia now paid heavily for its past remissness and drained the cup of humiliation to the dregs. The next half-dozen years form a period of the greatest significance in the history of Prussia, embracing, as they do, the turning-point in the moral regeneration of the country. The disasters of 1806 elicited a strong spirit of devoted patriotism, which was fanned by the exertions of the " Tugendbund," or League of Virtue, and by the writ- ings of men like Fichte and Arndt. This was accompanied by a wonderful revelation of vitality and recuperative power. The credit of the reformation belongs mainly to Stein's the great minister Stein, and in the second place to the reforms chancellor Hardenberg. The condition on which Stein based his acceptance of office was itself of immense import- ance ; he insisted that the system of governing through irresponsible cabinet councillors, which had gradually be- come customary, should cease, and that the responsible ministers of departments should be at once the confidential advisers and the executive agents of the king. Stein's designs and wishes extended to the establishment of a regular system of parliamentary and local government like that of England, but he had not an opportunity to do much more than begin the work. His edict of 1807 abolished serfdom and obliterated the legal distinction of classes by establishing freedom of exchange in land and free choice of occupation.1 The " Stadteordnung " of 1808 1 Previous to this measure the distinction between "noble,' "burgher," and "peasant" laud and occupations was strictly observed, and no transition of property or employment from one class to another was possible. PRUSSIA [HISTORY. reformed the municipalities and granted them important rights of self-government. His administrative reforms amounted to a complete reconstruction of the ministerial departments and the machinery of provincial government, and practically established the system now in force. In 1810 Hardenberg, with a precipitancy which Stein would scarcely have approved, continued the reform in the con- dition of the peasants by making them absolute owners of part of their holdings, the landlords obtaining the rest as an indemnity for their lost dues.1 The revolution thus effected in Prussia has been aptly compared in its results to the great revolution in France ; but, while there the reforms were exacted by a people in arms, here they were rather forced upon the people by the crown. The army was also reorganized by Scharnhorst and Gneisenau, while the condition imposed by Napoleon that it should not exceed 42,000 men was practically evaded by replacing each body of men by another as soon as it was fairly versed in military exercises. The educational reforms of William von Humboldt established the school system of Prussia on its present basis, and the university of Berlin was founded in 1809. Frederick William hesitated to take part in the Austrian rising of 1809, but his opportunity came in 1813, when Napoleon fled from Russia, denuded of his troops. General York, commander of the corps that Prussia had been obliged to contribute to the French expedition, anticipated the formal declaration of war by joining the Russians with his troops on his own responsibility (30th December 1812). On the outbreak of the war the people rose en masse and with the utmost enthusiasm. The regular army was sup- ported by hosts of " Landwehr," or militia, eager to share in the emancipation of their country. A treaty of alliance between Russia and Prussia was concluded at Kalisch, and Austria, after some hesitation, also joined the league against Napoleon. In the struggle that followed (see AUSTRIA, vol. iii. pp. 134-135) Prussia played one of the most prominent parts, and her general Bliicher ranks high among the heroes of the war. Between 1813 and the battle of Waterloo Prussia lost 140,000 men, and strained her financial resources to the utmost. As compensation she received at the congress of Vienna the northern half of Saxony, her old possessions to the west of the Elbe, Swedish Pomerania, the duchies of Berg and Jiilich, and other districts in Westphalia and on the Rhine. The acquisitions of the last partition of Poland, with the excep- tion of the grand-duchy of Posen, were resigned to Russia, Friesland went to Hanover, and Bavaria was allowed to retain Baireuth and Ansbach, which had come into her hands in 1806. This rearrangement of the map did not wholly restore Prussia to its former extent, as its area was now only 108,000 square miles compared with 122,000 square miles at the beginning of 1806, but the substitu- tion of German for Slavonic territory and the shifting of the centre of gravity towards the west more than made up for any slight loss in mere size. Hanover still formed a huge wedge splitting Prussia completely in two, and the western frontier was very ragged. Prussia's position re- quired caution, but forced upon it a national German policy, and the situation of the new lands was vastly more effectual in determining the future leader of Germany than was Austria's aggrandizement in Italy. The work of incor- porating the new provinces was accomplished with as little friction as possible, and the Prussian statesmen had the good sense to leave the Rhenish districts in the full enjoy- ment of the institutions they had been used to under the French regime. The remainder of Frederick William III.'s reign, though 1 The patrimonial jurisdiction of the landowners was not taken away till 1848. marked by much material and social progress, was in the political sphere a period of the most deplorable reaction. At first the king seemed disposed to fulfil his promise of 1815 and grant the country a constitution, but ultimately both he and his minister Hardenberg suffered themselves to be dragged in the wake of the retrogressive policy of Metternich. The only concession made to the popular demand was the utterly inadequate patent of 1823, appoint- ing triennial provincial diets with a merely consultative- function. The king also allowed himself to be alarmed by the ultra- liberal movement at the universities, and joined in the notorious Carlsbad decrees (1819) and in the senseless prosecutions of demagogues that formed the sequel. Many of Prussia's noblest and most patriotic sons now suffered unmerited punishment, and the Government showed a total incapacity to understand the real state of affairs. Respect for the aged king, however, prevented an outburst during his reign. After 1830 Prussia began to shake herself clear of the Austrian leading-strings, and the establishment of the " Zollverein," or customs union of the German states under Prussian supremacy, was a decided step towards a policy of independence. In ecclesiastical matters this reign is memorable for the union forced by the crown upon the Lutherans and Calvinists, and for the preliminary symptoms of the " Culturkampf." Frederick William IV. (1840-1861), a man of character Frederic and intelligence, began his reign promisingly by an amnesty Wil for political offenders and by well-meant concessions to the dissatisfied Ultramontanes ; but it soon became evident that he held too exalted an idea of the divine right of kings willingly to grant such a constitution as was required. Then followed the contest between the crown and the people, the various steps of which have been chronicled in the article GERMANY. At last the king had to give way and grant a constitution based upon democratic principles, and substituting a representative parliament for the old Prussian system of estates. This constitution was pro- mulgated on 31st January 1850, and Prussia therewith formally entered the ranks of modern and constitutional states. But in the following years the king maintained as reactionary a policy as was in any way compatible with the constitution, receiving his chief support in this line of action from the Prussian " Junkerthum," or squirearchy. In external politics the chief feature of the reign is Prussia's neglect of the opportunity to take up a strong position as the political and military leader of northern and central Germany : the king refused the imperial crown offered to him by the Frankfort Parliament in 1849, and allowed Prussia to play a subordinate role at Olmiitz in the fol- lowing year. Towards the close of his life the Prussian Government was distrusted at home and discredited abroad. In 1858 William, prince of Prussia, became regent in Williat consequence of the mental illness of his brother, and in 1861 he succeeded to the throne as William I. His acces- sion was hailed as likely to increase both the liberalism of Prussia's internal institutions and the vigour of its external policy ; and the second at least of these expectations was not disappointed. But at an early period of his reign the king became involved in a constitutional dispute with the House of Representatives, which declined to grant the supplies necessary for an extensive system of military reorganization. Bismarck, who became prime minister in 1862, refused to allow the crown to be hampered by parlia- mentary restrictions and raised the funds required in defi- ance of the attitude of the lower house. This internal conflict may have had its influence in forcing upon the ministry the necessity of a strong foreign policy, especially in its dealings with Austria, though the party of reform believed that the hegemony of Germany might have been secured by Prussia without war if she had simply placed GEOGRAPHY.] PRUSSIA 13 herself at the head of the liberal movement. Prussia's neutral attitude in the Austro-Italian War was the first sign of the coming storm ; and then followed the Schleswig- Holstein episode, culminating in the war of 1866 (see AUSTRIA), the successful issue of which expelled Austria from Germany and left its rival in undisputed possession. The territorial acquisitions which Prussia now made, con- sisting of Hanover, Hesse-Cassel, Hesse-Nassau, Frankfort, and Schleswig-Holstein, increased its extent by about a fifth and for the first time gave a satisfactory rounding-off to its form. The Prussian landtag, carried away by success, granted Bismarck, by a large majority, the indemnity he had the grace to ask for in regard to his previous unconsti- tutional proceeding's in the financial dispute. The war of 1866 gave the deathblow to the Germanic Confederation of 1815, and in its place appeared the North German Confederation under the lead of Prussia. The transformation was completed five years later, after the successful war with France, when the south German states also joined the union and the king of Prussia became the German emperor. The united Germany that Frederick the Great had sought in the Fiirstenbund, that Frederick William III. had tried to organize in 1806 in opposition to the Confederation of the Rhine, that Frederick William IV. had hoped to achieve in 1850, was at length an accomplished fact. In entering this union Prussia may in a sense be said to have abdicated her position as a great power in favour of Germany, but her influence within the empire, practically comprising that of all the small north German states, is so overwhelming that her identity is not likely ever to be wholly lost. Any measure increasing the power of the empire at the expense of the individual states is tantamount to an increase of the power of Prussia. Since the Franco- German War the history of Prussia has been for the outside world practically identical with that of Germany and has centred in the figure of Prince Bismarck. The policy of the imperial chancellor and Prussian premier is essentially autocratic in its nature, and seems to have for its keynote the necessity of main- taining at any price a strong central Government to cope with external emergencies. He identifies himself with no party, but generally manages by timely concessions to form such temporary parliamentary combinations as are necessary to carry the measures he has most at heart. On the other hand, he does not hesitate freely to call into requisition the royal veto on resolutions of parliament of which he does not approve. His reversion to a strong protectionist policy, which became marked in 1879, the date to which the history is brought down in the article GERMANY, has so far proved permanent, and numerous protective measures have been passed, though his favourite scheme of a Government monopoly of tobacco has been decisively rejected both by the imperial and the Prussian chambers. As a pendant to these measures may be men- tioned the laws intended to improve the position of the working classes, most of which are inspired by a spirit of state socialism. The alienation of the National Liberals, occasioned by the change in Bismarck's economic policy, has compelled him to seek his later majorities in a com- bination of Conservatives and Ultramontanes, the benefit of which has been mainly reaped by the latter. On the ac- cession of Pope Leo XIII. some conciliatory advances were made by Rome and Prussia; in 1881 diplomatic relations were reopened with the Vatican, and several important concessions were made by a measure passed in 1883. The May laws have not been repealed, but they have latterly been put in force with much less stringency, and a great many of the vacant bishoprics and pastorates have been at least temporarily filled. The Ultramontanes continue to form one of the largest " fractions " both in the reichstag and in the Prussian landtag. In spite of the continued existence of the special law passed against the socialists, which has been prolonged from time to time, their numbers have grown steadily, and in the autumnal election of 1884 they returned no fewer than twenty-four of their candidates to the reichstag, polling 550,000 votes, or about ten per cent, of the total number recorded. Their success was especially marked in Berlin, where they returned two members and polled 70,000 votes. The same election was also remarkable for the diminution of the German Liberal- ists (Deutsch- Freisinnige), a party formed by the fusion of the Progressists and Secessionists. Perhaps the most significant event in the recent history of Germany has been her entrance into the ranks of the colonial powers by the annexation in 1884 of several dis- tricts on the west coast of Africa, and among the islands of the Pacific Ocean. In this step Prince Bismarck has revived a policy that has slumbered since the time of the Great Elector (see p. 8), but there seems little reason to doubt that this new scheme of colonization will prove of more permanent importance than that of the 17th century. CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE OF THE CHIEF EVENTS IN THE HISTORY OF PRUSSIA. 930. Foundation of the North Mark, the nucleus of Brandenburg. 1134. Albert the Bear is invested with the North Mark, and founds the Ascanian line of margraves. 1230-83. Conquest of Preussen by the Teutonic Order. 1324-66. Margraves of the Bavarian line. 1356. Brandenburg definitely re- cognized as an electorate. 1373-1413. Luxemburg line of electors. 1415. Frederick of Hohenzollern becomes elector of Brandenburg. 1539. Reforma- tion proclaimed by Joachim II. 1618. Duchy of Prussia inherited by Elector John Sigismund. 1640. Accession of Frederick William, the Great Elector. 1648. Brandenburg-Prussia receives Farther Pomerania, Magdeburg, Halber- stadt, and Minden at the peace of Westphalia. 1657. Independence of the duchy of Prussia recognized. 1675. Victory over the Swedes at Fehrbellin. 1701. Elector Frederick assumes the title of "king of Prussia." 1720. Acquisition of Hither Pomerania. 1740. Accession of Frederick the Great. 1742. Acquisi- tion of Silesia at the close of the first Silesian War. 1744-45. Second Silesian War. Ros Au 1772. First partition of Poland ; acquisition'of West Prussia. 17927 War with War declared against Napoleon ; defeats of Jena and Auerstadt ; Prussia conquered by the French. 1807. Peace of Tilsit and dismemberment of the kingdom. 1808. Beginning of Stein's constitutional reforms. 1813. War of liberation; battle of Leipsic (16th to 19th October). 1814-15. Congress of Vienna ; Prussia rehabilitated ; establishment of the Germanic Confederation. 1815. Battle of Waterloo. 1850. Promulgation of the Prussian constitution. 1871. The king of Prussia proclaimed German emperor. GEOGRAPHY AND STATISTICS. Physical Features.1 — Fully three-fifths of Prussia belong to the Physical great north European plain and may be generally characterized as features, lowlands. The plain is much wider on the east, where only the southern margin of Prussia is mountainous, than on the west, where the Hanoverian hills approach to within less than 100 miles of the sea. A line drawn from Diisseldorf through Halle to Breslau would, roughly speaking, divide the flat part of the country from the hilly districts. In the south-east Prussia is separated from Austria and Bohemia by the Sudetic chain, which begins at the valley of the Oder and extends thence towards the north-west. This chain includes the Riesen Gebirge, with the highest mountain in Prussia (Schneekoppe, 5266 feet), and subsides gradually in the hills of Lusatia. The Harz Mountains, however, beyond the Saxon plain, follow the same general direction and may be regarded as a detached continuation of the system. To the south of the Harz the Prussian frontier intersects the northern part of the Thuringian Forest, which is also prolonged towards the north-west by the Weser Hills and the Teutoburgian Forest. The south-west of Prussia is occupied by the plateau of the lower 'Rhine, including on the left bank the Hundsriick and the Eifel, and on the right the Taunus, the Westerwald, and the Sauerland. Between the lower Rhenish and Thuringian systems are interposed the Vogelsberg, the Rhb'n, and other hills belonging to the Triassic system of the upper Rhine. The Silesian mountains are composed chiefly of granite, gneiss, and schists, while the Harz and the lower Rhenish plateau are mainly of Devonian and Silurian formation. To the north of the Sauerland is the important Carboniferous system of the 1 The physical features of Prussia have been already so fully de- scribed under GERMANY that it has been deemed unnecessary to give here more than the briefest recapitulation. For other points which the reader may here miss he is also referred to that article. 14 PRUSSIA [SOIL AND PRODUCTS. Ruhr, and there are also extensive coal-fields in Silesia. "With the exception of the Danube Prussia is traversed by all the chief rivers of Germany, comprising almost the entire course of the Oder and the Weser. Nearly the whole of the German coast-line belongs to Prussia, and it possesses all the important seaports except the two most important of all, Hamburg and Bremen. Climate. — The climate of Prussia is rendered more uniform than it would otherwise be by the fact that the average elevation in- creases from north to south. The greatest extremes of temperature are found between the east and west, the mean annual warmth in the bleak and exposed provinces of the north-east being about 44° Fahr., while that of the sheltered valley of the Rhine is 6° higher. The difference is greatest in winter, when the respective means are 26° and 35° ; in summer the difference is not above 2° to 4°. In Prussia as a whole the thermometer ranges from 1 00° to - 30°, but these extremes are rarely reached. The average annual rainfall is about 21 inches ; it is highest in the hilly district on the west (34 inches) and on the north-west coast (30 to 32 inches), and lowest (16 inches) in the inland parts of the eastern provinces. Soil. — According to the most recent official returns, about 29 per cent, of the soil of Prussia consists of good loam or clay, 32 per cent, is mediocre or of loam and sand mixed, 31 per cent, is pre- dominantly sandy, and 6 per cent, is occupied by bogs and marshes. The north-eastern provinces contain a high proportion of poor soil, and in the north-west occur large tracts of heath and moor. The reclaimed marshlands in both districts, as well as the soil in the immediate neighbourhood of the rivers, are usually very fertile, and admirable tracts of fruitful ground are found in the valleys of the Rhine and its affluents and in the plain around Magdeburg. Patient and long- con tinned effort has, however, done much to equalize production, and large crops are now grown in some of the most unpromising parts of the kingdom. Prussia contains a greater proportion of tilled land than any of the countries of south Germany, while it is surpassed in this respect by Saxony, Hesse-Dannstadt, and the Thuringiau states. The most fertile Prussian province is Saxony, while the least productive are East and West Prussia. The following table shows the distribution of the cultivable area in the different provinces and in the country as a whole : — Province. Area. Arable Land, 50 per cent. Meadow and Pasture, 20 '4 per cent. Forests, 23 '3 per cent. Sq. miles. 14,280 Acres. 4,709,295 Acres. 2 127,317 Acres. 1,681 057 West Prussia Brandenburg Pomerania 9,850 15,410 11,620 3,455,000 4,586,360 4,152,002 1,124,885 1,487,872 1,408,882 1,349,392 3,205,635 1,480,990 Posen 11,180 4,452,360 934,450 1,464,442 Silesia ... 15,560 5,588,090 1,055 487 2,907 570 Saxony 9,750 3,836,192 826 352 1 269 920 Schleswig-Holstein . . Hanover 7,280 14,810 2,712,575 3,126,182 1,357,905 4,365,115 287,917 1,512,567 Westphalia 7,800 2,121,745 1 262,530 1,411,085 Hesse-Nassau Rhenish Prussia Hohenzollern 6,060 10,420 440 1,561,552 3,134,190 130,967 623,872 1,158,065 50,212 1,572,492 2.073,580 94,652 Total.... 134,490 43,566,510 17,782,944 20,311,299 Prussia contains a greater proportion of woodland than any other large country in the south or west of Europe (France 17 per cent., Italy 12 per cent., Great Britain 3 per cent.), though not so large a proportion as Russia, Austria, and some of the minor German states. The most extensive forests are in East and West Prussia, Siles;a, and Brandenburg, where coniferous trees prevail, and in the Rhenish and Hessian districts, where oaks and oeeches are the most prominent growths. The north-west is almost entirely desti- tute of timber, and peat is there used universally as fuel. The Government forests cover about 6, 000, 000 acres, or upwards of one- fourth of the whole, and are admirably managed, bringing in an annual revenue of 1 j millions sterling. The state also controls the management of forests in private possession, and exerts itself to secure the planting of waste lands. Products. Products. — The principal crop in Prussia is rye, of which the ordinary bread of the country is made ; it grows in all parts of the kingdom, especially in the north and east, and occupies about one- fourth of the whole tilled surface. Oats occupy an area equal to about half that devoted to rye, and are also grown most extensively in the north-eastern districts. Wheat, which is chiefly cultivated in the south and west, does not cover more than a fourth as much ground as rye. Barley is most largely grown in Saxony and Silesia. Other grain crops are spelt (chiefly on the Rhine), buckwheat (Hanover and Scnleswig-Holstein), and millet ; maize is grown for fodder in some districts. The produce of grain scarcely covers the consumption and is supplemented by imports of rye and other cereals from Russia and Holland. Potatoes, used both as food and for the distillation of spirits, are cultivated over nearly as large an area as rye and are especially predominant in the eastern provinces. The common beet is extensively grown for the production of sugar in Saxony, Hanover, Silesia, Pomerania, and Brandenburg. Flax and hemp occupy considerable areas in East Pmssia, Silesia, and Hanover, while hops arc raised chiefly in Posen and Saxony. Tho cultivation of rape-seed for oil has fallen off since the use of petro- leum has become general. The tobacco of Silesia, llraiidciiburg, Hanover, and the Rhine province is inferior to that of southern Germany; the annual value of Prussian -grown tobacco is about £500,000, or one-fourth of the total produce of the empire. Only a comparatively small part of the Rhenish wine district falls within Prussia, which does not claim more than a sixth (200,000,000 gallons, value £400,000) of the annual produce of Germany; but this includes many of the choicest varieties, such as Steinberger, Johannisberger, and Riidesheimer. The best vineyards of the Moselle also belong to Prussia, and inferior kinds of wine are pro- duced in Saxony and Lower Silesia. Great quantities of apples, cherries, and plums are raised on the Rhine, in Saxony, and other districts, while market-gardening on an extensive scale is pnnti-. ,L near Erfurt and some other large towns. The hay-meadows of the eastern provinces are the largest, but those in the west bear heavier crops. The richest pasture is afforded by the marshlands along the North Sea and by the plain of the lower Rhine, while the large moors of Westphalia ami Hanover are of comparatively little value in this respect. The accompanying table shows the yield in tons of the principal crops in 1883, in which year, however, the returns were rather below the average : — Province. Rye. Wheat. Barley. Oats. Potatoes. Hay. East Prussia .... West Prussia . . Brandenburg . . Poinerania 330,565 269,030 499,957 310,789 866,707 88,585 83,608 55,963 64,406 82,999 71,987 69,600 74,330 59,554 71,156 211,139 119,710 140,382 183,554 93,670 58(5,640 838,953 2,555,660 1,240,691 1,377,857 600,231 320,984 699,751 578,290 435,534 Silesia 481,706 177,981 174 671 330,810 1,929,859 703,269 377,259 197,223 278,237 224,808 1,744,984 424,477 Schleswig- Holstein 181,793 459,780 75,049 130 438 60,775 44,053 196,731 177,401 224,869 1,003,765 375,469 715 734 Westphalia .... Hesse-Nassau . . Rhenish Prussia Hohenzollern . . 264,358 ii7,ii:-is 237,883 85-2 88,153 60,110 151,309 1,894 27,976 28,156 43,078 6,403 116,435 96,642 224,720 9,433 714,486 642,360 1,383,132 19,955 333,833 3.S6.781 478,575 48,197 Total.... 3,898,617 1,257,718 1,010,036 2,125,435 14,263,211 6,101,125 About one-half of the cultivable soil is in the possession of owners with properties exceeding 180 acres in extent and averaging 860 acres, while one -half of the total number of owners occupy only one-fortieth of the entire area. The manner of distribution varies greatly in different parts of the kingdom, large properties prevailing in the less fertile regions in the east and peasant-holdings in the west. In the district of Stralsund the average number of land- owners for each German square mile is 100, while in the district of Wiesbaden it is ten times as high. In Silesia and Posen lati- fundia occupy nearly half the total area, though this disproportion is gradually disappearing there as elsewhere. As a general rule the best crops seem to be raised on the holdings of intermediate size. Live Stock. — According to an enumeration made in 1883, Prussia Livn contains 2,417,641 horses, 8,737,367 cattle, 14,752,328 sheep, stock. 5,819,136 pigs, and 1,680,686 goats. The province of East Prussia, with the principal Government stud of Trakehnen, is the head- quarters of horse -rearing, and contains the greatest number of horses both relatively (1 per 5 inhabitants) and absolutely (383,555). The horses bred there are generally suitable for the lighter kind of work only, and are in great request for military purposes. Horses of a stouter type are bred in Schleswig-Holstein and on the Rhine, but heavy draught horses have to be imported from France, Holland, Belgium, and Denmark. The best cattle are reared in the maritime provinces, and the highest proportion (65 per 100 inhabitants) is found in Schleswig-Holstein, whence, as well as from the marshy lowlands of Hanover, large numbers are exported to England. As a rule, however, the south German states are richer in cattle than Prussia. Prussia is one of the leading sheep-breeding countries of Europe, and much has been done to improve the race and increase the value of the flesh and wool. In Pomerania there are 170 sheep for every 100 inhabitants, and West Prussia and Posen also contain a high proportion. The total number of sheep in Prussia is, how- ever, diminishing owing to the spread of agriculture and the in- creased importation of wool ; in 1861 it was nearly 21 millions. Swine abound in the central provinces, and hams and sausages are largely exported from Westphalia, Hanover, and Saxony. Hugo flocks of geese are reared in Pomerania, and bee-keeping is a profit- able industry in Hanover, East and West Prussia, and the province . of the Rhine. Fislwrics, — The fishery on the Baltic Sea and its haffs employs Fisheries about 15,000 men, and that on the North Sea about 2000 more. In the former the take consists mainly of herrings, flat fish, salmon, mackerel, and eels, while the chief objects of the latter are cod and oysters. Inland fishery has been encouraged by the foundation of numerous piscicultural establishments and by the enactment of close-time laws. Carp, perch, pike, and salmon, the latter especi- ally in the Rhine, are the principal varieties ; sturgeon are taken in the Elbe and Oder, and the lakes of East Pmssia swarm with INDUSTRIES.] P R U S S I A 15 bream and lampreys. Game of various kinds abounds in different parts of Prussia, and the lakes are frequented by large flocks of water-fowl. aerals. Minerals. — Although it is obvious that the recent formations of the north German plain can boast of little or no mineral wealth, Prussia still takes rank among the great mining states. Its produce of coal and iron exceeds that of any country in Europe, except Great Britain ; in the production of zinc it is the foremost country in the world ; and its stores of salt are very considerable. In 1882 the total value of the mineral produce of Prussia was about 17£ millions sterling. About 370,000 persons are employed in its mines, the larger part of whom are engaged in the production of coal. For purposes of administration and supervision the entire country is divided into five mining districts (Oberberyamtsbezirke), the head- quarters of which are Breslau, Halle, Klausthal (in the Harz), Dort- mund, and Bonn. The two great deposits of coal are in the basin of the Ruhr on the west, where about 20 million tons are raised annually, and in Upper Silesia, where the beds are still more extensive but the coal of a somewhat inferior quality. The greater part of the smaller but valuable coal-field of the Saar also belongs to Prussia, and other important beds occur in Lower Silesia, near Halle, and near Aix-la- Chapelle. In 1882 Prussia produced upwards of 47 million tons of coal, equal to 90 per cent, of the total yield of Germany, and double the output of 1869. Nearly three-fourths of this amount came from the western coal-fields and upwards of one-fourth from the coal-measures of Silesia. The total value was £11,636,250. Brown coal or lignite is found throughout the whole of Prussia, except in the extreme north-east and north-west, but occurs most plentifully in Saxony, Brandenburg, and north Silesia. In 1882 the produce was nearly 11 million tons, value li millions sterling. Peat is cut in large quantities in Hanover, where 15 per cent, of the surface consists of moorland. Iron is found in all parts of Prussia, occurring in the form of bog-iron ore even in the northern lowlands. The richest districts are those of Coblentz in the province of the Rhine, Arnsberg in Westphalia, Oppeln in Silesia, and Wiesbaden. A valuable bed of magnetic - iron ore occurs in the Harz. In 1882 fully 4,000,000 tons of iron ore were raised in Prussia, valued at £1,415,950 and forming 70 per cent, of the total yield of Germany. The quantity of pig-iron smelted from these and from imported ores was 2,467,500 tons and its value £7,490,000. Prussia produces nearly the whole of the zinc of Germany, and Silesia three-fourths of that of Prussia ; in 1882 the amount was 113,300 tons, valued at £1,795,000. The produce of lead in the same year was 88,300 tons, valued at £1,200,000 and found mainly in the valley of the Lahn near Coblentz, in Silesia, in the Harz, and in Hesse-Nassau. Copper was produced to the extent of 15,400 tons and the value of £1,025,000 ; five-sevenths were raised in Saxony, which includes some of the productive mines of the Harz. Silver and gold are extracted from the copper ore of Mansfeld in Saxony, and silver also from the lead ores of Silesia, Aix-la- Cbapelle, Wiesbaden, and Arnsberg. In 1882 the value of the silver smelted out was £1,214,700, of gold only £9050. Salt also ranks high in importance among the mineral treasures of Prussia. In 18S2 the total yield included 252,300 tons of boiled salt, 210,100 tons of rock-salt, and 85,400 tons of other salts, with a total value of £719,600. Brine springs occur throughout almost the whole kingdom, but by far the most productive provinces are Saxony and Hanover. Rock-salt is mined at Stassfurt in the province of Saxony, and in Posen. Chloride of potash and potassium salts are also extensively found in Saxony. The other mineral products include manganese, nickel, pyrites, cobalt, quicksilver, alum, gypsum, and sulphuric acid. Good building-stone is common throughout the country, marble is found in Silesia, and roofing slates in the Devonian formations of the Rhine and the Harz. Chalk pits and cliffs abound in the Island of Riigen. The amber of the Baltic coast is picked up on the beach after a storm, and is also found by digging and dredging. About 3000 persons are em- ployed in the search, and in favourable seasons 3000 to 4000 cwts. are collected. Mineral springs are numerous among the mountains of Silesia, the Taunus and the Eifel. The most generally known are those in the district: of Wiesbaden, including Wiesbaden itself, Ems, Homburg, Schlangenbad, and Schwalbach. as- Industries. — Prussia now takes a high place among the manufac- 5. turing states of Europe, though the foundation of its industrial im- portance cannot be dated farther back than the reign of the Great Elector (1640-88), As a general rule, apart from a few of the larger towns, the busiest manufacturing centres are found on the lower slopes and outskirts of the mountainous districts, such as the Rhenish val'eys, Lusatia, and the vicinity of the Silesian coal- fields. About 35 per cent, of the population are supported by industrial pursuits. The district of Diisseldorf is the busiest in Prussia, and Berlin and Elberfeld-Barmen are among the chief hives of industry on the Continent. The principal manufactured products are woollen, linen, cotton, silk, and iron goods. The metallic industries, as might be expected, flourish chiefly in the neighbourhood of the coal-fields and have reached their highest development in the district of the Ruhr. Steel is made most ex- tensively in the districts of Arnsberg (Westphalia) and Diisseldorf ; at Essen in the latter is Krupp's celebrated cannon-foundry, with 20,000 workmen. Small iron and steel goods also come chiefly from the Westphalian and Rhenish districts ; and the cutlery of Solingen, the tools of Remscheid, and the needles of Aix-la- Chapelle enjoy a widespread reputation. Berlin is the chief seat of the manufacture of machinery and locomotives. Small arms are made at Suhl, Spandau, Potsdam, and Sommerda (Erfurt). Articles in bronze, brass, and electro-plate are largely made at and exported from Berlin, Frankfort-on-the-Main, Iserlohn, and Altena, while gold and silver goods are produced chiefly at Berlin and Hanau. The textile industries of Prussia are also important, employing 400,000 workpeople, though they do not rank in extent with those of Great Britain. Until recently the chief textile manufacture was linen, which was largely made by hand in Silesia, Westphalia, and Saxony. The domestic mode of manufacture has now to a great extent disappeared, but Westphalian and Silesian linens still maintain their reputation. The manufacture covers the home demand, but about one-third of the necessary flax and hemp has to be imported. Jute is made at Bielefeld and Bonn. The manu- facture of cotton has of late made great progress, though it is not so important in Prussia as in the kingdom of Saxony and in Alsace. The chief centres of this branch of industry are Diissel- dorf, Minister, Elberfeld-Barmen, Hanover, Breslau, and Liegnitz. About 65 per cent, of the woollen yarn of Germany is made in Prussia, and woollen cloth of good quality is produced in the pro- vince of the Rhine, Silesia, Brandenburg, and Saxony. The spinning and weaving of worsted and woollen cloth are also still carried on throughout the country as domestic industries, but not to such an extent as formerly. Wool and worsted yarn are imported from England and other countries, but the cloth manufactured is much in excess of the home demand and forms an important article of export. Carpets are made at Berlin and at Diiren in the Khine province. Silk is manufactured at Crefeld, Elberfeld-Barmen, and other placr s near the Ehine. Though hardly reaching the high standard of that of Lyons, Rhenish silk commands a good price, and is exported to England, America, Russia, and Austria. Tobacco and cigars are largely manufactured at Berlin and numerous other towns, and to some extent wherever the tobacco plant is cultivated. The annual consumption of tobacco amounts to about 4 lb per head of population, or nearly thrice as much as in Great Britain ; but the revenue derived from the tobacco excise, owing to the small impost on home-made tobacco, is not more than 6d. a head as compared with 5s. per head in England. A com- paratively modern but very important branch of industry is the manufacture of sugar from the common beet. The great centre of this industry is the province of Saxony, which in 1882-83 contained nearly half the 280 sugar-works in the kingdom, the remainder being chiefly in Hanover and Silesia. Upwards of 600,000 tons of raw sugar and 160,000 tons of molasses are produced annually.1 About 320 million gallons of beer are brewed in Prussia per annum and about 35 million more are imported from Bavaria and Bohemia ; the consumption per head, amounting from 65 to 70 quarts, is about half of the English and one -fourth of the Bavarian rate. Wine-making, as already mentioned, is an important industry on the Rhine, and large quantities of spirits are distilled from potatoes in Brandenburg and the eastern provinces. The remaining indus- trial products of Prussia include chemicals, chiefly made in Saxony, Silesia, and the Rhenish province ; dyes, at Elberfeld-Barmen ami Crefeld ; paper, in the districts of Aix-la-Chapelle, Arnsberg, and Liegnitz; glass ("Bohemian glass"), in Silesia; pianos, at Berlin, Breslau, Cassel, and Erfurt ; and scientific instruments, at Berlin and Halle. The artistic furniture and porcelain of Berlin are char- acteristic specialities. In nearly every department there has been in recent years a steady advance both in quantity and quality. Trade. — The commerce of Prussia isgreatly facilitated by its central Trade, position, which enables it to carry on a veiy extensive transit trade ; but, as the returns are not separated from those of the other members of the Zollverein, it is impossible to do more than guess at its annual value. According to the Almanack de Gotha, the total value of the exports and imports of the German Customs Union in 1883 amounted to upwards of £330,000,000; and, to judge from the customs receipts, about three-fifths of this amount must be credited to Prussia. The chief imports are tea, coffee, sugar, and other colonial products, grain, wine, textile fabrics, fruit, petroleum, and manufactured articles of various kinds. Among the principal ex- ports are grain, cattle, wine, potatoes, woollen and linen goods, hides and leather, chemicals, iron and steel wares, lead, and zinc. The export of grain to France and England has fallen off greatly of recent years, owing to the increasing demand at home. The inland trade is fostered by numerous fairs, the most important of which take place at the two Frankforts, Breslau, and Magdeburg. The money-markets of Berlin and Frankfort-on-the-Main are among the most influential in Europe. 1 Over-production, stimulated by over-protection and the high bounty on exportation, produced a serious crisis in this industry in 1884. 16 PRUSSIA [POPULATION. Com- tion. In 1883 Prussia possessed upwards of three-fifths of the merchant ships of Germany, including 2586 sailing vessels and 229 steamers, manned by 17,315 men. Their burden, however, amounting to 449,391 tons, was little more than one-third of the whole, and was exceeded by that of Bremen and Hamburg taken together. None of the Prussian seaports vies with either Hamburg or Bremen ; the largest is Stettin, which possesses a fleet of 40 steamers and 280 sailing ships. In 1881 the Prussian harbours were entered by 38,054 vessels of 3,483,545 tons burden, and cleared by 38,005 of 3,518,098 tons burden. The best seamen are furnished by the fishing population of Friesland or Frisia. Communication. — With most internal means of communication munica- Prussia is well provided. Almost none of its excellent highroads existed in the time of Frederick the Great, and many of them date from the Napoleonic era. The first Prussian railway was laid in 1838, but the railway system did not receive its full development until the events of 1866 removed the obstacles placed in the way by Hanover. Most of the lines were easy of construction, and absorbed comparatively little capital. The great majority were laid by private companies, and the Government confined itself to establishing lines in districts not likely to attract private capital. In 1879, however, a measure was passed authorizing the acquisi- tion by the state of the private railways, and in 1884 nine-tenths of the 13,800 miles of railway in Prussia were in the hands of Government. The proportion of railway mileage in Prussia (5 miles per 10,000 inhabitants) is nearly as high as in Great Britain, but the traffic is much less. Thus in 1880-81 the Prussian rail- ways carried only 124 million passengers, while the British lines conveyed 622 millions. The expenses swallowed up 56 per cent, of the gross receipts, or 4 per cent, more than those of England in the same year ; but in the matter of railway accidents the comparison is more favourable to the Prussian railways, on which only 235 persons lost their lives as compared with about four times as many in Great Britain. The passenger traffic has not increased in pro- portion to the extension of the railway system and the growth of population, but the goods traffic has steadily advanced. The canal system of Prussia is little beyond its infancy, the total length of all the canals in the kingdom being only 1200 miles, a very small number as compared with either England or France. Among the most important are those uniting the Pregel with the Memel, and the Vistula with the Oder (via the Netze), and those bringing the Spree and Havel into communication with the Elbe on the one side and the Oder on the other. Canals uniting the Ems and the Rhine, the Ems and the Weser, and the Weser and the Elbe are still desiderata. On the other hand, Prussia has a large supply of navigable rivers. Population. — The last census of Pmssia was taken in 1880, and the accompanying table summarizes the principal results then ascer- tained. The total population amounts to about 60 per cent, of that of the German empire. Popula- tion Provinces. Popula- tion. £ _o a.c $.3 Protest- ante. Roman Catho- lics. Other Chris- tian Sects. Jews. Others. East Prussia West Prussia Brandenburg .... Pomerania 1,933,956 1,405,898 3,389,155 1,540,034 1,703,397 4,007,925 2,312,007 1,127,149 2,120,168 2,043,442 1,554,376 4,074,000 67,624 135 142 220 132 152 257 237 154 142 262 256 390 153 1,654,510 672,402 3,182,486 1,498,930 532,499 1,867,470 2,154,655 1,111,252 1,842,136 949,644 1,087,901 1,077,173 2,221 250,462 693,719 131,781 23,877 1,112,020 2,082,084 145,518 8,903 258,824 1,070,212 420,206 2,944,18(5 64,491 7,483 12,390 6,087 1,962 451 3,328 3,394 1,687 2,738 2,614 3,073 7,015 3 18,218 26,547 66,245 13,886 56,609 52,682 6,700 3,522 14,790 18,810 41,316 43,694 771 3,263 840 2,556 1,379 1,818 2,361 1,740 1,785 1,680 2,162 1,880 1,932 138 Silesia Saxony Schleswig-Hol- stein Hanover Westphalia Hesse-Nassau . . Rhineland Hohenzollern — 27,279,111 202 17,633,279 9,206,283 52,225 363,790 23,534 The following table shows the growth of the population since the death of Frederick, the first king of Prussia. The first trustworthy census of Prussia was taken in 1816 ; the earlier figures are only more or less reasonable estimates. Date. Population. Area in square miles. Average per square mile. 1713 1,731,000 43,425 39 1740 2,486,000 45,900 54 1786 5,430,000 75,220 72 1797 8,700,000 118,000 73 1816 10,349,031 108,100 05 1831 13,038,070 108,100 120 1864 19,254,649 108,430 177 1880 27,279,111 134,490 202-8 Between 1816 and 1831 the increase of the population of Prussia was about 30 per cent., and between 1831 and 1864 it was 46 per cent. Some districts have more than doubled their population since 1816, but the annual increment since 1866 has not exceeded 1 per cent., a fact due to the less rapid multiplication in the new pro- vinces and the losses in the Franco-German War. The rate of increase in the latter part of the period 1867-84 has, however, been considerably more rapid than in the first half. The increase is entirely due to the surplus of births over deaths, as emigration is very much in excess of immigration. With the exception of Saxony and some of the smallest states, Prussia is increasing more rapidly in population than any other member of the German empire. Its rate of increase is fully twice that of France and about the same as that of the United Kingdom. The highest rate of increase in 1875-80 took place in Berlin (2 '92 per annum) ami Westphalia (1-39), the lowest in Hohenzollern (0'35) and East Prussia (0'82). The birth-rate, which for the entire country is 40 per 1000, is highest in West Prussia, Posen, and Westphalia and lowest in Schleswig-Holstein, Hanover, and Hesse-Nassau. The death-rate for the whole monarchy is about 27 per 1000, considerably higher than that of Great Britain, which is about 20 per 1 000. Pomerania is remarkable for its low death-rate, West Prussia and Silesia for a high one. Both the birth-rate and the death-rate show a tendency to diminish. Of the births in 1882 8*11 per cent, were illegitimate, the proportion varying from 2 '92 per cent, in Westphalia to 11 per cent, in Pomerania, and nearly 15 per cent, in Berlin. Between 1872 and 1880 the number of marriages diminished with almost unvarying steadiness ; since 1880 it has risen again and now amounts to about 8 per 1000 inhabitants. An interesting feature is the large proportion of mixed confessional marriages, amounting as a rule to about 7 per cent, of the whole. Between 1871 and 1881 the annual emigration from Prussia amounted to 1*8 per 1000 inhabitants ; in 1882 no fewer than 129,894, and in 1883 104,167 emigrants left the country by the German ports and Antwerp. The highest proportion of emigrants comes from Pomerania (5'6) and Posen (4 '3), the lowest from Silesia, the Rhineland, and Saxony. A study of the figures in the table given above will show that as a rule the density of population increases from north to south and from east to west. As might be expected, the thickest population is found in the mining and manufacturing district of the Rhine, which is closely followed by the coal-regions of Silesia and parts of Saxony and Westphalia. The proportion for the whole kingdom is about 200 per square mile, but in the district of Diisseldorf this figure rises to 750 and in the moorlands of Hanover it sinks to less than 50. According to the census of 1880, 57 '4 per cent, of the popula- tion is rural, and 42 '6 per cent, urban, i.e., lives in communities of more than 2000 inhabitants. The relative proportions vary greatly in the different provinces, as much as 62 per cent, of the population living in towns in the Rhineland, and as little as 23 or 24 per cent, in East Prussia and Posen. About 17 per cent, of the population is absorbed by towns each with 20,000 inhabitants and upwards, while in Great Britain half the population is massed in the large towns and from 65 to 70 per cent, is urban. In Prussia also there is observable a strong movement towards concentration in towns, the annual rate of increase in the urban population being six times as great as that in the rural communities. In 1880 Prussia contained 24 towns each with upwards of 50,000 inhabit- ants, and 7 with upwards of 100,000 inhabitants, the correspond- ing numbers in Great Britain being 59 and 26. The following arc the towns with upwards of 100,000 inhabitants each : — Berlin 1,122,330 Brcslan 272,912 Hanover 145,227 Cologne 144,772 Konigsberg 140,909 Frankfort-on-the-Main . . 130,819 Dantsic 108,551 Elberfeld and Barmen practically form one town with a popula- tion of 189,479 ; and Magdeburg, Diisseldorf, Stettin, and Altona are all above 90,000. The annual rate of suicides in Prussia is 18 to 20 per 100,000 inhabitants, a proportion seldom exceeded among European states. Divided according to nationalities, the present (1885) population of Prussia consists roughly of 24,000,000 Germans, 2,800,000 Poles in the eastern provinces, 150,000 Lithu- anians in the north-east, 180,000 Danes in Schleswig-Holstein, 90,000 Wends in Brandenburg and Silesia, 60,000 Czechs in Silesia, and 12,000 Walloons near the Belgian frontier. In the rural dis- tricts of Posen and in parts of Silesia the PoLes form the predominant element of the population. In 1882 a census of occupations was taken in the German empire, the main results of which, so far as they relate to Prussia, are summarized in the following table. The figures include the wives, families, and other dependants of those actually engaged in the several occupations. The actual workers are about 11 millions in number and their dependants 16 millions. Occupations. Number of per- sons supported. Percentage of total population. 11,904,407 9,393,750 2,725,344 690,892 1,305,657 1,267,810 43 35 10 2-4 5 4-6 3 Trade 4. Domestic servants (and general labourers) 5. Official, military, and professional classes 6. Persons not returned under any occupation EDUCATION.] PRUSSIA 17 jgion. RcJigious Statistics. — According to the census returns of 1880 (see table, p. 16), 64 '64 per cent, of the population of Prussia were Pro- testants, 34 percent. Roman Catholics, and 1 '33 Jews. A glance at a confessional map of Prussia shows that the centre of the king- dom is solidly Protestant, the proportion of Roman Catholics increas- ing as the eye travels east or west and reaching its maximum on the Rhine and in the Slavonic provinces. East Prussia, however, with the exception of Ermland, is Protestant. The Roman Catholics out- number the Protestants in the provinces of the Rhine (3 to 1), Posen, Silesia, and West Prussia. All religious bodies are granted freedom of worship, and civil rights are not conditional upon religious confession. The Evangelical or Protestant State Church of Prussia consists as it now stands of a union of the Lutherans and Calvinists, effected under royal pressure iii 1817. According to the king this was not a fusion of two faiths but an external union for mutual admission to the Eucharist and for.the convenience of using the same liturgy, prepared under the royal superintendence. Those who were unable from conscientious scruples to join the union became Separatist or Old Lutherans and Old Calvinists, but their numbers were and are insignificant. The king is ' ' summus episcopus, " or supreme pontiff of the church, and is represented in the exercise of his ecclesiastical functions by the minister of public worship and instruction. The highest authority for the ordinary management of the church is the "Oberkirchenrath," or supreme church council at Berlin, which acts through provincial consistories and superintendents appointed by the crown. Recent legislation has made an effort to encourage self-government and give a congregational character to the church by the granting of a presbyterial constitution, with parish, diocesan, provincial, and general synods. The clergy, of whom there were 9146 in 1880, are appointed by the crown, by the consistories, by private or municipal patronage, or by congregational election. The hierarchy of the Roman Catholic Church in Prussia consists of two archbishops (Cologne, Gnesen - Posen) and ten bishops. The prince-bishop of Breslau and the bishops of Ermland, Hildes- lieim, and Osnabriick are directly under the pope, and the bishop- rics of Fulda and Limburg are in the archiepiscopal diocese of Freiburg in Baden. The higher ecclesiastics receive payment from the state, and the annual appropriation appearing in the budget for the Roman Catholic Church is as high as that made for the State Church. All the Roman Catholic religious orders in Prussia have been suppressed except those mainly or wholly occupied with attend- ance on the sick. The relations of the- state with the dissenting Christian sects, such as the Baptists, Mennonites, and Moravian Brethren, are prac- tically confined to granting them charters of incorporation which ensure them toleration. The Mennonites were formerly allowed to pay an extra tax in lieu of military service, which is inconsistent with their belief, but this privilege has been withdrawn. The Old Catholics number about 30,000, but do not seem to be increasing. The Jews belong mainly to the urban population and form 20 to 30 per cent, of the inhabitants in some of the towns in the Slavonic provinces. They are especially prominent in commerce, finance, and on the stage, and also exercise great influence on the press. Perhaps the actual majority of newspaper editors and proprietors are of Jewish blood. The wave of social persecution to which they were subjected from 1876 onwards, especially in Berlin and Pomerania, has, to some extent at least, subsided. uca- Education. — In Prussia education is looked upon as the province 11. of the state, and the general level attained is very high. All schools, public and private, are under state supervision, and no one is allowed to exercise the profession of teacher until he has given satisfactory proof of his qualifications. At the head of the admi- nistration stands the minister of public instruction, to whom the universities are directly subordinate. The secondary schools are supervised by provincial "Schulcollegia," or school-boards, ap- pointed by Government, while the management of the elementary and private schools falls within the jurisdiction of the ordinary "Regierungen," or department officials. This they carry out through qualified school-inspectors, frequently chosen from among the clergy. All children must attend school from their sixth to their fourteenth year. The expenses of the primary schools ( Volksschulcn] are borne by the communes (Gcmcinden, see infra), aided when necessary by subsidies from the state. The subjects of instruction are theology, reading, writing, spelling, arithmetic, the elements of geometry, history, geography, and natural science, singing, drawing, sewing, and gymnastics. The fees are extremely small, amounting in the rural districts to about Id. per week, and in Berlin and some other towns they have been entirely done away with. In 1882 Prussia contained 33,040 primary schools with 59,917 teachers and 4,339,729 pupils. This shows an average of 159 children attending school out of every 1000 inhabitants, the proportion varying from 120 to 130 in the north-eastern provinces to 175 to 180 in AVestphalia and Rhenish Prussia. The number of illiterate recruits among those called upon each year to serve in the army affords a good test of the universality of elementary education. In 1882-83 the proportion of " Analphabteti," or men unable to read or write, among the recruits levied was only 2 per cent., the rate varying from 9 "75 per cent, in Posen to 0'03 in Schleswig-Holstein, where there was only one illiterate recruit among 3662. The teachers for the elementary schools are trained in normal seminaries or colleges established and supervised by the state, and much has been done of late years to improve their position. In most of the larger towns the ele- mentary schools are supplemented by middle schools (Bilrgcrschulen, Stadtschulen), which carry on the pupil to a somewhat more advanced stage, and are partly intended to draw off the unsuitable elements from the higher schools. The secondary schools of Prussia may be roughly divided into classical and modern, though there are comparatively few in which Latin is quite omitted. The classical schools proper consist of Gymnasia and Progymnasia, the latter being simply gymnasia wanting the higher classes. In these boys are prepared for the universities and the learned professions, and the full course lasts for nine years. In the modern schools, which are divided in the same way into Realgymnasia and Realprogymnasia, and also have a nine years' course, Latin is taught, but not Greek, and greater stress is laid upon modern languages, mathematics, and natural science. The three lower classes are practically identical with those of the gymnasia, while in the upper classes the thoroughness of training is assimilated as closely as possible to that of the classical schools, though the subjects are somewhat altered. Ranking with the realgymnasia are the Oberrcalschulcn, which differ only in the fact that Latin is entirely omitted, and the time thus gained de- voted to modern languages. The Hohere (or upper) Burgcrschulen, in which the course is six years, rank with the middle schools above mentioned, and are intended mainly for those boys who wish to enter business life immediately on leaving school. All these secondary schools possess the right of granting certificates entitling the holders, who must have attained a certain standing in the school, to serve in the army as one-year volunteers. The gymnasial " certificate of ripeness " (Maturitatszeugniss), indicating that the holder has passed satisfactorily through the highest class, enables a student to enroll himself in any faculty at the university, but that of the realgymnasium qualifies only for the general or " philosophical " faculty, and does not open the way to medicine, the church, or the bar. Considerable efforts are, however, now being made to have the realgymnasium certificate recognized as a sufficient qualification for the study of medicine at least. At any of these schools a thoroughly good education may be obtained at a cost seldom exceeding, in the highest classes, £5 per annum. The teachers are men of scholarship and ability, who have passed stringent Government examinations and been submitted to a year of probation. The great majority of the secondary schools have been established and endowed by municipal corporations. In 1881 Prussia contained 251 gymnasia, 64 progymnasia, 88 realgymnasia, 15 oberrealschulen, 27 realschulen, 47 hbhere biirgerschulen, and 276 HoJiere Tochterschulen, or higher schools for girls. Besides these there are, of course, numerous commercial, technical, indus- trial, and other special schools. Prussia possesses ten of the twenty German universities, attended by 12,800 students, or at the rate of one student for 2125 inhabitants. The largest Prussian university is that of Berlin, attended by more than 4000 students, while Breslau, Bonn, Gb'ttingen, and Halle have each upwards of 1000. The oldest is the university of Greifswald, founded in 1456. Like the schools the universities are state insti- tutions, and the professors are appointed and paid by Government, which also makes liberal annual grants for apparatus and equipment. The full obligatory course of study extends over three, and in the case of medicine four years. It is, however, not unusual for non- medical students also to spend four years at the university, and there is an agitation to make this compulsory. Students qualifying for a Prussian Government appointment are required to spend at least three terms or half-years (Semester) at a Prussian university. Ranking with the universities are the large polytechnic colleges at Berlin, Hanover, and Aix-la-Chapelle, the mining academies of Berlin and Klausthal, and the academies of forestry at Eberswalde and Miinden. Departments Tor the study of agriculture are attached to many of the universities. Music is taught at several conservatoria, the best known of which are at Berlin and Frankfort-on-the-Main. The science and art of Prussia find their most conspicuoiis ex- ternal expression in the academies of science and art at Berlin, both founded by Frederick I. ; and each town of any size throughout the kingdom has its antiquarian, artistic, and scientific societies. Recognized schools of painting exist at Berlin and Diisseldorf, and both these towns, as well as Cassel, contain excellent picture galleries. The scientific and archaeological collections of Berlin are also of great importance. Besides the university collections, there are numerous large public libraries, the chief of which is the royal library at Berlin (1,000,000 vols.). Constitution. — The present form of the government of Prussia, Consti- consisting of an hereditary monarchy with two houses of parlia- tutiou. ment, is based upon a fundamental law promulgated in 1850, and subsequently somewhat modified by various enactments. The XX. — 3 18 PRUSSIA [CONSTITUTION. constitution affirms the legal equality of all citizens in the eye of the law, provides for univei-sal military service, and guarantees the personal liberty of the subject, the security of property, immunity from domiciliary visits, the inviolability of letters, toleration of religious sects, freedom of the press, the right of association and public meetings, and liberty of migration. The monarchy is hereditary in the male line of the house of Hohenzollern, and follows the custom of primogeniture. The king alone exercises the executive power, but snares the legislative power with his parliament He appoints and discharges the ministers and other officials of the crown, summons and dissolves parliament, possesses the right of pardon and mitigation of punishment, declares war and concludes peace, and grants orders and titles. He is held to be irresponsible for his public actions, and his decrees require the countersign of a minister, -whose responsibility, however, is not very clearly denned. The national tradition and feeling lend the crown considerable power not formulated in the constitution, and the king is permitted to bring his personal influence to bear upon parliament in a way quite at variance with the English con- ception of a constitutional monarch. The annual civil list of the king of Prussia amounts to £600,000. The legislative assembly consists of two chambers, which are convoked annually at the same time but meet separately. The right of proposing new measures belongs equally to the king and each of tne chambers, but the consent of all three estates is neces- sary before a measure can pass into law. The chambers have con- trol of the finances and possess the right of voting or refusing taxes. Financial questions are first discussed in the lower house, and the upper house can accept or reject the annual budget only en bloc. All measures are passed by an absolute majority, but those affect- ing the constitution must be submitted to a second vote after an interval of at least twenty-one days. Members may not be called to account for their parliamentary utterances except by the chamber in which they sit. No one may at the same time be a member of both chambers. The ministers of the crown have access to both chambers and may speak at any time, but they do not vote unless they are actually members. The general scheme of govern- ment, though constitutional, is not exactly " parliamentary " in the English sense of the word, as the ministers are independent of party and need not necessarily represent the opinions of the par- liamentary majority. The Herrenhaus, or house of peers, contains two classes of members, the hereditary and non-hereditary. The former consists of the adult princes of the house of Hohenzollern, the mediatized princes and counts of the old imperial nobility, anil the heads of the great territorial nobility. Tne non - hereditary members comprise life peers chosen by the king from the ranks of the rich landowners, manufacturers, and men of general eminence, and representatives "presented" for the king's approval by the landowners of the nine old provinces, by the larger towns, and by the universities. The Abgeordnetenhaus, or chamber of deputies, consists of 433 members, elected for periods of three years by indirect suffrage, exercised by all male citizens who have reached the age of twenty-five and have not forfeited their communal rights. The original electors are arranged in three classes, according to the rate of taxes paid by them, in such a way that the gross amount of taxation is equal in each class. The country is accordingly divided into electoral districts, with the electors grouped in three cate- gories, each of which selects a Wahlmann or electoral proxy, who exercises the direct suffrage. Members of the lower house must be thirty years old and in full possession of their civic rights. They receive a daily allowance (Diateri) during the sitting of the house. The king exercises his executive functions through an irrespons- ible Staatsrath, or privy council, revived in 1884 after thirty years of inactivity, and by a nominally responsible cabinet or council of ministers (Staats-Ministerium). The latter consists at present of the minister-president and of the ministers of foreign affairs, war, justice, finance, the interior, public worship and instruction, in- dustry and commerce, public works, agriculture, domains, and forests. Ministers conduct the affairs of their special departments independently, but meet in council for the discussion of general questions. They represent the executive in the houses of parlia- ment and introduce the measures proposed by the crown, but do not need to belong to either chamber. The affairs of the royal household and privy purse are entrusted to a special minister, who is not a member of the cabinet The Prussian governmental system is somewhat complicated by its relation to that of the empire. The king of Prussia is at the same time German emperor, and his prime minister is also the imperial chancellor. The ministries of war and foreign affairs practically coincide with those of the empire, and the customs-dues and the postal and telegraph service have also been transferred to the imperial Government. Prussia has only seventeen votes in the federal council, or less than a third of the total number, but its influence is practically assured by the fact that the small northern states almost invariably vote with it. To the reichstag Prussia sends more than half the members. The double parliamentary system works in some respects inconveniently, as the reichstag and Prussian landtag are often in session at the same time and many persons are members of both. Where imperial and Prussian legisla- tion come into conflict the latter must give way. For administrative purposes Prussia is divided into Provinzrn or provinces, Regierungsbezirke or governmental departments, Krcisc or circles, and Gemeinden or communes. The city of Berlin and the district of Hohenzollern are not included in any province, and the larger towns usually form at once a commune and a circle (Stadtkreis). Recent legislation has aimed at the encouragement of local government and the decentralization of administrative authority by admitting lay or popularly elected members to a share in the administration alongside of the Government officials. Certain branches of administration, such as the care of roads and the poor, have been handed over entirely to local authorities, while a share is allowed them in all. As a general result it may be stated that the Prussian administrative system intervenes between the strongly centralized government of France and the liberty of local govern- ment enjoyed in England. In the province the Government is represented by the Obcrprdsident, whose jurisdiction extends over all matters affecting more than one department. He is assisted by a council (Provinzialrath), consisting, besides himself as chair- man, of one member appointed by Government and five members elected by the provincial committee (Prminzialausschuss). The latter forms the permanent executive of the provincial diet (Pro- vinzial- Landtag), which consists of deputies elected by the kreiso or circles, and forms the chief provincial organ of local government. The regierungsbezirk is solely a Government division and is only indirectly represented in the scheme of local administration. The Government authorities are the Rcgicrungs-Prasident, who is at the head of the general internal administration of the department, and the Regierung, or Government board, which supervises ecclesi- astical and educational affairs and exercises the function of the state in regard to the direct taxes and the domains and forests. The departmental president is also assisted by a Eezirksrath or district council, consisting of one official member and four others selected from inhabitants of the department by the provincial com- mittee. The governmental official in the kreis (county, circle) is the Landrath, an office which existed in the Mark of Brandenburg as early as the 16th century. He is aided by the Kreissausschuss, or executive committee of the Kreistag (the diet of the circle), the members of which are elected by the rural and urban communes. The kreis is the smallest state division ; the communes, divided into urban and rural, are left almost entirely to local government, though the chief officials must obtain the sanction of the central authority. In the rural communes the head magistrate, called a Schulze or Dorfrichtcr, is elected for six years and is assisted by assessors called Schoffcn. The regulations for the government of towns still rest in great measure on the liberal reforms effected by Stein at the beginning of the centuiy. The chief power rests in the hands of the Stadtrath, which consists of Stadtverordncten, or town deputies elected by the citizens for six years. The practical executive is entrusted to the magistracy (Magistral), which usually consists of a burgomaster, a deputy burgomaster (both paid officials), several unpaid members, and, where necessary, a few other paid members. The unpaid members hold office for six years ; the paid members are elected for twelve years, and their election requires ratification from the state. The administrative system above de- scribed applies as yet in its full extent to about three-fourths of the frovinces only, but is to be extended to the others in due course, hough in some respects rather cumbrous in its machinery, the system is on the whole found to work well and with economy. In the seven eastern provinces, Westphalia, and part of the Rhenish province the common law of Prussia (Landrccht), codified in 1794, is in force, while the common law of the German empire, formed by an amalgamation of Roman, canon, and German law, prevails in the three new provinces and part of Pomerania. The Code Napoleon, however, still exists in the greater part of the Rhine district, and the commercial law has been consolidated in the German commercial code of 1861. A new penal code, promulgated in 1850, did away with the old patrimonial or seigniorial juris- diction, and the administration of justice is now wholly in the hands of Government. The courts of lowest instance are the Amts- gcrichte, in which sits a single judge, accompanied in penal cases by two Schoffcn or lay assessors (a kind of jurymen, who vote with the judge). Cases of more importance are decided by the Land- gerichte or county courts, in which the usual number of judges is three, while in important criminal cases a jury of twelve persons is generally empanelled. From the landgerichte appeals may be made to the Oberlandcsgcrichte or provincial courts. The oberlandesgericht at Berlin is named the Kammergcricht and forms the final instance for summary convictions in Prussia, while all other cases may be taken to the supreme imperial court at Leipsic. The judges (Richter) are appointed and paid by the state, and hold office for life. After finishing his university career the student of law who wishes to become a judge or to practise as qualified counsel (Rechtsan- walt, barrister and solicitor in one) passes a Government examina- FINANCES.] PRUSSIA 19 tion and becomes a Refer endarius. He then spends at least four years in the practical work of his profession, after which lie passes a second examination, and, if he has chosen the bench instead of the bar, becomes an Assessor and is eligible for the position of judge. A lawyer who has passed the necessary examinations may at any time quit the bar for the bench, and a judge is also at liberty to resign his position and enter upon private practice. In all criminal cases the prosecution is undertaken by Government, which acts through Staatsanwaltc, or directors of prosecutions, in the pay of the state. lances. Finances. — The finances of the Prussian Government are well managed, and a deficit is now a rare occurrence. The expenditure has been considerably relieved by the transference of the cost of the army and navy to the imperial treasury, while on the other hand the customs-dues and several excise duties have been relinquished to the empire and an annual "matricular" contribution paid towards its expenses. The budget is voted annually by the abgeordneten- haus ; the following table is an abstract of that for 1884-85 : — Expenditure. Expenses of collection and management £28,234,532 Revenue. Direct taxes £7,296,286 Indirect taxes 4,586,510 State lottery 201,700 Marine institute and mint 128,225 Domains and forests 3,805,857 Mines and salt-works .. 6,120,752 State railways 28,798,867 General financial adminis- tration 5,582,368 Administrative revenues 1,160,253 Total.... £56,680,818 Civil list 225,000 Interest and management of public debt Houses of parliament.. .. Apanages, annuities, and indemnities 3.262,017 Matricular contribution to the German empire 2,038,460 Administrative expenditure 12,632,930 Justice - 2,017,020 Education 1,644,670 Religion 590,333 Ministry of the interior 2,077,510 Occasional and extra- ordinary expenses 2,341,881 Total.... £56,680,818 Perhaps the only item requiring explanation in the above sum niary is the general financial administration under the head of revenue ; this includes advances from the surplus in the treasury, Prussia's proportion of the profits of the imperial customs and excises, repayments, interest, and other miscellaneous sources of revenue. The extraordinary expenses included upwards of £450, 000 for railways and £750,000 for public works. The total expenditure is rather more than £2 per head of population, while in the United Kingdom it is about £2, 10s. Between 1821 and 1844 the rate in Prussia was 11s. 6d. per head, and even in 1858 it was only 21s. 8d. The incidence of direct taxation in Prussia is also less than in Great Britain, the respective figures being 5s. 3d. and 7s. per head. The principal direct imposts are the income-tax, which brings in 40 per cent, of the whole, the land-tax producing 37 per cent., and the house-tax producing 19 per cent. The proceeds of the income- tax amount to about Is. 2d. per head, as compared with 6s. per head in Great Britain (in 1881). The comparative insignificance of the sum raised by indirect taxation is mainly due to the above- noted fact that the customs-dues and the most important excise duties have been made over to the imperial exchequer. In the preliminary estimates for 1885-86 the receipts and expenditure are balanced at £62,886,250. Local taxation in Prussia is often very high. The state income- tax is limited to 3 per cent, of the assessed income, but the com- munes and towns are allowed to make an arbitrary addition for local purposes, sometimes amounting to twice or thrice the sum paid to the state. This is chiefly owing to the fact that the state reserved for itself all taxation on real property, while imposing on the com- munes the principal share in maintaining the expensive system of public schools. Incomes below £45 (900 marks) are not now taxed, but this exemption is of very recent origin. A few facts from the statistics of taxation and allied subjects may be of interest as affording some slight index to Prussia's growth in prosperity. Between 1864 and 1878 the entire capital subject to income-tax increased from 24 to 48 marks per head of population, while the proportionate number of those liable to the tax had increased by about 76 per cent. It has also been computed that the average income per head increased between 1872 and 1881 by 15 marks, equivalent to a rise of 5 per cent. ; that of Great Britain increased in the same period by 88s., or 15 per cent. Of all the payers of income-tax in 1872-81 only O'lO per cent, had incomes of or above £1000, while 43 per cent, had not more than £25 and 52 per cent, between £25 and £100. Between 1867 and 1880 the proceeds of the house-tax increased by over 100 per cent. It now averages Is. per head, varying from 6d. in country districts up to 5s. or 5s. 6d. m Berlin, Frankfort -on -the -Main, and Cologne. In 1875 the number of depositors in savings banks was 86 per 1000 inhabitants, and by 1880 the number had risen to 107. The sum deposited amounted to £79, 643, 400, equivalent to 58s. per head of population. At the same date Austria alone of European powers had a higher proportion (67s.), while in Great Britain the sum was 44s. and in France 27s. The public debt of Prussia in 1884 amounted to 3,345,097,438 marks, or £167,254,872. This is equivalent to about £6 per head of population, as compared with three and a half times as much in England. The annual charge for interest on the debt is 5s. Sd. per head in Prussia and 16s. 2d. in England. Between the end of the struggle with Napoleon and 1848 the debt was considerably reduced ; since 1848 it has steadily increased. It is, however, admirably secured, and a great part of it was incurred in the con- struction and acquisition of railways, the clear income from which covers the annual charges on the entire debt. The various branches of the debt are being gradually united in a consolidated fund, bearing interest at the rate of 4 per cent. Army and Navy. — The Prussian army now forms about 75 per Array cent, of that of the German empire, of which it also furnished the and model. (See GERMANY.) The first attempt at the foundation of a navy. Prussian navy was made by the Great Elector, who established a small fleet of eight or ten vessels. This, however, was completely neglected by his successors, and the present marine establishment is of quite recent origin. The present imperial navy is simply the Prussian navy under a different name. (See GERMANY. ) Bibliography. — The statistical facts in the foregoing article have been mainly drawn from the Jahrbuch fur die amtliche Statistik des preiissischen Staats, the Statistisches Jahrbuch fur das deutsche lleich, and other publications of the statistical offices of Prussia and Germany. Good general accounts of the natural, social, and political features of the country are given in Eiselen's Der preussische Staat (Berlin, 1862) and in Daniel's Handbuch der Geographie (5th ed., 1881 sq.). The Prussian constitution and administrative system are concisely described in the Handbuch der Ver/assung und Vencaltung in Preussen, by Graf Hue de Grais, and are treated at length in Von Ronne's Staatsrecht der preussischen Monarchie (4th ed., 1881-84), For English readers the most interesting introduction to Prussian history is perhaps still to be found in the first part of Carlyle's Frederick the Great, the not invariably unprejudiced views of which may be corrected by Professor Tuttle's History of Prussia to the Accession of Frederick the Great (Boston, 1884). The latter admirable little work is, indeed, almost indispensable to every English student of Prussian constitutional history. Professor Seeley's Life of Stein (London, 1879) contains an excellent account of Prussia in the Napoleonic period, especially with regard to the important in- ternal reforms carried out at the beginning of the present century. Among the numerous German histories of Prussia two of the best are Droysen s Geschichte der preussischen Politik and Ranke's Zwolf Bucher preussischer Geschichte ; the former is authoritative from the writer's copious use of the Prussian archives, but the latter is less diffuse and more interesting. Other standard works are those of Stenzel, Pauli, Riedel, and Lancizolle, while among shorter histories may be mentioned the manual of F. Voigt. Fix's Territorial-Geschichte des brandenburgisch-preussischen Staates, with ten historical maps, is a convenient sketch of the territorial growth of Prussia. The period since the death of Frederick the Great is treated in Forster's Neuere und neueste preussische Gesch- ichte and in Reimann's Neuere Geschichte des preussischen Staats (1882 sq.). The history of the present century is perhaps most fully given in Treitschke's Deutsche Geschichte im neunzehnten Jahrhundert (1S79 sq.). Until recently the standard work on the history of Prussia proper was that of Johannes Voigt, but this is now being superseded by Lohmeyer's Geschichte von Ost u. West Preussen (1881 sq.). The latter forms one of an admirable series of provincial histories in course of publication by Perthes of Gotha. The development of the Prussian bureaucracy is traced in Isaacsohn's Geschichte des preussischen Beamtenthums (1870-84). Several points are most satisfactorily handled in the numerous monographs on special periods, the lives of kings and statesmen, and the like. (J. F. M.) PRUSSIA, in the original and narrower sense of the word, is a district in the north-eastern corner of the modern kingdom of the same name, stretching along the Baltic coast for about 220 miles, and occupying an area of up- wards of 24,000 square miles. The eastern part of this territory formed the duchy of Prussia, which was acquired by the electors of Brandenburg in 1618, and furnished them with their regal title. The western part, which had been severed from the eastern half and assigned to Poland in 1466, was not annexed to Prussia until the partition of Poland in 1772, while the towns of Dantsic and Thorn remained Polish down to 1793. In spite of the contrast between the political and social conditions of the two districts, arising from the difference of their history, they were united in 1824 to form a single province. But, as might have been expected, the union did not work well, and it was dissolved in 1878, giving place to the modern provinces of East and West Prussia. The early history of the whole district is related under the kingdom of PRUSSIA (above) and TEUTONIC ORDER, while the former article also gives (p. 14) some statistics as to the produce of the two provinces.1 EAST PRUSSIA (Ostpreussen), the larger of the two provinces, has an area of 14,280 square miles, and is bounded by the Baltic Sea, Russia, and West Prussia. It shares in the general characteristics of the great north German plain, but, though low, its surface is by no means absolutely flat, as the southern half is traversed by a low ridge or plateau (comp. GERMANY), which attains a height of 1025 feet at a point near the western boundary of the province. This plateau, here named the Prussian Seenplatte, is thickly sprinkled with small lakes, among which is the Spirding See, 46 square miles in extent and the largest inland lake in the Prussian monarchy. 1 Compare Lohmeyer's Geschichte von Ost u. West Preussen (1881, sq.). 20 PRUSSIA The coast is lined with low dunes or sandhills, in front of which lie the large littoral lakes or lagoons named the Frische Had' and the Kuriscne Hafl'. (See GERMANY. ) The first of these receives the waters of the Nogat and the Pregel, and the other those of the Memel or Niemen. East Prussia is the coldest part of Germany, its mean annual temperature being about 44° Fahr., while the mean January temperature of Tilsit is only 25°. The rainfall is 24 inches per annum. About half the province is under cultivation ; 18 per cent, is occupied by forests, and 23 per cent, by meadows and pastures. The most fertile soil is found in the valleys of the Pregel and the Memel, but the southern slopes of the Baltic plateau and the district to the north of the Memel consist in great part of sterile moor, sand, and bog. The chief crops are rye, oats, and potatoes, while flax is cultivated in the district of Ermland, between the Passarge and the upper Alle. East Prussia is the headquarters of the horse-breeding of the country and contains the principal Government stud of Trakehnen ; numerous cattle are also fattened on the rich pastures of the river-valleys. The extensive woods in the south part of the province harbour a few wolves and lynxes, and the elk is still preserved in the forest of Ibenhorst, near the Kurische Haff. The fisheries in the lakes and haffs are of some importance ; but the only mineral product of note is amber, which is found in the peninsula of Samland in greater abundance than in any other part of the world. Manufactures are almost confined to the principal towns, though linen-weaving is practised as a domestic industry. Commerce is facilitated by canals connecting the Memel and Pregel and also the principal lakes, but is somewhat hampered by the heavy dues exacted at the Russian frontier. A brisk foreign trade is carried on through the seaports of Kouigsberg (140,909), the capital of the province, and Memel (19,660), the exports con- sisting mainly of timber and grain. In 1880 the population of East Prussia was 1,9-33,936, including 1,654,510 Protestants, 250,462 Roman Catholics, and 18,218 Jews. The Roman Catholics are mainly confined to the district of Ermland, in which the ordinary proportions of the confessions are completely reversed. The bulk of the inhabitants are of German blood, but there are 400,000 Protestant Poles (Masurians or Masovians) in the south part of the province, and 150,000 Lithuanians in the north. As in other provinces where the Polish element is strong, East Prussia is below the general average of the kingdom in education ; in 1883 fully 5£ per cent, of its recruits were unable to read or write. There is a university at Konigsberg. WEST PRUSSIA ( Wcstprcusscn), with an area of 9850 square miles, is bounded by the Baltic, East Prussia, Poland, Posen, Brandenburg, and Pomerania. It resembles East Prussia in its physical character- istics, but its fertility is somewhat greater and its climate not quite so harsh. The Baltic plateau traverses the province from east to west, reaching its culminating point in the Thurmberg (1090 feet), near Dantsic. Near the middle of the province the range is in- terrupted by the valley of the Vistula, beyond which it trends to the north and approaches the coast. The lakes of West Prussia are nearly as numerous but not so large as those of the sister pro- vince. The natural products arc similar, and the manufactures are also almost confined to the large towns. The cultivation of the common beet, for the production of sugar, has been introduced, and several sugar refineries have been erected. The valley of the Vistula, particularly the rich lowlands ( JVerder) of the delta, are very fertile, producing good crops of wheat and pasturing large herds of horses, cattle, and sheep. The population in 1880 was 1,405,898, consisting in almost equal proportions of Roman Catholics and Protestants; there were 26,547 Jews and 490,000 Poles. The percentage of illiterate recruits in 1882 was still higher than in East Prussia (7 '97), but not so high as in Posen (9'75). The capital and principal town is Dantsic (108,551), while Elbing (35,842) and Thorn (20,617) also carry on a considerable trade. PRUSSIA, RHENISH (German, Rheinjyremsen, Rhein- provinz, Rheinland), the most westerly province of the kingdom of Prussia, is bounded on the N. by Holland, on the E. by Westphalia, Hesse-Nassau, and Hesse-Darmstadt, on the S.E. by the Rhenish Palatinate, on the S. and S.W. by Lorraine, and on the W. by Luxemburg, Belgium, and Holland. The small district of Wetzlar in the midst of the province of Hesse also belongs to Rhenish Prussia, which, on the other hand, surrounds the Oldenburg principality of Birkenfeld. The extent of the province is 10,420 square miles, or nearly twice that of the kingdom of Saxony; its extreme length, from north to south, is nearly 200 miles and its greatest breadth is just under 90. It includes about 200 miles of the course of the Rhine, which forms the eastern frontier of the province from Bingen to Coblentz and then flows through it in a north-westerly direction. The southern and larger half of Rhenish Prussia, belong- ing geologically to the Devonian formations of the lower Rhine, is hilly. On the left bank are the elevated plateaus of the Hundsriick and the Eifel, separated from each other by the deep valley of the Moselle, while on the right bank are the spurs of the Westerwald and the Sauerland, the former reaching the river in the picturesque group known as the Seven Mountains. The highest hill in the province is the Walderbeskopf (2670 feet) in the Hochwald, and there are several other summits above 2000 feet on the left bank, while on the right there are few which attain a height of 1600 feet. Most of the hills are covered with trees, but the Eifel is a barren and bleak plateau, with numerous traces of volcanic agency, and is continued to- wards the north-west by the moorlands of the Hohe Venn. To the north of a line drawn from Aix-la-Chapelle to Bonn the province is flat, and marshy districts occur near the Dutch frontier. The climate varies considerably with the configuration of the surface. That of the northern lowlands and of the sheltered valleys is the mildest and most equable in Prussia, with a mean annual temperature of 50° Fahr., while on the hills of the Eifel the mean does not exceed 44°. The annual rainfall varies in the different districts from 18 to 32 inches. Almost the whole province belongs to the basin of the Rhine, but a small district in the north-west is drained by affluents of the Meuse. Of the numerous tributaries which join the Rhine within the province, the most important are the Nahe, the Moselle, and the Ahr on the left bank, and the Sieg, the Wupper, the Ruhr, and the Lippe on the right. The only lake of any size is the Laacher See, the largest of the " maare " or extinct crater lakes of the Eifel. Of the total area of the Rhenish province about 46 '5 per cent, is occupied by arable land, 1 7 per cent, by mea- dows and pastures, and 31 per cent, by forests. Little except oats and potatoes can be raised on the high-lying plateaus in the south of the province, but the river-valleys and the northern lowlands are extremely fertile. The great bulk of the soil is in the hands of small proprietors, and this is alleged to have had the effect of somewhat retarding the progress of scientific agriculture. The usual cereal crops are, however, all grown with success, and tobacco, hops, flax, rape, hemp, and beetroot (for sugar) are cultivated for commercial purposes. Large quantities of fruit are also produced. The vine-culture occupies a space of 30,000 acres, about half of which are in the valley of the Moselle, a third in that of the Rhine itself, and the rest mainly on the Nahe and the Ahr. The choicest varieties of Rhine wine, however, such as Johannisberger and Steinberger, are produced higher up the river, beyond the limits of the Rhenish province. In the hilly districts more than half the surface is sometimes occupied by forests, and large plantations of oak are formed for the use of the bark in tanning. Considerable herds of cattle are reared on the rich pastures of the lower Rhine, but the number of sheep in the province is comparatively small, and is, indeed, not greatly in excess of that of the goats. The wooded hills are well stocked with deer, and a stray wolf occasionally finds its way from the forests of the Ardennes into those of the Hundsriick. The salmon fishery of the Rhine is very productive and trout abound in the moun- tain streams. (Compare the agricultural tables under PRUSSIA, p. 14 suj>ra.} The great mineral wealth of the Rhenish province probably furnishes its most substantial claim to the title of the "richest jewel in the crown of Prussia." Besides parts of the Carboniferous measures of the Saar and the Ruhr, it also contains important deposits of coal near Aix-la-Chapelle. Iron occurs abundantly near Coblentz, the Bleiberg in the Eifel possesses an apparently inex- U — P R U haustible supply of lead, and zinc is found near Cologne and Aix-la-Chapelle. The mineral products of the district also include lignite, copper, manganese, vitriol, lime, gyp- sum, volcanic stones (used for mill-stones), and slates. In 1882 the total value of the minerals raised in the pro- vince was £5,460,000, or nearly one-third of the produce of Prussia ; by far the most important item is coal, the output of which was upwards of 15,000,000 tons, valued at ,£4,400,000. Of the numerous mineral springs the best known are those of Aix-la-Chapelle and Kreuznach. The mineral resources of Rhenish Prussia, coupled with its favourable situation and the facilities of transit afforded by its great waterway, have made it the most important manufacturing district in Germany. The industry is mainly concentrated round two chief centres, Aix-la-Chapelle and Diisseldorf (with the valley of the Wupper), while there are naturally few manufactures in the hilly districts of the south or the marshy flats of the north. In the forefront stand the metallic industries, the total produce of which was valued in 1882 at £5,200,000. The foundries pro- duced upwards of a million tons of iron, besides zinc, lead, copper, and other metals. The largest iron and steel works are at Essen (including Krupp's cannon -foundry), Oberhausen, Duisburg, Diisseldorf, and Cologne, while cutlery and other small metallic wares are extensively made at Solingen, Remscheid, and Aix-la-Chapelle. The cloth of Aix-la-Chapelle and the silk of Crefeld form im- portant articles of export. The chief industries of Elber- feld-Barmen and the valley of the Wupper are cotton- weaving, calico-printing, and the manufacture of turkey red and other dyes. Linen is largely made at Gladbach, leather at Malmedy, glass in the Saar district, and beet- root sugar near Cologne. Though the Rhineland is par excellence the country of the vine, no less than 52,000,000 gallons of beer were brewed in the province in 1882-83, equivalent to an annual consumption of fifty -one quarts per head of population ; distilleries are also numerous, and large quantities of sparkling Moselle are made at Coblentz, chiefly for exportation to England. Commerce is greatly aided by the navigable rivers, a very extensive network of railways, and the excellent roads constructed during the French regime. The imports consist mainly of raw material for working up in the factories of the dis- trict, while the principal exports are coal, fruit, wine, dyes, cloth, silk, and other manufactured articles of various descriptions. The population of Rhenish Prussia in 1 880 was 4,074,000, including 2,944,186 Roman Catholics, 1,077,173 Protest- ants, and 43,694 Jews. The Roman Catholics muster strongest on the left bank, while on the right bank about half the population is Protestant. The distribution of the confessions is, however, somewhat sporadic, owing to the varied histories of the constituent parts of the province. The great bulk of the population is of Teutonic stock, and about a quarter of a million are of Flemish blood. On the north-west frontier reside about 12,000 Walloons, who speak French or Walloon as their native tongue. The Rhine province is the most thickly populated part of Prussia, the general average being 390 persons per square mile, while in the government district of D\isseldorf the proportion rises to 754. The province contains a greater number of large towns than any other province in Prussia, and 6 2 '5 of the population is returned as urban. Upwards of half the population are supported by industrial and commercial pursuits, and barely a quarter by agriculture. There is a university of good standing at Bonn, and the success of the elementary education is borne witness to by the fact that in 1883 only 0'19 per cent, of the Rhenish recruits were unable to read and write. For purposes of administration the province is divided into the five districts of Coblentz, Diisseldorf, Cologne, Aix-la-Chapelle, and Treves ; Coblentz is the official capital, though Cologne is the largest and most important town. In the greater part of the province the Code Napoleon, introduced under the French regime, is still in force. Being a frontier province the Rhineland is strongly garrisoned, and the Rhine is guarded by the four strong fortresses of Cologne with Deutz, Coblentz with Ehrenbreitstein, Wesel, and Saar- louis. In the Prussian parliament the province of the Rhine is represented by twenty -seven members in the upper house and eighty-two in the lower. History. — The present province of Rhenish Prussia was formed in 1815 out of the duchies of Cleves, Berg, Upper Guelders, and Jiilich, the ecclesiastical principalities of Treves and Cologne, the free cities of Aix-la-Chapelle and Cologne, and nearly a hundred small independent lordships, knightships, and abbeys. It is there- fore manifestly impracticable to give more than a broad general sketch of the historical development of a region of which the com- ponent parts have had so little of their past in common. At the earliest historical period we find the territories between the Ardennes and the Rhine occupied by the Treviri, Eburones, and other Celtic tribes, who, however, were all more or less modified and influenced by their Teutonic neighbours. On the right bank of the Rhine, between the Main and the Lahn, were the settlements of the Mattiaci, a branch of the Germanic Chatti, while farther to the north were the Usipetes and Tencteri. Julius Cresar conquered the tribes on the left bank and Augustus established numerous fortified posts on the Rhine, but the Romans never succeeded in gaining a firm footing on the right bank. Under the Romans the distiicts to the west of the Rhine, forming parts of the provinces of Belgica Prima, Germania Superior, and Germania Inferior, en- joyed great prosperity and reached a high degree of civilization. Several Roman emperors resided and issued their edicts at Treves, the capital of Belgica Prima, and the important Roman remains in this city as well as in other parts of the province give an idea of the material benefits the territory derived from their dominion. As the power of the Roman empire declined the Franks pushed forward along both banks of the Rhine, and by the end of the 5th century had regained all the lands that had formerly been under Teutonic influence. The German conquerors of the Rhenish dis- tricts were singularly little affected by the culture of the provincials they subdued, and all traces of Roman civilization were submerged in a new flood of paganism. By the 8th century the Frankish dominion was firmly established in central Germany and northern Gaul ; and under the Carlovingian monarchs the Rhineland, and especially Aix-la-Chapelle, plays a role of considerable prominence. On the division of the Carlovingian realm the part of the Rhenish province to the east of the river fell to the share of Germany, while that to the west remained with the evanescent middle kingdom of Lotharingia. By the time of Otho I. (936-973) both banks of the Rhine had become German, and the Rhenish territory was divided between the duchies of Upper and Lower Lorraine, the one on the Moselle and the other on the Meuse. Subsequently, as the central power of the German sovereign became weakened, the Rhineland followed the general tendency and split up into numerous small independent principalities, each with its separate vicissitudes and special chronicles. The old Lotharingian divisions passed wholly out of use, and the name of Lorraine became restricted to the dis- trict that still bears it. In spite of its dismembered condition, and the sufferings it underwent at the hands of its French neigh- bours in various periods of warfare, the Rhenish territory prospered greatly and stood in the foremost rank of German culture and pro- gress. Aix-la-Chapelle was fixed upon as the place of coronation of the German emperors, and the ecclesiastical principalities of the Rhine bulk largely in German history. Prussia first set foot on the Rhine in 1609, when it acquired the duchy of Cleves ; and about a century later Upper Guelders and Miirs also became Prussian. At the peace of Basel in 1795 the whole of the left bank of the Rhine was resigned to France, and in 1806 the Rhenish princes all joined the Confederation of the Rhine. The congress of Vienna assigned the whole of the lower Rhenish districts to Prussia, which had the tact to leave them in undisturbed possession of the liberal institu- tions they had become accustomed to under the republican rule of the French. (Compare RHINE. ) (J. F. M.) PRUSSIAN BLUE. See PRTJSSIC ACID (p. 24 infra). PRUSSIC ACID, the familiar name for a dangerously poisonous, though chemically feeble, acid, known scienti- fically as " hydrocyanic acid," or " cyanide of hydrogen," is here taken as a convenient heading under which to treat of cyanides generally. This generic term (from KVOLVOS, blue) is not meant to hint at any generic property ; it is due simply to the fact that all cyanides, in an historical sense, 22 PRUSSIC ACID are derivatives of a blue pigment which was discovered accidentally by Diesbach, a Berlin colourmaker, about the beginning of the 18th century. The foundations of our present knowledge of cyanides were laid by Scheele (1783), whose discoveries were subse- quently (from 1811) confirmed and supplemented, chiefly in the sense of quantitative determinations, by Gay-Lussac. Although we have no space for further historical notes, we must not omit to state that Gay-Lussac, as one result of his work, conceived and introduced into chemistry the notion of the "compound radical," having shown that prussic acid and its salts are related to "the group NO in precisely the same way as chlorides are to chlorine, or sulphides to sulphur. This idea, in his own eyes and in those of his contemporaries, was greatly fortified by his success in even isolating his " cyanogene " as a substance. IH preparing cyanogen or cyanides in the laboratory the operator now always starts from prussiate of potash, with which, accordingly, we begin. Prussiate of Potash, (NC)6Fe.K4 + 3H.,0 (syn. ferrocyanide of potassium ; Germ. Blutlaugensalz). — This salt is being produced industrially from animal refuse (hide and horn clippings, old shoes, blood solids, &c.), carbonate of potash, and iron filings or borings as raw materials. The carbonate of potash is fused at a red heat in an iron pear-shaped vessel suspended within a furnace, or on the cupel-shaped sole of a reverberatory furnace, and the animal matter, which should be as dry as possible, is then introduced in instal- ments along with the iron. The fusion is continued as long as inflammable gases are going off; then the still fluid mass is ladled out and allowed to cool, when it hardens into a black stone-like body known to the manufacturer as "metal." When the broken- up metal is digested with water in an iron vessel prussiate of potash passes into solution, while a black residue of charcoal, metallic iron, sulphide of iron, &c., remains. The clarified solution, after sufficient concentration in the heat, deposits on cooling part of its prussiate in lemon -yellow quadratic crystals (generally trun- cated octahedra), which are purified by recrystallization. The last mother-liquors furnish an impure green salt, which is added to a fresh fuse and so utilized. In former times it was believed that the prussiate was produced during the fusion process, and in the subsequent process of lixivia- tion simply passed into solution, until Liebig showed that this view was untenable. The fuse cannot contain ready-formed prussiate, because this salt at a red heat breaks up with formation of a residue of carbide of iron and cyanide of potassium. The metal in fact when treated with dilute alcohol gives up to it plain cyanide of potassium, and the fully exhausted residue yields no prussiate on treatment with water. The prussiate accordingly must be produced during the process of lixiviation by the action of the cyanide of potassium on some ferrous compound in the metal. Liebig thought that it was partly the metallic iron, partly the sulphide of iron present in the metal, which effected the conversion. According to more recent researches a double sulphide, K^S + Fe.^, which is always produced during the fusion (from the reagents proper and the sulphur of the organic matter and that of the sulphate of potash present in the carbonate as an impurity), plays this important part. The double sulphide by the action of water breaks up into alka- line sulphide, sulphide of iron (FeS), and sulphur. This sulphide of iron is of a peculiar kind ; it does what ordinary FeS does not effect, readily at least : it converts the cyanide into prussiate, thus, 6NC.K + FeS = K.3S-l-(NC)aFe.K4, while the eliminated sulphur of the original Fe^S., unites with another part of the cyanide of potassium into sulphocyanate, S + NCK = SNC.K, which latter salt is thus unavoidably produced as a (rather inconvenient) bye- product. Pure prussiate of potash has the specific gravity 1 '83 ; it is permanent in the air. It loses its water, part at 60° C., the rest nt 100° C., but very slowly. The anhydrous salt is a white powder. The crystals dissolve in four parts of cold and in two parts of boiling water. It is insoluble in, and not dehydrated by, alcohol. Prussiate of potash has the composition of a double salt, Fe(NC)2 + 4KNC, but the idea that it contains these two binary cyanides is entirely at variance with its reactions. Cyanide of potassium is readily decomposed by even the feeblest acids, and to some extent even by water, with elimination of hydrocyanic acid, and on this account perhaps is intensely poisonous. A solu- tion of the prussiate remains absolutely unchanged on evaporation, and the action on it even of strong acids in the cold results in the formation of the hydrogen salt, (NC)8FeH4, which is decomposed, it i.s true, but only when the mixture is heated, with evolution of hydrocyanic acid. It is not poisonous. Its solution when mixed with nitrate of silver does not give a precipitate of cyanide of silver, NC. Ag, and a solution of the two nitrates, but yields a unitary pre- cipitate of the composition (NC)6Fe.Ag4, which contains all the iron ; only nitrate of potassium passes into solution. Other heavy metallic salts behave similarly. On the strength of these con- siderations chemists, following the lead of Liebig, view prussiato as a binary compound of potassium, K4, with a complex radical, N6C6Fe, ' ' ferrocyanogen. " Hydrocyanic Acid, NC.H. — This acid is prepared most con- veniently from prussiate of potash. Wbhler recommends the following method. Ten parts of powdered prussiate are placed in a retort, the neck of which is turned upwards, and a (cooled down) mixture of seven parts of oil of vitriol and fourteen parts of water is then added. If the aqueous acid is wanted, the exit-end of the retort is joined on direct to a Liebig's condenser, which must be kept very cool by a current of cold water. If the anhydrous acid is desired, two wide-necked bottles (or two large U -tubes) charged with fused chloride of calcium and kept at 30° C. by immersion in a water bath of this temperature, must be inserted between the retort and condenser. In this case more particularly it is indispensable to provide for a most efficient condensation of the vapours ; the exit- end of the condenser should be provided with an adapter going down to near the bottom of the receiver, which must be surrounded by a freezing mixture. The temperature of the latter, of course, must not be allowed to fall to the freezing-point of the distillate. The retort is heated by means of a sand bath and a brisk distilla- tion maintained until the residue begins to dry up. The result of the reaction is in accordance with the assumption that the dilute vitriol, in the first instance, converts the prussiate, one-half into (NC)6Fe.H4, the other into (NC)6Fe.K2H2, and that through the effect of the heat these two bodies decompose each other into {(NC)6Fe) K2Fe, which remains in the residue as a precipitate, and (NC)6H6=6NCH, which distils over. Heal NCH is a colour- less liquid of 0'6967 specific gravity at 18° C., which freezes at -15° C. (Gay-Lussac) into a white fibrous solid. According to Schulz the acid, if really pure, remains liquid at - 37° C. It boils at 26°'5 C. ; at 4°'5 its vapour-tension already amounts to half an atmosphere. The vapour is inflammable and burns into carbonic acid, water, and nitrogen. The acid mixes with water in all proportions, with contraction and yet absorption of heat. The solution behaves on distillation like a mere mechanical mixture of its two components. Prussic acid has a very peculiar powerful smell ; more characteristic still is a kind of choking action which even the highly attenuated vapour exerts on the larynx. Prussic acid is fearfully poisonous ; a few drops of even the ordinary Eharmaceutical preparation (of 2 per cent.) are sufficient to kill a irge dog. It acts with characteristic promptitude, especially when inhaled as a vapour. Even a relatively large dose, if it has once found its way into the stomach without producing a fatal effect, is said to do relatively little harm there.1 Prussic acid is characteristically prone to suffer "spontaneous decomposition." Whether the pure anhydrous acid really is, in the strictest sense of the word, still requires to be found out ; the ordinary preparation, when kept in a close bottle, soon turns brown and turbid from "azulmic" acid, a substance of complex constitu- tion. Other things are formed at the same time. The pure aqueous acid is liable to similar changes ; in its case formiate of ammonia always forms the predominant product. This change is easily understood — NC . H + 2H20 = NH? + H . COOH. Ammonia. Formic acid. A strong aqueous prussic acid, wlien mixed with fuming hydro- chloric acid, is soon converted into a magma of crystals of sal- ammoniac, with formation of formic acid, which remains dissolved. And yet, most singularly, the addition to the preparation of a small proportion of hydrochloric or sulphuric acid is the best means for preventing, or at least greatly retarding, its spontaneous change in the very same direction. Aqueous prussic acid acts only very feebly (if at all) on blue litmus ; it combines with aqueous caustic alkalis but does not decompose their carbonates ; nor does it act upon the generality of insoluble basic metallic oxides or hydrates ; mercuric oxide and oxide of silver form noteworthy exceptions to this rule. Cyanogen, (NC)2. — When dry mercuric cyanide is heated it breaks up, below redness, into mercury and cyanogen gas ; part of the latter, however, always suffers polymerization into a solid called ".paracyanogen," and presumed to consist of molecules (NC).,. Cyanogen gas is colourless ; it has the specific gravity demanded by its formula. It possesses a peculiar odour and has a characteristic 1 The British Pharmacopoeia prescribes for the medicinal acid a strength of 2 per cent, of real NCH. The two medicinal prepara- tions known as aqua amygdalarum amararum and as aqua laurocerasi respectively contain prussic acid iu combination with hydride of ben- zoyl, C8HS.COH. In neither case does the prussic acid pre-exist in the vegetable materials, but is produced during the mashing process which precedes the distillation, by a fermentative decomposition of the amygdalin which they contain. (See FOMENTATION, vol. ix. p. 96.) PRUSSIC ACID 23 irritating effect on the eyes and mucous membranes of the nose. It is poisonous. By strong pressure it is condensible into a liquid which freezes at -34° "4 C., and has the following vapour-tensions P at the temperatures t stated — t= -20° 7 -10° 0° +10° +20°C. P= I 1-85 27 3'8 5atmos. At ordinary temperatures water dissolves about 4-5 times, alcohol about 23 times its volume of the gas. The solutions are liable to (very complex) spontaneous decomposition. The list of products includes oxalate of ammonia and urea. Cyanogen burns with a characteristically beautiful peach-blossom coloured flame into car- bonic acid and nitrogen. This gas cyanogen, as already stated, is to cyanides what chlorine gas C12 is to chlorides, but it is well to remember that the analogy, though perfect in regard to the corre- sponding formulae, does not, as a rule, extend to the conditions of formation of the bodies represented. Thus cyanogen does not unite with hydrogen into pnlssic acid, nor does it combine with ordinary metals in the chlorine fashion. When passed over heated potas- sium, it is true, it combines with it into cyanide ; and caustic potash -ley absorbs it with formation of cyanide and cyanate (NCO. K), just as chlorine yields chloride and hypochlorite KC10 ; but this is about the sum -total of the analogies in action. Yet metallic cyanides of all kinds can be produced indirectly. Cyanide of Potassium, NC.K.— An aqueous mixture of the quan- tities NCH and KHO no doubt contains this salt, but it smells of the acid, and on evaporation behaves more like a mixture of the two congeners than in any other way. An exhaustive union can be brought about by passing NCH vapour into an alcoholic solution of KHO ; the salt NC.K then comes down as a crystalline precipi- tate, which must be washed with alcohol and dried, cold, over vitriol. A more convenient method is to dehydrate yellow prussi- ate and then decompose it by heating it to redness in an iron crucible. The Fe(NC)2 part of the salt breaks up into cyanogen and nitrogen, which go off, and a carboniferous finely-divided iron, which remains, with cyanide of potassium, which at that temperature is a thin fluid. Yet the iron sometimes refuses to settle with suffi- cient promptitude to enable one to decant off the bulk even of the fused cyanide. According to private information received by the writer a French manufacturer uses a certain kind of very porous fireclay as an efficient filtering medium. The ordinary "cyanide of potassium" of trade is not strictly that at all, but at best a mixture of the real salt with cyanate. It is produced by fusing a mixture of eight parts of anhydrous prussiate and three parts of anhydrous carbonate of potash, allowing the reaction (NC)6Fe . K4 + K2C03 = C02 + Fe + 5NCK + K . NCO Cyanate to complete itself and the iron to settle, and decanting off the clear fuse. The product goes by the name of "Liebig's cyanide," but the process was really invented by Rodgers. Fused cyanide of potassium assumes on cooling the form of a milky white stone-like solid. It fuses readily at a red heat, and at a white heat volatilizes without decomposition, provided that it is under the influence of heat alone ; in the presence of air it gradually passes into cyanate ; when heated in steam it is converted into carbonate of potash with evolution of ammonia, carbonic oxide, and hydrogen. When heated to redness with any of the more easily reducible metallic oxides it reduces them to the metallic state, while it passes itself into cyanate. It also reduces the corresponding sulphides with formation of sulphocyanate ; for example, Pb(S or 0)+NCK = Pb + NC(0 or S)K. Hence its fre- quent application in blowpipe analysis. When heated with chlor- ates or nitrates it reduces them with violent explosion. The aqueous solution of the salt has a strongly alkaline reaction ; it smells of hydrocyanic acid and is readily decomposed by even such feeble acids as acetic or carbonic. It readily dissolves precipitated chlor- ide, bromide, and iodide of silver ; this is the basis of its application in photography. Large quantities of the salt are used in electro- plating. Other Binary Cyanides. — Of these only a few can be noticed here. (1) Cyanide of sodium is very similar to the potassium salt. The same remark, in a more limited sense, holds for the cyanides of barium, strontium, and calcium. (2) Cyanide of ammonium (NC-NH4) forms crystals volatile at 36° C. and smelling of ammonia and hydrocyanic acid. The solution in water decomposes spon- taneously, pretty much like that of the free acid. But the anhy- drous vapour by itself stands a high temperature, as is proved by the fact that it is produced largely when ammonia is passed over red-hot charcoal, C + 2NH3= H2 + NCH . NH:j. (3) Mercuric cyanide, Hg(NC).j, forms very readily when mercuric oxide is dissolved in aqueous prussic acid. The solution on evaporation and cooling deposits crystals soluble in eight parts of cold water. This salt is not at all decomposed, even when heated, by water, nor appreci- ably by dilute sulphuric or nitric acid ; boiling hydrochloric acid eliminates the NC as hydrocyanic acid ; sulphuretted hydrogen acts similarly in the cold, ft gives no precipitate with nitrate of silver, nor is it changed visibly by caustic alkalis. It readily unites not only with other cyanides but also with a multitude of other salts into crystallizable double salts. Mercurous cyanide, Hg2(NC)2, seems to have no existence. When it is attempted to produce it by double decompositions, the mixture Hg + (NC).,Hg comes forth instead of the compound Hg^NC)^ (4) Heavy metallic cyanides are mostly insoluble in water, and the general method for their preparation is to decompose a solution of the respective sulphate, chloride, &c., with one of cyanide of potassium. The most important general property of these bodies is that they readily dissolve in solution of cyanide of potassium with formation of double cyanides, which in their capacity as double salts all exhibit, in a higher or lower degree, those anomalies which were fully explained above (see " prussiate of potash "). These " metallo- cyanides, " as we will call them, being all, unlike plain cyanide of potassium, very stable in opposition to water and aqueous alkalis, are readily produced from almost any compound of the respective metallic radical — some from the metal itself— by treatment with solution of cyanide of potassium. In all we have said "potassium" may be taken as including sodium and in a limited sense am- monium, but the potassium compounds are best known, and we accordingly in the following section confine ourselves to these. Metallo-cyanides. — (1) Silver. — Cyanide of silver, Ag.NC, is pro- duced as a precipitate by addition of hydrocyanic acid or cyanide of potassium to solution of nitrate of silver. The precipitate is similar in appearance to chloride of silver and, like it, insoluble in cold dilute mineral acids, but soluble in ammonia. At a red heat it is decom- posed with formation of a residue of carboniferous metallic silver. Precipitated cyanide of silver, though insoluble in hydrocyanic acid, dissolves readily in cyanide of potassium with formation of argento- cyanide, AgK . (NC)2, which is easily obtained in crystals, perma- nent in the air and soluble in eight parts of cold water. Chloride of silver dissolves in cyanide of potassium solution as readily as the cyanide does and with formation of the same double salt — AgCl + 2KNC = KC1 + AgK(NC)2. This salt is used very largely in electro-plating. (2) Lead. — From a solution of the acetate cyanide of lead is precipitated by addition of hydrocyanic acid or cyanide of potassium. The precipitate, Pb(NC)2, has the exceptional pro- perty of being insoluble in cyanide of potassium. (3) Zinc. — Cyanide of zinc, Zn(NC)2, is obtained by addition of hydrocyanic acid to a solution of the acetate, as a white precipitate readily soluble in cyanide of potassium with formation of a double salt, ZnK2(NC)4, which forms well-defined crystals. (4) Nickel. — The cyanide, Ni(NC)2, is an apple-green precipitate, which is obtained by methods similar to those given under ' ' zinc. " It readily dissolves in cyanide of potassium with formation of a crystallizable salt, NiK2(NC)4 + H20, the solution of which is stable in air and not convertible into one of a nickelic (Ni'") compound by chlorine (com- pare "cobalt" infra). The potassio-cyanides of silver, zinc, and nickel as solutions are not changed visibly by caustic alkalis, but their heavy metals can be precipitated by sulphuretted hydrogen or sulphide of ammonium, as from solutions of, for instance, the chlorides. Aqueous mineral acids (in the heat at least) decompose them exhaustively with elimination of all the NC as NCH. (5) Copper. — When cyanide of potassium solution is added to one of sulphate of copper, a yellow precipitate of cupric cyanide, Cu(NC)2, comes down ; but on boiling this precipitate loses cyanogen and is converted into a white precipitate of the cuprous salt Cu(NC). This white precipitate dissolves in cyanide of potassium with for- mation chiefly of two crystalline double salts, viz., CuNC + 6NCK, easily soluble in water, and CuNC + NCK. The latter is decom- posed by water with elimination of Cu.NC. The solution of the 6NC. K salt is not precipitated by sulphuretted hydrogen. Solu- tions of potassio-cyanides of cuprosum are used in electro-plating. (6) Gold. — Metallic gold dissolves in cyanide of potassium solution in the presence of air, thus — Au+ 2KNC-HO = £K20 + AuK. (NC)2. This auro-cyanide of potassium is used largely for electro-gilding, for which purpose it is conveniently prepared as follows. Six parts of gold are dissolved in aqua regia and the solution is precipitated by ammonia. The precipitate (an explosive compound known as " fulminating gold ") is dissolved in a solution of six parts of cyanide of potassium, when the double salt is formed with evolution of ammonia. The salt crystallizes in rhombic octahedra, soluble in seven parts of cold water. In the following potassio • cyanides the heavy metals cannot be detected by means of their ordinary precipitants ; these salts all behave like the potassium salts of complex radicals composed of the heavy metal and all the cyanogen. (7) Cobalt. — Cyanide of potas- sium when added to a solution of a cobaltous salt (CoCl2, &c. ) gives a precipitate soluble in excess of reagent. The solution presumably contains a cobalto-cyanide, Co(NC)2.a:KNC, but on exposure to air eagerly absorbs oxygen with formation of cobalti-cyanide, thus — Co(NC), t- 4KNC + ^0 = £K20 + Co'"(NC)3 . 3KNC. Chlorine (Cl instead of £0) acts more promptly with a similar effect If the alkaline solution is acidified and boiled, the same cobalti cyanide is produced with evolution of hydrogen — Co(NC)2 + 4KNC + HC1 = KC1 + £H2 + Co'"(NC)3 . 3KNC. 24 Cobalti-cyanide of potassium, (NC)6Co'".K3, forms yellow crystals isomorphous with those of red prussiate (see infra). It is a re- markably stable salt. In its behaviour to reagents it exhibits none of the characters of a cobalt salt or of a simple cyanide. Aque- ous mineral acids convert it into the hydrogen salt (NC)6Co'"H3, which remains undecomposed on boiling. Heavy metallic salts pro- duce precipitates of cobalti-cyanides ; for example, (NC)8Co'".Ag3. (8) Ferrosum. — See " prussiate of potash " above. (9) Ferricum. — Ferric hydrate and ferric compounds generally do not act upon cyanide of potassium in a manner analogous to that of ferrous com- pounds ; but a ferri-cyanide analogous to the cobalti-salt referred to in (7) is readily produced by passing chlorine into a cold solution of ordinary prussiate, (NG)6Fe . K4 + Cl - KC1 + (NC)6fe'". K3. 1 I n preparing the salt an excess of chlorine and elevation of tempera- ture must be avoided, or else part of the salt is decomposed with formation of a green precipitate. The solution on evaporation and cooling yields splendid dark red crystals, soluble in 2 "54 parts of water of 15° '6 C. (Wallace), forming a most intensely yellow solution. (Ordinary prussiate solution is only pale yellow even when saturated in the cold. ) This salt (discovered by L. Gmelin in 1822) is now being manufactured industrially and is known in commerce as "red prussiate." In its reactions it is analogous to ordinary yellow prussiate. The same group, (NC)6Fe, which in the latter acts as a four-valent, in the red salt plays the part of a tri-valent radical, (NC)6fe. But the radical thus modified has a great tendency to assume the four-valent form; hence an alkaline solution of red prussiate is a powerful oxidizing agent, (NC)6fe.K3 + KHO = (NC)6Fe. K4 + HO. The HO goes to the reduc- ing agent. Like the yellow salt, red prussiate is not poisonous, at least when pure. Ferro- aiid Ferri-cyanides of Iron. — The two prussiates are con- stantly being used in the laboratory as very delicate reagents for the detection of iron salt, and for the discrimination of ferrous and ferric compounds in solutions, — (1) ferro-cyanide and ferrous salt, white precipitate ; (2) ferri-cyanide and ferric salt, intensely brown coloration ; (3) ferro-cyanide and ferric salt, blue precipitate ; (4) ferri-cyanide and ferrous salt, blue precipitate. These blue precipitates are being produced industrially and used as pigments, under the names of "prussian blue" and "Turnbull's blue" for (3) and (4) respectively. The latter has been thus known for now half a century ; yet the constitution of the precipitates and the true rationale of their formation have been fully cleared up only during the last few years. The main results of the researches referred to are included in the following paragraphs. (1) Ferro-cyanide of Hydrogen, (NC)6Fe.H4, is obtained as a white crystalline precipitate when air-free concentrated solution of yellow precipitate is mixed with hydrochloric acid and ether. It is easily soluble iii water and in alcohol. An aqueous solution of it is pre- pared for technical purposes by mixing a strong solution of yellow prussiate with enough tartaric acid to bring down the potassium as cream of tartar. When the solution of this ferro-hydrocyanic acid is boiled half the cyanogen goes off as NCH, while the other remains as part of a white, rather unstable, precipitate, (NC)6Fe . j^e. When the solution is exposed to the air, especially at higher temperatures, part of the cyanogen goes off as NCH, another part suffers oxidation into H.,0 + NC, and this latter combines with the Fe(NC)2 of the original compound into blue bodies similar in their general properties to prussian blue. This latter change is utilized in calico-printing for producing patterns of, or dyeing with, prus- sian blue. The white precipitate (NC)6Fe.Tr may be looked upon as an acid of which -, 8 (2) Everett's Salt, (NC)6Fe . g, is the potash salt. This salt is produced in the ordinary process for making prussic acid (see above). It is probably identical with the white precipitate produced when ferrous salt is decomposed by prussiate of potash. Everett's salt when exposed to the air quickly absorbs oxygen and becomes blue ; the reaction, as Williamson showed, assumes a simple form when the precipitate is boiled with nitric acid. One-half of the potassium is then oxidized away, and a blue double ferri-cyanide of potassium and ferrosum takes the place of the original precipitate : — (NC)6Fe . KoFe^KjjO as nitrate) + {(NC)6fe) "'Fe"K'. Williamson's blue. This blue when boiled with ferro-cyanide of potassium is reconverted into the original Everett's salt with formation of a solution of red prussiate — (NC)6fe.KFe» + K2*K2. Fe(NC)6 = (NC)6fe. K3 + Fe(NC)6. FeK* Red prussiate. Everett's salt. the asterisked radicals changing places. (3) Soluble Prussian Blue is isomeric with Williamson's blue. It is produced by mixing a solution of ferric salt with excess of yellow prussiate, which, however, is an old process ; what has been aseer- 1 Here we use the symbol " fe " as designating 56 parts of ferric iron,—" Fe " meaning the same quantity of ferrosum. tained lately is that the very same precipitate is produced by addi- tion to a ferrous salt of an excess of red prussiate. II. (NC)6Fe.K4 + feCl3 = 3KCl + (NC)6Fe. Kfe = B". B' and B" in the formulae look different, but the difference is only apparent ; in either case the group (NC)6 is combined with IFe and Ife and IK ; the bodies are identical (Skraup ; Reindel). The precipitate B, though insoluble in salt solutions, is soluble in pure water, forming an intensely blue solution ; hence the name. Now the potassium in soluble prussian blue can be displaced by iron in two ways, namely, by digestion with solutions of ferrous or ferric salts. In the former case (NC)6feFeK becomes (NC)6feFen, or empirically (NC)12Fe5 ; this is Gmelin's ("Turnbull's") blue. In the latter case (NC)6FefeK becomes (NC)6Fefe«, or empirically (NC)18Fe- ; this is prussian blue as discovered by Diesbach. Contrasting this latter formula with that of Gmelin's blue (NC)18Fe7j, we see that the latter needs only lose ^Fe to become prussian blue ; this sur- plus iron in fact can be withdrawn by means of nitric acid. In the manufacture of prussian blue the general process is to first precipitate ferrous sulphate with yellow prussiate and then to fully oxidize the precipitate by means of nitric acid or chlorine as far as the oxygen of the air does not do it. The following receipt is recommended amongst others. Six parts each of green vitriol and yellow prussiate are dissolved separately, each in fifteen parts of water, and the solutions mixed. One part of concentrated sul- phuric acid and twenty-four parts of fuming muriatic acid are then added, and after standing some hours also a solution of bleaching powder in instalments until the blue colour is fully developed. " Turnbull's " blue is made by precipitating red prussiate of potash with excess of ferrous salt ; but it is easily seen from what was said above that the use of this relatively expensive double cyanide might be dispensed with. The properties of the two pigments are pretty much the same. They are sold in the form of solid cakes or lumps, which, in addition to their blue colour, present a coppery lustre on fracture. They are stable against acids, but sensibly affected (bleached) on prolonged exposure to sunlight ; and, although they stand neutral soap fairly well, they are decomposed promptly by solutions of even the carbonates of the alkalis with formation of hydrated oxides of iron. The cheaper commercial varieties are more or less largely diluted with clay, sulphate of baryta, &c. Pure prussian blue dissolves readily in a dilute solution of oxalic acid ; the intensely blue solution used to serve as a blue ink, but has come to be superseded by the several more brilliant blues of the coal-tar series. These tar-blues have displaced prussian blue also in other applications, and as a commercial pigment it has besides to straggle against ultramarine. In short, it has gone very much out of use, and as a consequence the manufacture of yellow prussiate is no longer so remunerative as it used to be. Analysis of Cyanides. — As hydrocyanic acid and cyanide of potassium are dangerously poisonous, and the latter at least is easily procured in commerce, the detection of cyanogen in this state of combination is one of the problems of forensic chemistry. To detect such cyanogen in, say, the contents of a stomach the first step is to distil the mass after acidification with tartaric acid, which decomposes cyanide of potassium but does not liberate prussic acid from prussian blue (or even prussiate of potash ?). If the dis- tillate gives no precipitate with nitrate of silver hydrocyanic acid is absent, if it does the precipitate may have been produced by hydrochloric acid, which may then be eliminated by redistillation with borax or sulphate of soda, neither of which affects NCH. But even in the presence of chlorides the following two tests give perfect certainty. (1) A solution of hydrocyanic acid, when Blkalinized with caustic potash and then mixed with, first ferroso-ferric salt and then excess of hydrochloric acid, gives a precipitate, or at least a green suspension, of prussiau blue. (2) A solution of NCH, when mixed with ammonia and yellow sulphide of ammonium, is changed into one of sulphocyanate of ammonium, which, after removal of the excess of reagents by evaporation at a gentle heat, strikes an intense and very characteristic red colour with ferric salts, which colour does not vanish (as that of ferric acetate does) on even strong acidification with mineral acid (Liebig's test). The quantitative determination of cyanogen given as an aqueous solution of hydrocyanic acid or cyanide of potassium can (if haloids are absent) be effected by adding excess of nitrate of silver, then acidifying, if necessary, with nitric acid, filtering off, washing, drying, and weighing the cyanide of silver produced. AgNC= 134 corresponds to NCH = 27 parts. A more ex- peditious method lias been invented by Liebig. A known quantity of the given prussic acid is alkalinized strongly with caustic potash and then diluted freely with water. The caustic alkali usually contains plenty of chloride as an impurity, else a little alkaline chloride must be added. A standard solution of nitrate of silver (conveniently adjusted so as to contain 6 '30 grammes of fused ni- trate per 1000 cubic centimetres, equivalent to 2 grammes of NCH) is now dropped in from a burette until the cloud of chloride of silver which appears locally from the first just fails to disappear on stirring, i.e., until the reaction 2KNC -t- AgN03 = KAg.(NC)2 + KN03 P R Y — P R Y 25 has just been completed. One cub. cent, of silver solution used indicates 2 milligrammes of NCH. Liebig's method lends itself particularly well for the assay ing of the medicinal acid and of cyanide of potassium. The two tests for hydrocyanic acid given above apply as they stand to solutions of the cyanides of alkali and alkaline-earth metals, but not to mercuric cyanide. In regard to all other cyanides we have only space to say that from a certain set (which includes the cobalti-cyanides and the platinum cyanides) cyanogen cannot be extracted at all as NCH (or AgNC) by any known methods. Such bodies must be identified by their own specific reactions or by elementary analysis. All cyanides are de- composed by hot concentrated sulphuric acid ; the carbon goes off as CO, the nitrogen remains as sulphate of ammonia and the metals as sulphates, which brings them within the range of the routine methods of analysis. Cyanates. — These were discovered by Wb'hler. The potassium salt NCO. K is produced by the oxidation of fused cyanide, for pre- parative purposes most conveniently by Wohler's method. An intimate mixture of two parts of absolutely anhydrous prussiate of potash and one part of equally dry binoxide of manganese is heated on an iron tray until the mass has become brownish black and just begun to fuse. It is now allowed to cool and exhausted by boiling 80 per cent, alcohol. The filtrate on cooling deposits crystals of the salt NCO.K. If only an aqueous solution of this salt is wanted for immediate use, the fuse may be extracted by cold water. From this solution the cyanate of silver, NCO.Ag, or lead, (NCO)2Pb, can be prepared by precipitation with solutions of the respective nitrates or acetates. Hot water decomposes cyanate of potash promptly with formation of carbonates of potash and ammonia, KNCO + 2H20 = NH3 + KHO + C02. On addition of mineral acid to even the cold solution only a very little of the cyanic acid is liberated as such ; the bulk breaks up at once with effervescence, thus, NCO . H + 2H20 = NH3 + C02 + H.,0. Very interesting is the action of the solution of cyanate of potash on sulphate of ammonia ; its direct effect is the formation of cyanate of ammonia, NCO.NH4, but this salt almost immediately passes spontaneously into its isomer urea, which is not a cyanate at all but the amide of carbonic acid, i.e., CO(OH)2-2(OH) + 2NH2=C0^22. This reaction was discovered by Wohler, who thus for the first time produced an organic substance from inorganic materials, or virtually from its elements. Singularly, it is this pseudo-cyauate urea which serves as a material for making cyanic acid. When hydrochlorate of urea, HC1. CON.,H4, is heated to 145° C. the latter behaves as if it were cyanate of ammonia : the ammonia unites with the hydrochloric acid into sal-ammoniac and the cyanic acid is set free, but imme- diately suffers polymerization into cyanuric acid, a solid tri- basic acid of the composition N3C303H3, which, being difficultly soluble, can be freed from the sal-ammoniac by being washed with cold water. If perfectly anhydrous cyanuric acid be subjected to dry distillation it furnishes a distillate of (liquid) cyanic acid NCO. H, which must be condensed in a vessel surrounded by a freezing mixture. Cyanic acid has a very appreciable vapour-tension even at ordi- nary temperatures, and the least trace of its vapour makes itself felt by a characteristically violent and dangerous action on the respira- tory organs. With dry ammonia gas it unites into true cyanate of ammonia. We do not know much of its own properties, because as soon as it comes out of the freezing mixture it begins to suffer polymerization into "cyamelid" with great evolution of heat. This cyamelid is a porcelain-like mass, insoluble in all ordinary solvents and devoid of acid properties. Dry distillation reconverts it into cyanic acid. Thiocyanates. — This term means bodies like cyanates, but containing sulphur instead of the oxygen of the latter. Thio- cyanates are better known, however, as sulphocyanates or sulpho- cyanides. (1) The potassium salt NCS.K is formed when cyanide of potassium is fused with sulphur or certain metallic sulphides, e.g., PbS. The usual method of preparation is to fuse together forty-six parts of dehydrated yellow prussiate of potash, seventeen of dry carbonate of potash, and thirty- two of sulphur. The fuse is exhausted with boiling alcohol and the filtered solution allowed to cool, when crystals of the salt separate out. The salt is very soluble in water with characteristically large absorption of heat. (2) The ammonium salt NCS . NH4 can be prepared by allowing a mixture of alcohol, strong aqueous ammonia, and bisulphide of carbon to stand for a time and then warming it. Thiocarbonate of ammonium, CS2.(NH4)2S, is produced first, but subsequently it gives up 2H.,S to the ammonia and becomes NCS . NH4, which is easily obtained in crystals. The tar water obtained in the manufacture of coal-gas sometimes contains sufficient quantities of this salt to make it worth while to recover it. Both the potassium and the ammonium salt are much used as reagents, and more especi- ally as precipitants for copper and silver. Solutions of cupric salt when mixed with sulphocyanate assume the dark-brown colour of the cupric salt Cu(NCS).,, but on addition of sulphurous acid the colour disappears and a white precipitate of cuprous sulphocyanide, NCS . Cu, comes down, which, if enough of reagent was used, con- tains all the copper. If sulphocyanate is added to nitrate of silver, all the silver is precipitated as Ag. NCS, similar in appearance to the chloride and, like it, insoluble in water and in nitric acid. Upon this and the fact that sulphocyanates strike a deep red colour with ferric salts Volhard lias based an excellent titrimetric method for the determination of silver. (See SILVER.) Syntheses of Cyanogen Compounds. — Synthetical organic chemistry dates from Wb'hler's discovery of the artificial formation of urea, and in the further development of this branch of the science cyano- gen has played a prominent part. (For illustrations we may refer to certain passages in the present article and in those on METHYL and on NITIIOGEX.) Hence it is worth while to enumerate briefly the synthetical method for the making of cyanogen itself. (1) Hydrocyanic acid is produced when a current of electric sparks is made to cross a mixture of acetylene, C2H2, and nitrogen. (2) Cyanide of ammonium is formed when ammonia is passed over red-hot charcoal (see supra). (3) Metallic cyanides are produced when diy nitrogen gas is passed over a dry mixture of carbonate of potash or baryta and charcoal at a white heat. A similar reaction goes on spontaneously in the iron-smelting furnaces and gives rise to the formation of vapour of cyanide of potassium. (4) Sulpho- cyanide of ammonium is produced from bisulphide of carbon and ammonia, as explained above. (W. D. ) PRYNNE, WILLIAM (1600-1669), was born at Swains- wick near Bath in 1600. He was educated at Bath grammar-school, and became a commoner of Oriel College, Oxford, in 1616, taking his B.A. in 1621 ; he was ad- mitted a student of Lincoln's Inn in the same year, and in due time became a barrister. His studies led him deeply into legal and constitutional lore, and no less deeply into ecclesiastical antiquities. He was Puritan to the core, with a tenacious memory, a strength of will bordering upon obstinacy, and a want of sympathy with human nature in its manifold variety. His first book, The Per- petuity of a Regenerate Man's Estate, 1627, was devoted to a defence of one of the main Calvinistic positions, and The Unloveliness of Love-locks and Health's Sickness, 1628, were devoted to attacks upon prevailing fashions, con- ducted without any sense of proportion, and treating follies on the same footing as scandalous vices. After the dissolution of parliament in 1629 Prynne came forward as the assailant of Arminianism in doctrine and of ceremonialism in practice, and thus drew down upon himself the anger of Laud. Histrio-mastijc, published in 1633, was a violent attack, not upon the special im- moralities of the stage of Prynne's day but upon stage- plays in general, in Avhich the author laid himself open to the charge of assailing persons in high position, in the first place by pointing out that kings and emperors who had favoured the drama had been carried off by violent deaths, which assertion might easily be interpreted as a warning to the king, and in the second place by applying a dis- graceful epithet to actresses, which, as Henrietta Maria was taking part in the rehearsal of a ballet just as the sheet containing the offensive words was passing through the press, was supposed to apply to the queen. On 17th February 1634 Prynne was sentenced by the Star Chamber to be imprisoned and also to be fined £5000, expelled from Lincoln's Inn, rendered incapable of returning to his pro- fession, degraded from his degree in the university of Oxford, and set in the pillory, where he was to lose both his ears. On 7th May Prynne was placed in the pillory and lost his ears. The rest of the sentence, with the exception of the clause relating to the payment of the fine, was carried out. A sharp letter written by him to Laud criticizing his arguments at the trial was made the founda- tion of a fresh charge. Prynne, however, got the letter into his hands and tore it up. Though he was again brought before the Star Chamber, on llth June, no addi tional penalty was inflicted on him. There is no reason to suppose that his punishment was unpopular. In 1637 he was once more in the Star Chamber, together with Bastwick and Burton. In A Divine Tragedy lately acted XX. — 4 26 P R Y N N E he had attacked the Declaration of Sports, and in News from Ipswich he had attacked Wren and the bishops generally. On 30th June a fresh sentence, that had been delivered on the 14th, was executed. The stumps of Prynne's ears were shorn off in the pillory. When on 27th July he was sent to what was intended to be perpetual imprisonment at Lancaster his journey was a triumphal progress, — the imposition of ship-money and the metro- political visitation having rendered the minds of English- men far more hostile to the Government than they had been in 1634. Before long Prynne was removed to Mont Orgeuil Castle in Jersey, where it was hoped that he could be so entirely isolated that no word of his would reach the outer world again. Immediately upon the meeting of the Long Parliament in 1640 Prynne was liberated. On 28th November he entered London in triumph, and on 2d March 1641 repara- tion was voted by the Commons, to be made to him at the expense of his persecutors. As might have been expected, Prynne after his release took the side of the Parliament strongly against the king, especially attacking in his writ- ings his old enemies the bishops, and accusing Charles of showing undue favour to the Roman Catholics. He com- mented on the words of Psalm cv., " Touch not mine anointed," by arguing that they inhibited kings from injuring God's servants who happened to be their subjects, and in a lengthy work entitled The Sovereign Power of Parliaments and Kingdoms he maintained that the taking arms by parliament in a necessarily defensive war was no treason either in law or in conscience. Prynne's sufferings had not served to render him com- passionate to others. In 1643 he took an active part in the proceedings against Nathaniel Fiennes for the surrender of Bristol. During this and the following year, however, his chief energies as a prosecutor were directed against Archbishop Laud. The cessation of hostilities with the Irish insurgents agreed to on 15th September 1643 brought Charles's relations with the Catholics into increased dis- repute, and Prynne attacked Laud as the soul of a great Popish plot by publishing both before and after his execu- • tion various collections of documents, one of which at least was garbled to render it more telling. Even before the execution of Laud Prynne found a new enemy in the In- dependents. In 1644 he published Twelve Considerable Serious Questions touching Church Government, in which he upheld the right of the state to form a national church in accordance with the word of God, and reviled the Inde- pendents, partly as advocating an unscriptural discipline, partly as introducing heresy and division, and maintaining that all religions ought to be tolerated. To the principle of individual liberty Prynne was from the beginning to the end irreconcilably hostile. For some time to come he poured forth pamphlet after pamphlet in vindication of his assertions. Flowing out of this controversy came another, beginning in 1645 with Four Short Questions, privately circulated, and followed by A Vindication of Four Serious Questions of Great Importance, in which he denied the right of the clergy to excommunicate or to suspend from the reception of the sacrament otherwise than by law. Prynne, in short, maintained the supremacy of the state over the church, whilst he argued that the state ought to protect the church from the rivalry of sectarian associations. Early in 1648 Prynne broke new ground. The Levellers Levelled was directed against the dangerous opinion that the Lords should be brought down into the House of Com- mons, there to sit and vote. As usual, he argued his case on purely antiquarian and technical grounds, without any intellectual grasp of his subject. On 7th November 1648 Prynne at last obtained a seat in the House of Commons. He at once took part against those who called for the king's execution, and on 5th December delivered a speech of enormous length in favour of conciliating the king, who had inflicted the most griev- ous injuries upon him and whose misgovernment he had bitterly denounced. The result was his inclusion in Pride's " purge " on the morning of the 6th, when, having attempted resistance to military violence, he was subjected to imprisonment. A fresh protest, published on 1st January 1649 under the title of A Brief Memento to the Present Unparliamentary Junto, coupled with his contemptuous refusal to avow his authorship, brought about a fresh order of imprisonment on 10th January from the House of Commons itself, which, hoAvever, does not seem to have been carried out. After recovering his liberty Prynne retired to Swainswick. On 7th June 1649 he was assessed to the monthly contribution laid on the country by Parlia- ment. He not only refused to pay but published A Legal Vindication of the Liberties of England on the ground that no tax could be raised without the consent of the two Houses. In the same year he commenced a long histori- cal account of ancient parliaments, which was evidently intended to reflect on the one in existence. In 1650 his labours were cut short by a warrant from President Brad- shaw, dated 1st July, and ordering his arrest. For the remainder of the year he was imprisoned in Dunster Castle, whence he was removed in January 1651 to Taunton, and in July to Pendennis Castle. On 1st February 1652 the council of state ordered his discharge on giving a bond of £1000 to do nothing to the prejudice of the Common- wealth. On his resolute refusal to accept the condition an absolute order for his release was given on 18th Febru- ary. From his release till the death of Cromwell Prynne refrained from making any further assault on the existing Government. His strong conservatism, however, found expression in an argument in defence of advowsons and patronages and an attack on the Quakers, both published in the same year, as well as in an argument against the admission of the Jews to England issued in the beginning of 1655. It was not until the restoration of the Rump Parliament by the army on 7th May 1659 that Prynne again came into prominent notice, though he had in the previous year issued A Plea for the Lords and House of Peers and A New Discovery, viz., that Quakers were Jesuits in disguise. On that day, in addition to the Rump, fourteen of the secluded members, with Prynne among them, claimed admittance. The claim was of course refused, but on a second attempt on the 9th, through the inadvertence of the doorkeepers, Prynne, Annesly, and Hungerford succeeded in taking their seats. When they were observed, however, no busi- ness was done, and the House purposely adjourned for dinner. At the return of members in the afternoon the doors were found guarded; the secluded members were not permitted to pass, and a vote was at once taken that they should not again be allowed to enter the House. Wrath- ful at the failure of his protest and at the continuance of the republican form of government, Prynne attacked his adversaries fiercely in print. In England 's Confusion, pub- lished 30th May 1659, in the True and Full Narrative, and in The Brief Necessary Vindication he gave long accounts of the attempt to enter the House and of his ejection, while in the Curtaine Drawne he held up the claims of the Rump to derision. In Mola Asinaria the ruling powers are described as " a new-fangled Government, compacted of Treason, Usurpation, Tyranny, Theft, and Murder." Wood, however, denies that this was by Prynne. In Shuffling, Cutting, and Dealing, 26th May, he rejoiced at the quarrels which he sees arising, for " if you all complain I hope I shall win at last." Concordia Discors pointed out P R Y N N E the absurdity of the constant tendency to multiply oaths, while "remonstrances," "narratives," "queries," "prescrip- tions," "vindications," "declarations," and "statements" were scattered broadcast. Upon the cry of the " good old cause " he is especially sarcastic and severe in The True Good Old Cause rightly stated and other pamphlets. Loyalty Banished explains itself. His activity and fear- lessness in attacking those in power during this eventful year were remarkable, and an ironical petition was circu- lated in Westminster Hall and the London streets com- plaining of his indefatigable scribbling. On 1 2th October the Rump was again expelled by Lambert, and on 24th December once more restored. On 26th December Prynne made another fruitless attempt to take his seat. In obedi- ence to the popular voice, however, the ejected members of 1648, with Prynne among them, wearing a basket-hilt sword, re-entered the House and resumed their old seats on 21st February 1660. He boldly declared that if Charles was to come back it were best done by the votes of those who had made war on his father, and was admonished for his language by Monk and the privy council. This parlia- ment recalled Charles and dissolved itself immediately, — Prynne bringing in the Bill for the dissolution on 24th February. On 13th March he appears as one of three appointed to carry out the resolution of the House expung- ing the Engagement. The Convention Parliament, which met on 25th April 1660, contained a large number of Presbyterians. Prynne, who was returned for two places, Ludgershall and Bath, elected to sit for the latter, and on 16th June presented to the king an address from the corporation, evidently drawn up by himself, under the title of Bathonia Rediviva. On 1st May he Avas nominated on the committee appointed "to peruse the Journals and Records, and to examine what pre- tended Acts or orders have passed, inconsistent with the government by King, Lords, and Commons, and report them, with their opinion thereon, to this House," and to secure the steady administration of the law, and the con- firmation of the legal judgments of the past years. On 9th May he went to the Lords with various loyal votes of the Commons, and again on 18th May and on 9th June. On 3d June he " fell upon" Ashley Cooper for putting his hand to the " instrument " to settle the Protector in power. On the 1 3th he moved that Colonel Fleetwood, Richard Crom- well, John Goodwin, Thorpe, and Whitelock should be excepted from the Act of general pardon and oblivion, the speedy passing of which he strongly urged upon the House. It is said that at the Restoration he applied to be made one of the barons of the exchequer, and that it was in default of this, and to keep so active a man in good temper, that he was appointed chief keeper of the records in the Tower with a salary of £500 a year by Charles, "of his owne meere motion for my services and sufferings for him under the late usurpers, and strenuous endeavours by printing and otherwise to restore' His Majesty." On 2d July he supported a proposal that all officers who had served during the Protectorate should now refund their salaries, and declared that he knew that those persons had received above £250,000 for their iniquitous doings and to keep out the king, a charge he had previously made on 12th May. In all the debates he was for severity upon any one who had held office under Cromwell. On 9th July he spoke " very honestly and passionately " from the Presby- terian point of view in the first great debate on religion, and on the 16th declared he "would not be for bishops unless they would derive their power from the king and not vaunt themselves to be jure divino." In the debate of the 27th upon the Lords' delay in passing the Act of Indemnity Prynne found an opportunity for expressing his hatred of priests and Jesuits ; and on the 30th, in the debate on the Ministers' Bill, he urged a settlement on the principle that the ministers should be compelled to take the oath, but that " all presentations should be good throughout, though not by the right patrons, in time of trouble." On 17th August he spoke passionately against any leniency whatsoever being extended to any of the king's judges. It is curious, however, to find that the House appointed him to carry the petition to the king in favour of Lambert or Vane. When the question of dis- banding came up, for the carrying out of which he was in October made one of the commissioners, Prynne moved that no arrears should be paid to those who had acted with Lambert and did not submit. On 7th November he supported the Bill for the attainder of Cromwell and others who had participated in the king's execution, and were since dead, and particularly desired that the House would take the first and second reading at the same sitting, as was done in the case of the king's trial. At some time in this year (1660) he wrote a letter on the evil custom of drinking healths, a subject discussed in the House on 10th November. There was indeed scarcely any debate in which Prynne's voice was not heard ; he spoke against laying the cost of the abolition of the court of wards upon the excise, having been in August appointed on the commission for appeals and regulating the excise, and in favour of Bills against the profanation of the Lord's Day (in which his knowledge of ecclesiastical con- troversy again appeared) and against swearing. He ap- pears at this time to have been officially connected with the Admiralty. He supported on 27th November the abortive attempt to turn the king's declaration concern- ing ecclesiastical affairs into a Bill, and moved against the payment of the debts of the attainted regicides. In December he wrote against the bishops to the king, thus " blemishing his late services." During this year was pub- lished A Seasonable Vindication of the Supream Authority and Jurisdiction of Christian Kings, Lords, Parliaments, as well over the Possessions as Persons of Delinquents, Pre- lates, and Churchmen. At the elections for the Pensionary Parliament, which met on 8th May 1661, Prynne was again returned as member for Bath in spite of the vehement efforts of the Royalists headed by Sir T. Bridge. This parliament was bent upon the humiliation of the Presbyterians, and Prynne appears in his familiar character of protester. On 30th May, when the members took the sacrament together at St Margaret's, " Mr Prynne and some few others refused to take it kneel- ing. The parson with the bread passed on and refused to give it, but he with the wine, not noticing, gave the wine." With Secretary Morris Prynne opposed the motion that Dr Gunning should receive the thanks of the House and be desired to print his sermon. On the 1 8th of this month he had moved that the Engagement, with the Solemn League and Covenant, should be burned by the hangman. On 13th July he was the subject of attack, as being in a way the representative of Presbyterianism ; the House in its vehement Anglicanism declared that his paper lately pub- lished, Sundry Reasons against the new intended Bill for governing and reforming Corporations, was illegal, false, scandalous, and seditious. Prynne was censured, and so strong was the feeling that he deemed it best to express his sorrow, upon which the offence was remitted. The continued attacks upon the Presbyterians led him to pub- lish his Short, Sober, Pacific Examination of Exuberances in the Common Prayer, as well as the Apology for Tender Consciences touching Not Bowing at the Name of Jesus. In 1662 there appeared also the Brevia Parliamentaria Rediviva, possibly a portion of the Register of Parlia- mentary Writs, of which the fourth and concluding volume was published in 1664. During 1663 he served constantly P R Y — P S A on committees, and was chairman of the committee of supply in July, and again in April 1664. In the third session Prynne was once more, 13th May 1664, censured for altering the draft of a Bill relating to public-houses after commitment, but the House again, upon his submission, while taking severe notice of an irregu- larity committed by "so ancient and knowing a member," remitted the offence, and he again appears on the com- mittee of privileges in November and afterwards. In 1665 and 1666 he published the second and first volumes respectively of the Exact Chronological Vindication and Historical Demonstration of the supreme ecclesiastical juris- diction exercised by the English kings from the original planting of Christianity to the death of Richard I. In the latter year especially he was very busy with his pen against the Jesuits. In January 1667 he was one of three appointed to manage the evidence at the hearing of the impeachment of Lord Mordaunt, and in November of the same year spoke in defence of Clarendon, so far as the sale of Dunkirk was concerned ; and this appears to have been the last time that he addressed the House. In 1668 was published his Aurum Reginx or Records concerning Queen-gold, the Brief Animadversions on Coke's Institutes in 1669, and the History of King John, Henry III., and Edward I., in which the power of the crown over ecclesi- astics was maintained, in 1670. The date of the Abridg- ment of the Records of the Tower of London is doubtful, though the preface is dated 1656/57. Prynne died in his lodgings at Lincoln's Inn, 24th October 1669, and was buried in the walk under the chapel there, which stands upon pillars. His will, by which he gave one portion of his books to Lincoln's Inn and another to Oriel College, is dated llth August 1669. Prynne was never married. The following curious account of his habits is given by Wood. "His custom when he studied was to put on a long quilted cap which came an inch over his eyes, serving as an umbrella to defend them from too much light ; and, seldom eating a dinner, would every three hours or more be munching a roll of bread, and now and then refresh his exhausted spirits with ale brought to him by his servant." There is a portrait of him in Oriel College, Oxford, and Wood mentions one by Hollar, and an engraving by Stent, as the best extant. (S. R. G.— 0. A.) PRYTANIS (pi. prytaneis) was the title of certain officials in Greek states. They appear to have succeeded the kings at the time when the monarchical form of government was abolished throughout Greece. At Rhodes they continued to be the chief magistrates as late as the 1st century B.C., but in other states their functions dwindled. Though they were not priests, they had the charge of certain public sacrifices. Their headquarters were in the " pryta- neum" or town-hall, the central point of a Greek state, where a fire was kept perpetually burning on the public hearth. When a colony was founded the fire in the prytaneum of the new city was kindled from the fire in the prytaneum of the mother-city, and if this colonial fire ever happened to be extinguished it was rekindled from the same source. At Athens in classical times the prytaneis were those fifty members of the council of five hundred who presided at the council meetings as well as at the popular assemblies. They consisted of the fifty members who represented one of the ten tribes on the council. The office was held for a tenth of a year and passed in rotation to the representa- tives of each of the ten tribes. During their term of office the prytaneis were maintained at the public expense in the tholos or rotunda (not, as is sometimes stated, in the prytaneum). As the highest mark of honour, distinguished citizens and their descendants were sometimes maintained for life in the prytaneum. Here, too, ambassadors were entertained. There was further a court of justice at Athens called the "court in the prytaneum"; it tried murderers who were not to be found, and also lifeless instruments which had been the cause of death, — an institution prob- ably existing from a very remote antiquity. PRZEMYSL, one of the principal towns of Galicia, Austria, and the seat of a Roman Catholic and of a Greek bishop, is picturesquely situated on the river San, about 140 miles to the east of Cracow. It contains several churches, of which the two cathedrals are the most inter- esting, and numerous convents, schools, and seminaries. Among its manufactures are wooden wares, linen, leather, and liqueur, and a brisk trade is carried on in these articles and in agricultural produce. The trade is mostly in the hands of Jews, who form fully a third of the population. On the hill above the town are the ruins of an old castle, said to have been founded by Casimir the Great. Since 1874 Przemysl has been strongly fortified. The population of the town proper in 1880 was 9244, of the commune 20,040. Przemysl, one of the oldest towns in Galicia, claims to have been founded in the 8th century, and was at one time capital of a large independent principality. Casimir the Great ami other Polish princes endowed it with privileges similar to those of Cracow, and it attained a high degree of prosperity. In the 17th century its im- portance was destroyed by inroads of Tatars, Cossacks, and Swedes. PSALMANAZAR, GEORGE (c. 1679-1763), the assumed name of a pretended native of Formosa, who was in reality a Frenchman, and was born about 1679, probably in Languedoc. According to his own account he was sent in his seventh year to a free school taught by two Franciscan monks, after which he was educated in a Jesuit college "in an archiepiscopal city." On leaving college he was recommended as tutor to a young gentleman, but soon fell into a lazy and idle life and became involved in pecuniary difficulties. This induced him to assume various personations in order to obtain a supply of ready money, his first being that of a pilgrim on the journey to Rome. Afterwards he travelled through Germany, Brabant, and Flanders in the character of a Japanese convert. At Liege he enlisted in the Dutch service, shortly after which he altered his character to that of an unconverted Japanese. At Sluys he made the acquaintance of a Scotch chaplain, by whom he was brought over to England and introduced to the bishop of London. Having undergone conversion to Christianity, he was employed by the bishop to translate the church catechism into what was supposed to be the Formosan language. In 1704 he published a fictitious Historical and Geographical Description of Formosa, and was shortly afterwards sent to complete his studies at the university of Oxford. The work of course was founded on previous publications, but the compilation was done with great cleverness, in addition to which he printed a so-called Formosan alphabet, and specimens of the language accompanied with translations. In 1707 he published Dialogue between a Japanese and a Formosan. There also appeared without date An Inquiry into the Objections against George Psalmanazar of Formosa, with George Psalmanazar's Ansiver. To add to his income he also joined another person in promoting the sale of a sort of white japan, the art of painting which he professed to have brought from Formosa. His pretensions Avere from the beginning doubted by many, and when exposure was inevitable he made a full confession of his guilt. Through- out the rest of his life he not only exhibited a seemingly conscientious regard for truth but according to Dr Samuel Johnson, as reported by Mrs Piozzi, "a piety, penitence, and virtue exceeding almost what we read as wonderful in the lives of the saints." Dr Johnson used to discuss theo- logical and literary matters with him in an alehouse in the city, and cherished so high an opinion of his character and talents that he asserted he would " as soon think of contradicting a bishop." Psalmanazar obtained a comfort- able living by writing for the booksellers. He published P S A — P S A 29 Essays on Scriptural Subjects (1753), contributed various articles to the Ancient Universal History, and completed Palmer's History of Printing. He died in Ironmonger Row, Old Street, London, 3d May 1763. His memoirs appeared in 1764 under the title Memoirs of * * * commonly knoim by the Name of George Psalmanazar, but do not disclose his real name or the place of his birth. PSALMS, BOOK OF, or PSALTER, the first book of the Hagiographa in the Hebrew Bible. Title and Traditional Authorship. — The Hebrew title of the book is D^nijl, tehilllm, or D^fi "IDD, "the book of hymns " or rather " songs of praise." x The singular n?nn is properly the infinitive or nomen verbi of ??!"!, a verb employed in the technical language of the temple service for the execution of a jubilant song of praise to the accompaniment of music and the blare of the priestly trumpets (1 Chron. xvi. 4 sq., xxv. 3 ; 2 Chron. v. 12 sq.). The name is not therefore equally applicable to all psalms, and in the later Jewish ritual the synonym hallel specially designates two series of psalms, cxiii.-cxviii. and cxlv.-cl., of which the former was sung at the three great feasts, the encaenia, and the new moon, and the latter at the daily morning prayer. That the whole book is named " praises " is clearly due to the fact that it was the manual of the temple service of song, in which praise was the leading feature. But for an individual psalm the usual name is "liDtp (in the Bible only in titles of psalms), which is applic- able to any piece designed to be sung to a musical accom- paniment. Of this word ^aA/xd?, "psalm," is a translation, and in the Greek Bible the whole book is called ^aA/zoi or if/aXrt'ipior.- The title \^aXfj.oi or /3i/3Aos if/aX/j.wi' is used in the New Testament (Luke xx. 42, xxiv. 44 ; Acts i. 20), but in Heb. iv. 7 we find another title, namely "David." Hippolytus tells us that in his time most Christians said "the Psalms of David," and believed the whole book to be his ; but this title and belief are both of Jewish origin, for in 2 Mac. ii. 13 TO, rov Aavt'8 means the Psalter, and the title of the apocryphal " Psalter of Solomon " implies that the previously existing Psalter was ascribed to David. Jewish tradition does not make David the author of all the psalms ; but as he was regarded as the founder and legislator of the temple psalmody (1 Chron., ut sup. ; Ezra iii. 10; Neh. xii. 36, 45 sq. ; Ecclus. xlvii. 8 sq.), so also he was held to have completed and arranged the whole book, though according to Talmudic tradition 3 he incor- porated psalms by ten other authors, Adam, Melchizedek, Abraham, Moses, Heman, Jeduthun, Asaph, and the three sons of Korah. With this it agrees that the titles of the psalms name no one later than Solomon, and even he is not recognized as a psalmodist by the most ancient tradition, that of the LXX., which omits him from the title of Ps. cxxvii. and makes Ps. Ixxii. be written not by but of him. The details of the tradition of authorship show consider- able variation ; according to the Talmudic view Adam is author of the Sabbath psalm, xcii., and Melchizedek of Ps. ex., while Abraham is identified with Ethan the Ezrahite (Ps. Ixxxix.). But, according to older Jewish tradition attested by Origen,4 Ps. xcii. is by Moses, to whom are assigned Pss. xc.-c. inclusive, according to a general rule that all anonymous pieces are by the same hand with the nearest preceding psalm whose author is named ; and Ps. ex., which by its title is Davidic, seems to have been given to Melchizedek to avoid the dilemma of Matt. xxii. 41 sq. 1 Hippol., ed. Lag., p. 188; Euseb., II. E., vi. 25, 2; Epiph., Mens. et Pond. , § 23 ; Jerome's preface to Psalt. juxta Hebrasos. 2 Similarly in the Syriac Bible the title is "mazmore. " 3 The passages are collected in Kimhi's preface to his commentary on the Psalms, ed. Schiller-Szinessy, Cambridge, 1883. 4 Opp., ii. 514 sq., ed. Rue ; cp. Hippol., ut supra; Jerome, Ep. CXL. (ad Cypr.), and Praef. in Mol. Origen's rule accounts for all the psalms except i. and ii., which were sometimes reckoned as one poem (Acts xiii. 33 in the Western text ; Origen ; B. Berakhoth, f . 9b), and appear to have been ascribed to David (Acts iv. 25). The opinion of Jerome (Prsef. in Ps. Heb.} and other Christian writers that the collector of the Psalter was Ezra does not seem to rest on Jewish tradition. Nature and Origin of the Collection. — Whatever may be the value of the titles to individual psalms, there can be no question that the tradition that the Psalter was col- lected by David is not historical ; for no one doubts that some of the psalms date from after the Babylonian exile. The truth that underlies the tradition is that the collection is essentially the hymn-book of the second temple, and it was therefore ascribed to David, because it was assumed, as we see clearly from Chronicles, that the order of worship in the second temple was the same as in the first, and had David as its father : as Moses completed the law of Israel for all time before the people entered Canaan, so David completed the theory and contents of the temple psalmody before the temple itself was built. When we thus under- stand its origin, the tradition becomes really instructive, and may be translated into a statement which throws light on a number of points connected with the book, namely, that the Psalter was (finally, at least) collected with a liturgical purpose. Thus, though the Psalms represent a great range of individual religious experience, they avoid such situations and expressions as are too unique to be used in acts of public devotion. Many of the psalms are doxologies or the like, expressly written for the temple ; others are made up of extracts from older poems in a way perfectly natural in a hymn-book, but otherwise hardly in- telligible. Such ancient hymns as Exod. xv. 1 sq., Judges v., 1 Sam. ii. 1 sq., are not included in the collection, though motives borrowed from them are embodied in more modem psalms ; the interest of the collector, we see, was not his- torical but liturgical. Again, the temple, Zion, the solemn feasts, are constantly kept in the foreground. All these points go to show that the collection was not only used but actually formed for use in the temple. The question now arises, Was the collection a single act or is the Psalter made up of several older collections 1 And here we have first to observe that in the Hebrew text the Psalter is divided into five books, each of which closes with a doxology. The scheme of the whole is as follows : — Book I. , Pss. i. -xli. : all these are ascribed to David except i. , ii. , x. (which is really part of ix.), xxxiii. (ascribed to David in LXX.) ; doxology, xli. 13. Book II., Pss. xlii. -Ixxii. : of these xlii. -xlix. are ascribed to the Korahites (xliii. being part of xlii.), 1. to Asaph, li.-lxxi. to David (except Ixvi., Ixvii., Ixxi. anonymous; in LXX. the last two bear David's name), Ixxii. to Solomon ; doxology, Ixxii. 18, 19 followed by the subscription "The prayers of David the son of Jesse are ended." Book III., Pss. Ixxiii. -Ixxxix. : here Ixxiii.- Ixxxiii. bear the name of Asaph, Ixxxiv., Ixxxv. , Ixxxvii. , Ixxxviii. that of the Korahites, Ixxxvi. of David, Ixxxviii. of Heman, Ixxxix. of Ethan ; doxology, Ixxxix. 52. Book IV., Pss. xc.-cvi. : all are anonymous except xc. (Moses), ci., ciii. (David), — LXX. gives also civ. to David ; here the doxology is peculiar, " Blessed be Jehovah God of Israel from everlasting and to everlasting. And let all the people say Amen, Hallelujah." Book V., Pss. cvii.-cl. : of these cviii.-cx., cxxii., cxxiv., cxxxi.,cxxxiii., cxxxviii. - cxlv. are ascribed to David, and cxxvii. to Solomon, and cxx.-cxxxiv. are pilgrimage psalms ; LXX. varies considerably from the Hebrew as to the psalms to be ascribed to David ; the book closes with a group of doxological psalms. The division into five books was known to Hippolytus, but a closer examination of the doxologies shows that it does not represent the original scheme of the Psalter; for, while the doxologies to the first three books are no part of the psalms to which they are attached, but really mark the end of a book in a pious fashion not uncommon in Eastern litera- ture, that to book iv. with its rubric addressed to the people plainly belongs to the psalm, or rather to its liturgical exe- cution, and does not therefore really mark the close of a 30 PSALMS collection once separate. In point of fact books iv. and v. have so many common characters that there is every reason to regard them as a single great group. Again, the main part of books ii. and iii. (Pss. xlii.-lxxxiii.) is distinguished from the rest of the Psalter by habitually avoiding the name Jehovah (the Lord) and using Elohim (God) instead, even in cases like Ps. 1. 7, where " I am Jehovah thy God " of Exod. xx. 2 is quoted but changed very awkwardly to " I am God thy God." This is not due to the authors of the individual psalms, but to an editor ; for Ps. liii. is only another recension of Ps. xiv., and Ps. Ixx. repeats part of Ps. xl., and here Jehovah is six times changed to Elohim, while the opposite change happens but once. The Elohim psalms, then, have undergone a common editorial treatment distinguishing them from the rest of the Psalter. And they make up the mass of books ii. and iii., the remaining psalms, Ixxxiv.-lxxxix., appearing to be a sort of appendix. But when we look at the Elohim psalms more nearly we see that they contain two distinct elements, Davidic psalms and psalms ascribed to the Levitical choirs (sons of Korah, Asaph). The Davidic collection as we have it splits the Levitical psalms into two groups and actually divides the Asaphic Ps. 1. from the main Asaphic collection, Ixxiii.- Ixxxiii. This order can hardly be original, especially as the Davidic Elohim psalms have a separate subscription (Ps. Ixxii. 20). But if we remove them we get a continuous body of Levitical Elohim psalms, or rather two collections, the first Korahitic and the second Asaphic, to which there have been added by way of appendix by a non-Elohistic editor a supplementary group of Korahite psalms and one psalm (certainly late) ascribed to David. The formation of books iv. and v. is certainly later than the Elohistic re- daction of books ii. and iii., for Ps. cviii. is made up of two Elohim psalms (Ivii. 7-11, Ix. 5-12) in the Elohistic form, though the last two books of the Psalter are generally Jehovistic. We can thus distinguish the following steps in the redaction : — (a) the formation of a Davidic collection (book i.) with a closing doxology; (6) a second Davidic collection (li.-lxii.) with doxology and subscription; (c) a twofold Levitical collection (xlii.-xlix. ; 1., Ixxiii.-lxxxiii.) ; (d) an Elohistic redaction and combination of (6) and (c) ; (e) the addition of a non-Elohistic supplement to (d) with a doxology ; (/) a collection later than (d), consisting of books iv., v. And finally the anonymous psalms i., ii., which as anonymous were hardly an original part of book i., may have been prefixed after the whole Psalter was completed. We see too that it is only in the latest collec- tion (books iv., v.) that anonymity is the rule, and titles, especially titles with names, occur only sporadically. Else- where the titles run in series and correspond to the limits of older collections. Date of the Collection. — A process of collection which involves so many stages must plainly have taken a con- siderable time, and the question arises whether we can fix a limit for its beginning and end or even assign a date for any one stage of the process. An inferior limit for the final collection is given by the Septuagint translation. But this translation itself was not written all at once, and its history is obscure ; we only know from the pro- logue to Ecclesiasticus that the Hagiographa, and doubt- less therefore the Psalter, were read in Greek in Egypt about 130 B.C. or somewhat later.1 And the Greek Psalter, though it contains one apocryphal psalm at the close, is essentially the same as the Hebrew ; there is nothing to suggest that the Greek was first translated from a less complete Psalter and afterwards extended to agree with 1 The text of the passage is obscure and in part corrupt, but the Latin "cum multum temporis ibi fuissem" probably expresses the author's meaning. A friend has suggested to the writer that for we ought perhaps to read cvxv the extant Hebrew. It is therefore reasonable to hold that the Hebrew Psalter was completed and recognized as an authoritative collection long enough before 130 B.C. to allow of its passing to the Greek-speaking Jews in Alex- andria. Beyond this the external evidence for the com- pletion of the collection does not carry us. It appears indeed from 1 Chron. xvi., 2 Chrou. vi. 41, 42, that various psalms belonging to books iv. and v. were current in the time of the Chronicler, — that is, towards the close of the Persian or more probably in the earlier part of the Greek period. But it is not certain that the psalms he quotes (xcvi., cv., cvi., cxxxii.) already existed in their place in our Psalter, or that Ps. cvi. even existed in its present form. Turning now to internal evidence, we find the surest start- ing-point in the Levitical psalms of the Elohistic collection. These, as we hare seen, form two groups, referred to the sons of Korah and to Asaph. At the beginning of the Greek period or somewhat later Asaph was taken to be a contemporary of David and chief of the singers of his time (Neh. xii. 46), or one of the three chief singers belonging to the three great Levitical houses (1 Chron. xxv. 1 sq.). But the older history knows nothing of an individual Asaph ; at the time of the return from Babylon the guild of singers as a whole was called Bne Asaph (Ezra ii. 41), and so apparently it was in the time of Nehemiah (Neh. xi. 22, Heb.).2 The singers or Asaphites are at this time still distinguished from the Levites ; the oldest attempt to incorporate them with that tribe appears in Exod. vi. 24, where Abiasaph — that is, the eponym of the guild of Asaphites- — is made one of the three sons of Korah. But when singers and Levites were fused the Asaphites ceased to be the only singers, and ultimately, as we see in Chron- icles, they were distinguished from the Korahites and reckoned to Gershom (1 Chron. vi.), while the head of the Korahites is Heman, as in the title of Ps. Ixxxviii. It is only in the appendix to the Elohistic psalm-book that we find Heman and Ethan side by side with Asaph, as in the Chronicles, but the body of the collection distinguishes between two guilds of singers, Korahites and Asaphites, and is therefore as a collection younger than Nehemiah, but presumably older than Chronicles with its three guilds. The contents of the Korahite and Asaphic psalms give no reason to doubt that they really were collected by or for these two guilds. Both groups are remarkable by the fact that they hardly contain any recognition of present sin on the part of the community of Jewish faith — though they do confess the sin of Israel in the past — but are exercised with the observation that prosperity does not follow righteousness either in the case of the individual (xlix., Ixxiii.) or in that of the nation, which suffers not- withstanding its loyalty to God, or even on account thereof (xliv., Ixxix.). Now the rise of the problems of individual faith is the mark of the age that followed Jeremiah, while the confident assertion of national righteousness under misfortune is a characteristic mark of pious Judaism after Ezra, in the period of the law but not earlier. Malachi, Ezra, and Nehemiah, like Haggai and Zechariah, are still very far from holding that the sin of Israel lies all in the past. Again, a considerable number of these psalms (xliv., Ixxiv., Ixxix., Ixxx.) point to an historical situation which can be very definitely realized. They are post -exile in their whole tone and belong to a time when prophecy had ceased and the synagogue worship was fully established (Ixxiv. 8, 9). But the Jews are no longer the obedient 2 The threefold division of the singers appears in the same list according to the Hebrew text of ver. 17, but the occurrence of Jedu- tlmn as a proper name instead of a musical note is suspicious, and makes the text of LXX. preferable. The first clear trace of the triple choir is therefore in Neh. xii. 24, i.e., not earlier than Alexander the Great, with whom Jaddua (ver. 22) was contemporary. PSALMS 31 slaves of Persia ; there has been a national rising and armies have gone forth to battle. Yet God has not gone forth with them : the heathen have been victorious, blood has flowed like water round Jerusalem, the temple has been defiled, and these disasters assume the character of a reli- gious persecution. These details would fit the time of re- ligious persecution under Antiochus Epiphanes, to which indeed Ps. Ixxiv. is referred (as a prophecy) in 1 Mac. vii. 16. But against this reference there is the objection that these psalms are written in a time of the deepest de- jection and yet are psalms of the temple choirs. Now when the temple was reopened for worship after its pro- fanation by Antiochus the Jews were victorious and a much more joyous tone was appropriate. Besides, if the psalms are of the Maccabee period, they can have been no original part of the Elohistic psalm-book, which certainly was not collected so late. But there is one and only one time in the Persian period to which they can be referred, viz., that of the great civil wars under Artaxerxes III. Ochus (middle of 4th century B.C.). See PERSIA, vol. xviii. p. 580, and PHCENICIA, ib. p. 809. The Jews were involved in these and were severely chastised, and we know from Josephus that the temple was defiled by the Persians and humiliating conditions attached to the worship there. It would appear that to the Jews the struggle took a theo- cratic aspect, and it is not impossible that the hopeful beginnings of a national movement, which proved in the issue so disastrous, are reflected in some of the other pieces of the collection.1 All this carries the collection of the Elohistic psalm-book down to quite the last years of the Persian period at the earliest, and with this it agrees — to name but one other point — that the view of Israel's past history taken in Ps. Ixxviii., where the final rejection of the house of Joseph is co-ordinated with the fall of Shiloh and the rise of Zion and the Davidic kingdom, indi- cates a standpoint very near to that of Chronicles. The fusion of the separate Korahite and Asaphic psalm-books in a single collection along with the second group of Davidic psalms may very probably be connected with the remodelling of the singers in three choirs which Chronicles presupposes. Now books iv. and v. are, as we have seen, later than the Elohistic redaction of books ii. and iii., so that the collection of the last part of the Psalter must, if our argu- ment up to this point is sound, be thrown into the Greek period, and probably not the earliest part thereof. And this conclusion is borne out by a variety of indications. First of all, the language of some of these psalms clearly points to a very late date indeed.2 The Jews had even in the time of Nehemiah (Neh. xiii. 24) been in danger of forgetting their own tongue and adopting a jargon com- pounded with neighbouring idioms ; but the restorers of the law fought against this tendency with vigour and with so much success that very tolerable Hebrew was written for at least a century longer. But in such a psalm as cxxxix. the language is a real jargon, a mixture of Hebrew and Aramaic, which, in a hymn accepted for use in the temple, shows the Hebrew speech to have reached the last 1 Ps. Ixxxiii. , in which Judah is threatened by the neighbouring states acting with the support rather than under the guidance of Asshur (the satrap of Syria?) is also much more easily understood under the loose rule of Persia than under the Greeks, and the associa- tion of Tyre with Philistia (as in Ixxxvii. 4) agrees with Pseudo-Scylax (see vol. xviii. p. 809). If this psalm has a definite historical back- ground, which many critics doubt, it must be later than the destruc- tion of Sidon by Ochus. That it is not of the Assyrian age is obvious from the mention of Arab tribes. 2 For details as to the linguistic phenomena of the Psalms, see especially Giesebrecht in Stade's Zeitschr., 1881, p. 276 sq. The objec- tions of Driver (Journ. of Phil., xi. 233) do not touch the argument that such psalms as cxxxix. belong to the very latest stage of Biblical Hebrew. stage of decay. Again, though no part of the Psalter shows clearer marks of a liturgical purpose, we find that in books iv. and v. the musical titles have entirely disap- peared. The technical terms, that is, of the temple music which are still recognized by the Chronicler have gone out of use, presumably because they were already become un- intelligible, as they were when the Septuagint version was made. This implies a revolution in the national music which we can hardly explain in any other way than by the influence of that Hellenic culture which, from the time of the Macedonian conquest, began to work such changes on the whole civilization and art of the East. Once more the general tone of large parts of this collection is much more cheerful than that of the Elohistic psalm-book. It begins with a psalm (xc.) ascribed in the title to Moses, and seemingly designed to express feelings appropriate to a situation analogous to that of the Israelites when, after the weary march through the wilderness, they stood on the borders of the promised land. It looks back on a time of great trouble and forward to a brighter future. In some of the following psalms there are still references to deeds of oppression and violence, but more generally Israel ap- pears as happy under the law with such a happiness as it did enjoy under the Ptolemies during the 3d century B.C. The problems of divine justice are no longer burning ques- tions; the righteousness of God is seen in the peaceful felicity of the pious (xci., xcii., &c.). Israel, indeed, is still scattered and not triumphant over the heathen, but even in the dispersion the Jews are under a mild rule (cvi. 46), and the commercial activity of the nation has begun to develop beyond the seas (cvii. 26 sq.). The whole situation and vein of piety here are strikingly parallel to those shown in Ecclesiasticus, which dates from the close of the Ptolemaic sovereignty in Palestine. But some of the psalms carry us beyond this peaceful period to a time of struggle and victory. In Ps. cxviii. Israel, led by the house of Aaron — this is a notable point — has emerged triumphant from a desperate conflict and celebrates at the temple a great day of rejoicing for the unhoped-for victory ; in Ps. cxlix. the saints are pictured with the praises of God in their throat and a sharp sword in their hands to take vengeance on the heathen, to bind their kings and nobles, and exercise against them the judgment written in prophecy. Such an enthusiasm of militant piety, plainly based on actual successes of Israel and the house of Aaron, can only be referred to the first victories of the Maccabees, culminating in the purification of the temple in 165 B.C. This restora- tion of the worship of the national sanctuary under cir- cumstances that inspired religious feelings very different from those of any other generation since the return from Babylon might most naturally be followed by an extension of the temple psalmody ; it certainly was followed by some liturgical innovations, for the solemn service of dedication on the twenty-fifth day of Chisleu was made the pattern of a new annual feast (that mentioned in John x. 22). Now in 1 Mac. iv. 54 we learn that the dedication was celebrated with hymns and music. In later times the psalms for the encaenia or feast of dedication embraced Ps. xxx. and the hallel Pss. cxiii.- cxviii. There is no reason to doubt that these were the very psalms sung in 165 B.C., for in the title of Ps. xxx. the words " the song for the dedication of the house," which are a somewhat awkward insertion in the original title, are found also in the LXX., and therefore are probable evidence of the liturgical use of the psalm in the very first years of the feast. But no collection of old psalms could fully suffice for such an occasion, and there is every reason to think that the hallel, which especially in its closing part contains allusions that fit no other time so well, was first arranged for the same ceremony. The course of the subsequent history makes PSALMS it very intelligible that the Psalter was finally closed, as we have seen from the date of the Greek version that it must have been, within a few years at most after this great event.1 From the time of Hyrcanus downwards the ideal of the princely high priests became more and more diver- gent from the ideal of the pious in Israel, and in the Psalter of Solomon we see religious poetry turned against the lords of the temple and its worship. (See MESSIAH. ) Ail this does not, of course, imply that there are not in books iv. and v. any pieces older than the completion of books ii. and iii., for the composition of a poem and its acceptance as part of the Levitical liturgy are not neces- sarily coincident in date, except in psalms written with a direct liturgical purpose. In the fifteen "songs of degrees" (Pss. cxx.-cxxxiv.) we have a case in point. According to the Mishna (Middoth, ii. 5) and other Jewish traditions, these psalms were sung by the Levites at the Feast of Tabernacles on the fifteen steps or degrees that led from the women's to the men's court. But when we look at the psalms themselves we see that they must originally have been a hymn-book, not for the Levites, but for the laity who came up to Jerusalem at the great pilgrimage feasts ; and the title of this hymn-book (which can be restored from the titles derived from it that were prefixed to each song when they were taken into the Levitical connexion) was simply "Pilgrimage Songs."2 All these songs are plainly later than the exile ; but some of them cannot well be so late as the formation of the Elohistic psalm-book, and the simple reason why they are not included in it is that they were hymns of the laity, describing with much beauty and depth of feeling the emotions of the pilgrim when his feet stood within the gates of Jerusalem, when he looked forth on the encircling hills, when he felt how good it was to be camping side by side with his brethren on the slopes of Zion (cxxxiii.), when a sense of Jehovah's forgiving grace and the certainty of the redemption of Israel triumphed over all the evils of the present and filled his soul with humble and patient hope. The titles which ascribe four of the pilgrimage songs to David and one to Solomon are lacking in the true LXX., and inconsistent with the contents of the psalms. Better attested, because found in the LXX. as well as in the Hebrew, and therefore probably as old as the collection itself, are the name of Moses in Ps. xc. and that of David in Pss. ci., cii., cviii.-cx., cxxxviii.-cxlv. But where did the last collectors of the Psalms find such very ancient pieces which had been passed by by all previous collectors, and what criterion was there to establish their genuineness ? No canon of literary criticism can treat as valuable external evidence an attestation which first appears so many centuries after the supposed date of the poems, especially when it is confronted by facts so conclusive as that Ps. cviii. is made up of extracts from Pss. Ivii. and Ix. and that Ps. cxxxix. is marked by its language as one of the latest pieces in the book. The only possible question for the critic is whether the ascription of these psalms to David was due to the idea that he was the psalmist par excellence, to whom any poem of unknown origin was naturally ascribed, or whether we have in some at least of these titles an example of the habit so common in later Jewish literature of writing in the name of ancient worthies. In the case of Ps. xc. it can hardly be doubted that this is the real explanation, and the same account must be given of the title in Ps. cxlv., if, as seems probable, it is meant to cover the whole of the great kallel or tehilla, (Ps. cxlv.-cl.), which must, from 1 Possibly under Simon; compare the other Judld (Ps. cxlv.-cl.) with 1 Mac. xiii. 50 sq. 2 TTlPyon "VB> (r6jJD as in Ezra vii. 9 seems to be properly a plural like ITDNn JV3). the allusions in Ps. cxlix., as well as from its place, be almost if not quite the latest thing in the Psalter. Davidic Psalms. — For the later stages of the history of the Psalter we have, as has been seen, a fair amount of circumstantial evidence pointing to conclusions of a pretty definite kind. The approximate dates which their con- tents suggest for the collection of the Elohistic psalm- book and of books iv. and v. confirm one another and are in harmony with such indications as we obtain from external sources. But, in order to advance from the con- clusions already reached to a view of the history of the Psalter as a whole, we have still to consider the two great groups of psalms ascribed to David in books i. and ii. Both these groups appear once to have formed separate collections and in their separate form to have been ascribed to David; for in book i. every psalm, except the introduc- tory poems i. and ii. and the late Ps. xxxiii., which may have been added as a liturgical sequel to Ps. xxxii., bears the title "of David," and in like manner the group Pss. li.-lxxii., though it contains a few anonymous pieces and one psalm which is either "of" or rather according to the oldest tradition "for Solomon," is essentially a Davidic hymn-book, which has been taken over as a whole into the Elohistic Psalter, even the subscription Ixxii. 20 not being omitted. Moreover, the collectors of books i.-iii. knew of no Davidic psalms outside of these two collec- tions, for Ps. Ixxxvi. in the appendix to the Elohistic collection is merely a cento of quotations from Davidic pieces with a verse or two from Exodus and Jeremiah. These two groups, therefore, represented to the collectors the oldest tradition of Hebrew psalmody ; they are either really Davidic or they passed as such. This fact is im- portant ; but its weight may readily be over-estimated, for the Levitical psalms comprise poems of the last half-cen- tury of the Persian empire, and the final collection of books ii. and iii. may fall a good deal later. Thus the tradition that David is the author of these two collections comes to us, not exactly from the time of the Chronicler, but certainly from the time when the view of Hebrew history which he expresses was in the course of forma- tion. And it is not too much to say that that view — which to some extent appears in the historical psalms of the Elohistic Psalter— implies absolute incapacity to \inder- stand the difference between old Israel and later Juda- ism and makes almost anything possible in the way of the ascription of comparatively modern pieces to ancient authors. Nor will it avail to say that this uncritical age did not ascribe the Psalms to David but accepted them on the ground of older titles, for it is hardly likely that each psalm in the Davidic collections had a title before it was transferred to the larger Psalter ; and in any case the titles are manifestly the product of the same uncritical spirit as we have just been speaking of, for not only are many of the titles certainly wrong but they are wrong in such a way as to prove that they date from an age to which David was merely the abstract psalmist, and which had no idea what- ever of the historical conditions of his age. For example, Pss. xx., xxi. are not spoken by a king but addressed to a king by his people ; Pss. v., xxvii. allude to the temple (which did not exist in David's time), and the author of the latter psalm desires to live there continually. Even in the older Davidic psalm-book there is a whole series of hymns in which the writer identifies himself with the poor and needy, the righteous people of God suffering in silence at the hands of the wicked, without other hope than patiently to wait for the interposition of Jehovah (Pss. xii., xxv., xxxvii., xxxviii., &c.). Nothing can be farther removed than this from any possible situation in the life of the David of the books of Samuel, and the case is still worse in the second Davidic collection, especially where we have in the titles PSALMS 33 definite notes as to the historical occasion on which the poems are supposed to have been written. To refer Ps. liii. to Doeg, Ps. liv. to the Ziphites, Ps. lix. to David when watched in his house by Saul, implies an absolute lack of the very elements of historical judgment. Even the bare names of the old history were no longer correctly known when Abimelech (the Philistine king in the stories of Abraham and Isaac) could be substituted in the title of Ps. xxxiv. for Achish, king of Gath. In a word, the ascrip- tion of these two collections to David has none of the characters of a genuine historical tradition. At the same time it is clear that the two collections do not stand on quite the same footing. The Elohistic redac- tion— the change in the names of God — extends only to the second. Now the formation of the Elohistic Psalter must have been an official act directed to the consolidation of the liturgical material of the temple, and if it left one of the so-called Davidic collections untouched the reason must have been that this collection had already a fixed liturgical position. In other words, book i. is the oldest extant liturgy of the second temple, while there is no evidence that the Davidic psalms of book ii. had a fixed liturgical place till at least the close of the Persian period. And now the question arises : May we suppose that the oldest liturgy of the second temple was also the liturgy of the temple of Solomon 1 We have it in evidence that music and song accompanied the worship of the great sanctuaries of northern Israel in the 8th century B.C. (Amos v. 23), but from the context it appears probable that the musicians were not officers of the temple but rather the worshippers at large (compare Amos vi. 5). So it cer- tainly was in the days of David (2 Sam. vi. 5) and even of Isaiah (xxx. 29); the same thing is implied in the song of Hezekiah (Isa. xxxviii. 20), and in Lam. ii. 7 the noise within the sanctuary on a feast-day which affords a simile for the shouts of the victorious Chaldseans suggests rather the untrained efforts of the congregation than the disci- plined music of a temple choir. The allusion to "chambers of singers " in Ezek. xl. 44 is not found in the Septuagint text, which is justified by the context, and the first certain allusion to a class of singers belonging to the sacred min- isters is at the return from Babylon (Ezra ii. 41). The way in which these singers, the sons of Asaph, are spoken of may be taken as evidence that there was a guild of temple singers before the exile ; but they cannot have been very conspicuous or we should have heard more of them. The historical books, as edited in the captivity, are fond of varying the narrative by the insertion of lyrical pieces, and one or two of these— the " passover song " (Exod. xv.) and perhaps the song from the book of Jashar ascribed to Solomon (see vol. xi. p. 598) — look as if they were sung in the first temple ; but they are not found in the Psalter, and, conversely, no piece from the Psalter is used to illustrate the life of David except Ps. xviii., and it occurs in a section which can be shown to be an interpolation in the original form of 2 Samuel. These facts seem to indicate that even book i. of the Psalter did not exist when the editing of the historical books was completed, and that in music as in other matters the ritual of the second' temple was com- pletely reconstructed. Indeed the radical change in the religious life of the nation caused by the captivity could not fail to influence the psalmody of the sanctuary more than any other part of the worship ; the book of Lamenta- tions marks an era of profound importance in the religious poetry of Israel, and no collection formed before these dirges were first sung could have been an adequate hymn- book for the second temple. In point of fact the notes struck in the Lamentations and in Isa. xl.-lxvi. meet our ears again in not a few psalms of book i., e.g., Pss. xxii., xxv., where the closing prayer for the redemption of Israel in a verse additional to the acrostic perhaps gives, as Lagarde suggests, the characteristic post -exile name Pedaiah as that of the author ; Ps. xxxi., with many points of resem- blance to Jeremiah ; Pss. xxxiv., xxxv., where the " servant of Jehovah" is the same collective idea as in Deutero- Isaiah ; and Pss. xxxviii., xli. The key to many of these psalms is that the singer is not an individual but, as in Lam. iii., the true people of God represented as one per- son ; and only in this way can we do justice to expressions which have always been a stumbling-block to those who regard David as the author. But, at the same time, other psalms of the collection treat the problems of individual religion in the line of thought first opened by Jeremiah. Such a psalm is xxxix., and above all Ps. xvi. Other pieces, indeed, may well be earlier. When we compare Ps. viii. with Job vii. 17, 18, we can hardly doubt that the psalm lay before the writer who gave its expressions so bitter a turn in the anguish of his soul, and Pss. xx., xxi. plainly belong to the old kingdom. But on the whole it is not the pre-exilic pieces that give the tone to the collection ; whatever the date of this or that indivi- dual poem, the collection as a whole — whether by selec- tion or authorship — is adapted to express a religious life of which the exile is the presupposition. Only in this way can we understand the conflict and triumph of spirit- ual faith, habitually represented as the faith of a poor and struggling band living in the midst of oppressors and with no strength or help save the consciousness of loyalty to Jehovah, which is the fundamental note of the whole book. Whether any of the older poems really are David's is a question more curious than important, as, at least, there is none which we can fit with certainty into any part of his life. If we were sure that 2 Sam. xxii. was in any sense part of the old tradition of David's life, there would be every reason to answer the question in the affirmative, as has been done by Ewald (see DAVID) ; but the grave doubts that exist on this point throw the whole question into the region of mere conjecture. The contents of book i. make it little probable that it was originally collected by the temple ministers, whose hymn-book it ultimately became. The singers and Levites were ill provided for, and consequently irregular in their attendance at the temple, till the time of Nehemiah, who made it his business to settle the revenues of the clergy in such a way as to make regular service possible. With regular service a regular liturgy would be required, and in the absence of direct evidence it may be conjectured that the adoption of the first part of the Psalter for this purpose took place in connexion with the other far-reaching reforms of Ezra and Nehemiah, which first gave a stable character to the community of the second temple. In any case these psalms, full as they are of spiritual elements which can never cease to be the model of true worship, are the necessary complement of the law as published by Ezra, and must be always taken along with it by those who would understand what Judaism in its early days really was, and how it prepared the way for the gospel. The second Davidic collection, which begins with a psalm of the exile (Ps. Ii. ; see the last two verses), contains some pieces which carry us down to a date decidedly later than that of Nehemiah. Thus Ps. Ixviii. 27 represents the wor- shipping congregation as drawn partly from the neighbour- hood of Jerusalem and partly from the colony of Galilee. In several psalms of this collection, as in the Levitical psalms with which it is coupled, we see that the Jews have again begun to feel themselves a nation and not a mere municipality, though they are still passing through bitter struggles ; and side by side with this there is a de- velopment of Messianic hope, which in Ps. Ixxii. takes a XX. — s 34 P S A — P S A wide sweep, based on the vision of Deutero-Isaiah. All these marks carry us down for this as for the other collec- tions of the Elohistic Psalter to the time when passive obedience to the Achaemenians was interrupted. Several points indicate that the collection was not originally formed as part of the temple liturgy. The title, as preserved in the subscription to Ps. Ixxii. 20, was not "Psalms" but "Prayers of David." Again, while the Levitical psalms were sung in the name of righteous Israel, of which, according to the theory of the second temple, the priestly and Levitical circles were the special holy representatives, these Davidic psalms contain touching expressions of con- trition' and confession (li., Ixv.). And, while there are direct references to the temple service, these are often made from the standpoint, not of the ministers of the temple, but of the laity who come up to join in the solemn feasts or appear before the altar to fulfil their vows (Pss. liv. 6, Iv. 14, Ixiii., Ixvi. 13, &c.). Moreover, the didactic element so prominent in the Levitical psalms is not found here. Such is the fragmentary and conjectural outline which it seems possible to supply of the history of the two Davidic collections, from which it appears that the name of David which they bear is at least so far appropriate as it marks the generally non-clerical origin of these poems. But the positive origin of this title must be sought in another direction and in connexion with book i. From the days of Amos, and in full accordance with the older history, the name of David had been connected with musical skill and even the invention of musical instruments (Amos vi. 5). In the days of Nehemiah, though we do not hear of psalms of David,1 we do learn that instruments of the singers were designated as Davidic, and the epithet " man of God " (Nell. xii. 36) probably implies that agreeably with this David was already regarded as having furnished psalms as well as instruments. But it was because the temple music was ascribed to him that the oldest liturgy came to be known in its totality as "Psalms of David," and the same name was extended to the lay collection of " Prayers of David," while the psalms whose origin was known because they had always been temple psalms were simply named from the Levitical choirs, or at a later date had no title. Musical Execution and Place of tJie Psalms in the Temple Service. — The musical notes found in the titles of the psalms and occasion- ally also in the text (Selah, Higgaion) are so obscure that it seems unnecessary to enter here upon the various conjectures that have been made about them. The clearest point is that a number of the psalms were set to melodies named after songs,2 and that one of these songs, beginning nPlKTT/X (Al-taschith in E.V., Ps. Ivii. sq. ), may be probably identified with the vintage song, Isa. Ixv. 8. The temple music was therefore apparently based on popular melodies. A good deal is said about the musical services of the Levites in Chronicles, both in the account given of David's ordi- nances and in the descriptions of particular festival occasions. But unfortunately it has not been found possible to get from these accounts any clear picture of the ritual or any certainty as to the technical terms used. By the time of the Septuagint these terms were no longer understood ; it is not quite clear whether even the Chronicler understood them fully. The music of the temple attracted the attention of Theophrastus (ap. Porph., De Abst., ii. 26), who was perhaps the first of the Greeks to make observations on the Jews. His description of the temple ritual is not strictly accurate, but he speaks of the wor- shippers as passing the night in gazing at the stars and calling on God in prayer ; his words, if they do not exactly fit anything in the later ritual, are well fitted to illustrate the original liturgical use of Pss. viii., cxxxiv. Some of the Jewish traditions as to the use of particular psalms have been already cited ; it may be added that the Mishna ( Tamld) assigns to the service of the continual 1 I.e., not in the parts of the book of Nehemiah which are by Nehemiah himself. 2 Compare the similar way of citing melodies with the prep, 'al or oZ kala, &c., in Syriac (Land, Anecd., iv. ; Ephr. Syr., Hymni, ed. Lamy). burnt-offering the following weekly cycle of psalms, — (1) xxiv., (2) xlviii., (3) Ixxxii., (4) xciv., (5) Ixxxi., (6) xciii., (Sabbath) xi-ii., as in the title. Many other details are given in the treatise Sii/'f-rini, but these for the most part refer primarily to the synagogue service after the destruction of the temple. For details on the liturgical use of the Psalter in Christendom the reader may refer to Smith's Diet. Chr. Ant., s.v. "Psalmody." Ancient Versions.— A. The oldest version, the LXX., follows a text generally closely corresponding to the Massoretic Hebrew, the main variations being in the titles and in the addition (lacking in some MSS.) of an apocryphal psalm ascribed to David when he fought with Goliath. Pss. ix. and x. are rightly taken as one psalm, but conversely Ps. cxlvii. is divided into two. The LXX. text has many "daughters," of which may be noticed (a) the Memphitic (ed. Lagarde, 1875) ; (ft) the old Latin, which as revised by Jerome in 383 after the current Greek text forms the Psalterium Ronutnnm, long read in the Roman Church and still used in St Peter's ; (c) various Arabic versions, including that printed in the polyglotts of Le Jay and Walton, and two others of the four ex- hibited together in Lagarde's Psalterium, lob, Proverbia, Arabice, 1876 ; on the relations and history of these versions, see G. Hoffmann, in Jenaer Literatim., 1876, art. 539 ; the fourth of Lagarde's versions is from the Peshito. The Hexaplar text of the LXX., as reduced by Origen into greater conformity with the Hebrew by the aid of subsequent Greek versions,3 was further the mother (ii) of the Psalterium Gallicanum, — that is, of Jerome's second revision of the Psalter (385) by the aid ef the Hexaplar text ; this edition became current in Gaul and ultimately was taken into the Vulgate (e) of the Syro-Hexaplar ver- sion (published by Bugati, 1820, and in facsimile from the famous Ambrosian MS. l.yCeriani, Milan, 1874). B. The Christian Aramaic version or Peshito (P'shltta) is largely influenced by the LXX. ; compare Baethgen, Untersuchungen ilber die Psalmen nach der Peschita, Kiel, 1878 (unfinished). This version has peculiar titles taken from Eusebius and Theodore of Mopsuestia (see Nestle, in Theol. Literaturz., 1876, p. 283). C. The Jewish Aramaic version or Targum is probably a late work. The most convenient edition is in Lagarde, Hagiographa Chaldaice, 1873. D. The best of all the old versions is that made by Jerome after the Hebrew in 405. It did not, however, obtain ecclesiastical currency — the old versions holding their ground, just as English churchmen still read the Psalms in the version of the "Great Bible" printed in their Prayer Book. This important version was first published in a good text by Lagarde, Psal- terium iuxta Hebrieos Hieronymi, Leipsic, 1874. Exegetical Works.— While some works of patristic writers are still of value for text criticism and for the history of early exeg'etical tradition, the treatment of the Psalms by ancient and mediaeval Christian writers is as a whole such as to throw light on the ideas of the commentators and their times rather than on the sense of a text which most of them knew only through translations. For the Psalms as for the other books of the Old Testament the scholars of the period of the revival of Hebrew studies about the time of the Reformation were mainly dependent on the ancient versions and on the Jewish scholars of the Middle Ages. In the latter class Kimhi stands pre-eminent ; to the editions of his commentary on the Psalms enumerated in the article KIMHI must now be added the admirable edition of Dr Schiller-Szinessy (Cambridge, 1883), con- taining unfortunately only the first book of his longer commentary. Among the works of older Christian scholars since the revival of letters, the commentary of Calvin (1557) — full of religious insight and sound thought — and the laborious work of M. Geier (1668, 1681 et saspius) may still be consulted with advantage, but for most purposes Rosenmiiller's Scholia in Pss. (2d ed., 1821-22) supersedes the necessity of frequent reference to the predecessors of that industrious com- piler. Of more recent works the freshest and most indispensable are Ew aid's, in the first two half volumes of his Dichter des alien Bundes (2d ed., Gottingen, 1866 ; Eng. tr., 1880), and Olshausen's (1853). To these may be added (excluding general commentaries on the Old Testament) the two acute but wayward com- mentaries of Hitzig (1836, 1863-65), that of Delitzsch (1859-60, then in shorter form in several editions since 1867 ; Eng. tr., 1871), and that of Hupfeld (2d ed. by Riehm, 1867, 2 vols.). The last-named work, though lacking in original power and clearness of judgment, is extremely convenient and useful, and has had an influence perhaps disproportionate to its real exegetical merits. The question of the text was first properly raised by Olshausen, and has since received special attention from, among others, Lagarde (Prophetee ChaM., 1872, p. xlvi. sq.), Dyserinck (in the " scholia" to his Dutch translation of the Psalms, Theol. Tijdschr., 1878, p. 279 sq.), and Bickell (Carmina V. T. metrice, &c., Innsbruck, 1882), whose critical services are not to be judged merely by the measure of assent which his metrical theories may command. In English we have, among others, the useful work of Perowne (5th ed., 1883), that of Lov e and Jennings (2d ed., 1885), and the valuable translation of Cheyne (1884). The mass of literature on the Psalms is so enormous that no full list even of recent commentaries can be here attempted, much less an enumeration of treatises on individual psalms and special critical questions. For the latter Kuenen's Onderzoek, vol. iii., is, up to its date (1865), the most complete, and the new edition now in preparation will doubtless prove the standard work of reference. As regards the dates and historical interpretation of the Psalms, all older dis- cussions, even those of Ewald, are in great measure antiquated by recent pro- gress in Pentateuch criticism and the history of the canon, and an entirely fresh treatment of the Psalter by a sober critical commentator is urgently needed. (W. R. S.) PSALTERY. For the mediaeval instrument of this name ("sautrie" or "cembalo"), see PIANOFORTE (vol. xix. p. 65). The Hebrew ;Q3, rendered if'aXrijpLov,* i/a/fAa, ^aA//.os (Ps. Ixxi. 22), KiOdpa (Ps. Ixxxi. 2), opyavov (Am. v. 23, vi. 5), in the LXX., and " psaltery " or " viol " in the A.V. (also " lute " in the Prayer-Book version of the Psalms), appears to have been a small stringed instrument, harp or lyre, the strings of which were touched with the player's fingers. The statement of Josephus (Ant., vii. 12, 3), that the Kivvpa (1133) had ten strings and was struck with the plectrum, while the va/SAa had twelve and was played with the hand, is the earliest definition having any authority to be met with of these obscure instruments. The Kivvpa, if not a smaller lyre with tighter strings re- 8 See Field, Origenis Hexnpla, where the fragments of these ver- sions are collected. That of Symmachus is esteemed the best. 4 This word reappears in the p^riJDQ of Dan. iii. 5, &c. P S A — P S K 35 quiring a plectrum, may, as some suppose, have been a kind of guitar, rather a tamboura, the most extensively known Eastern stringed instrument, which, in principle, is found represented in the oldest Egyptian monuments. The paucity of strings in the latter is, however, against this attribution. Nothing being more variable than the number of strings attached to the various stringed instru- ments at different times and in different places, eight, nine, or ten strings to the Kivvpa, or ten (see Ps. xxxiii. 2, cxliv. 9, Heb.) or twelve to the vd/3X.a, are probably immaterial variations. The musical instruments of the Bible are the most difficult subject in musical archaeology, about which the translators of the A.V. or the Prayer-Book Psalms did not trouble themselves, but named the instruments from those in use around them. PSAMMETICHUS. See EGYPT, vol. vii. p. 743. PSELLUS, the name of several By/an tine writers, of whom the following were the most important. 1 . MICHAEL PSELLUS the elder, a native of Andros and a pupil of Photius. He flourished in the second half of the 9th century, and strove to stein the rising tide of bar- barism by his devotion to letters and philosophy. His study of the Alexandrine theology, as well as of profane literature, brought him under the suspicions of the ortho- dox, and a former pupil of his, by name Constantine, accused him in an elegiac poem of having abandoned Christianity. In order to perfect his knowledge of Christ- ian doctrine, Psellus had recourse to the instructions of Photius, and then replied to his adversary in a long iambic poem, in which he maintained his orthodoxy. It has been conjectured by Allatius, Cave, and others that some of the books commonly attributed to the younger Psellus are the works of the elder, e.g., the Dialogue on Operations of Demons, and the short treatises On the Virtues of Stones and On Demons. Their reasons, however, resting on the inferiority of literary style and mode of treatment, are inconclusive. 2. MICHAEL CONSTANTINE PSELLUS the younger was born at Constantinople in 1020, of a consular and patrician family. He studied at Athens, and by his talents and vast industry made himself master of all the learning of the age, including theology, law, physics, mathematics, philosophy, and history. At Constantinople he taught philosophy, rhetoric, and dialectic with the greatest suc- cess, and was honoured with the title of " Prince of Philosophers " by the emperors, who sometimes sought his advice and employed his services. But in 1078, when his pupil, the emperor Michael Ducas, was deposed, Psellus shared his downfall, being compelled by the new emperor, Nicephorus Botanias, to retire to a monastery. On his accession to the empire in 1081 Alexius Comnenus de- prived Psellus of his title of " Prince of Philosophers " and transferred it to his less talented rival John the Italian. He appears to have been still alive in 1105 and perhaps in 1110. Of his works, which are very numerous, many have not yet been printed. Even of those which have been printed there is no com- plete edition. Of his published works we may mention — (1) his mathematical Opus in quatuor Mathematicas Disciplinas, Arith- meticam, Musicam, Gcometriam, et Astronomiam, published at Venice in 1532, and several times reprinted, as at Basel in 1556 with the notes of Xylarider ; (2) a Paraphrase of Aristotle's Uepl ^p/xijm'as, published in Greek by Aldus at Venice in 1503 ; (3) Synopsis legum, in iambic verse, edited with a Latin translation and notes by Franciscus Bosquetus, Paris, 1632 ; (4) De Vitiis et Virtu- tibus, et Allegoric, in iambic verse, published by Arsenius at Rome (no date), and reprinted at Basel, 1544 ; (5) Ilepl evepyeias 8ain6vui> didXoyos (De operatione dsemonum dialor/us), translated into Latin by Petrus Morellus and published at Paris in 1577 ; (6) De lapidum virtutibus, published in Greek and Latin at Toulouse in 1615 (for 5 and 6 see MICHAEL PSELLTJS above). PSEUDONYMOUS LITERATURE. See BIBLIO- GRAPHY, vol. iii. pp. 657-658. PSKOFF, a government of the lake -region of north- west Russia, which extends from Lake Peipus to the source of the Dwina, having St Petersburg on the N., Novgorod, Tver, and Smolensk on the E., Vitebsk on the S., and Livonia on the W. It has an area of 16,678 square miles. In the south-east it extends partly over the Alaun heights — a broad ridge 800 to 1000 feet above the sea, deeply in- dented with numerous valleys and ravines, thickly covered with forests, and dotted with small lakes and ponds. In the district of Toropets these heights take the name of Vorobiovy Hills ; extending westwards into Vitebsk, they send to the north a series of irregular ranges, separated by broad valleys, which occupy the north-western parts of Pskoff and give rise to the rivers flowing into Lakes Peipus and Ilmeii. A depression 120 miles long and 35 miles broad, watered by the Lovat and Polist, occupies the inter- val between the two hilly tracts ; it is covered throughout with forests and thickly studded with marshes overgrown with rank vegetation, the only tracts suitable for human occupation being narrow isolated strips of land on the banks of rivers, or between the marshes, and no communi- cation is possible except along the watercourses. These marshy tracts, which extend westwards into Vitebsk and north-eastwards towards St Petersburg, were even more impassable ten centuries ago, and, encircling the old Russian city of Pskoff, formed its best protection against the repeated attacks of its neighbours. With the exception of the south-eastern corner, where Carboniferous rocks make their appearance, nearly the whole of the government consists of Devonian deposits of great thickness, — the Old Red Sandstone, with sub- ordinate layers of various sandstones, and clays containing brown iron ore ; and the White Limestone, which contains layers of dolomite, marls, clays with deposits of gypsum, and white sandstone, which is extensively quarried for building purposes. As regards the fauna the Devonian deposits of Pskoff are intermediate between those of Belgium, the Eifel, and Poland and those of middle Russia. The whole is covered with very thick sheets of boulder clay and bears unmistakable traces of glacial action ; the bottom moraine of the Scandinavian and Finnish ice-sheet formerly extended over the whole of this region, which often takes the shape of ridges (kames or eskers), the upper parts consisting of Glacial sands and post -Glacial clays, sands, and peat-bogs. The soil is thus not only infertile on the whole, but also badly drained, on account of the impermeable nature of the boulder clay and the frequent occurrence of depressions having no distinct outlets to the rivers. Only those parts of the territory which are covered with thicker strata of post -Glacial deposits are suitable for agriculture. The rivers are numerous and belong to three separate basins — to Lakes Peipus and Pskoff the rivers in the north- west, to Lake Ilmen those in the middle, and to that of the Dwina the rivers in the south-east. A great number of small streams pour into Lake Pskoff, the chief being the Velikaya, which flows from south to north and receives mimerous tributaries, which are used for floating rafts, a wide region being thus brought into communication with Lake Peipus and thence with the Narova. The Velikaya, which is now navigable for only 25 »miles from Lake Pskoff, was formerly deeper. The Lovat and Shelon, belong- ing to the basin of Lake Ilmeii, are both navigable, and a lively traffic is carried on on both ; while the Dwina flows for 100 miles on the borders of the government or within it, and is used only for floating timber. There are no less than 850 lakes in Pskoff, with a total area of 391 square miles. The largest is Lake Pskoff, which is 50 miles long and 13 broad, and covers 312 square miles, having a depth of from 3 to 18 feet; it is connected by a channel, 40 miles 36 P S K 0 F F long and 3 to 10 wide, with Lake Peipus. Its islands, numbering nearly fifty, have an aggregate population of 2000 persons. The marshes on the banks of the Polist are nearly 1250 square miles in extent ; one in the neigh- bourhood of Lake Dviniye is 27 miles long and 17 broad, and another on the Toropa extends for 17 miles, while many elongated marshes, 15, 20, and 30 miles long and from 2 to 3 broad, run parallel to one another in the broad depression of the Lovat. Forests occupy nearly one-half (about 45 per cent.) of the entire area, and in some districts (Cholm, Toropets, Porkhoff) as much as two- thirds of the surface. Large pine forests are met with in the north ; in other parts the birch and aspen prevail ; but almost one-quarter of the forest area is covered with low brushwood. The climate is very moist and changeable. The average temper- ature is 41° Fahr. (170<1 in January and 640>8 in July). The population of the government, which was 895,710 in 1881 (718,910 in 1863), consists almost exclusively of Great Russians, there being only 8000 Esthonians (in the district of Pskoff), about 500 Letts, and less than 1500 Jews. Many German traders live at Pskoff. The Russians and the greater part of the Esthonians belong to the Greek Church, or are Nonconformists (upwards of 12,000 in 1866, according to official figures). Of the total number of inhabitants only 58,900 live in towns, the remainder being distributed over no fewer than 15,000 small villages. Notwithstanding the infertility of the soil the chief occupation is agriculture — rye, oats, barley, and potatoes being grown every- where ; but though corn is exported by the larger landowners to the average annual amount of nearly 1,600,000 bushels the amount imported is much greater (9,600,000 bushels). The annual export of flax is estimated at 530,000 cwts., Pskoff, Ostroff, Opotchka, Porkhoff, and Soltsy being important centres for the trade. The average annual crops during 1870-77 were 28,972,800 bushels of corn and 5,984,000 bushels of potatoes. The limited area of pasture lands is unfavourable for cattle-breeding, and in 1881 there were only 171,000 horses, 304,000 head of cattle, and 166,000 sheep ; mur- rains are very frequent. Fishing is a considerable source of wealth on the shores of the larger lakes, small salted or frozen fish (snyctki) being annually exported to the value of £25,000 or £35,000. The timber trade is steadily increasing, the exports being estimated at present at nearly £50,000 ; wood for fuel is, however, at the same time imported from the government of St Petersburg. The popu- lation engage also in the preparation of lime, in stone-quarrying, in the transport of merchandise, and in some domestic trades. The manufactures are insignificant; their aggregate production in 1879 reached £518,800, and gave occupation to only 2350 persons. The total amount of merchandise loaded and discharged on the rivers within the government in 1880 was 1,761,000 cwts. Pskoff is divided into eight districts, the chief towns of which are— Pskoff (21,170 inhabitants), Cholm (5550), Novorjeff (1915), Opotchka (4075), Ostroff (4200), Porkhoff (3925), Toropets (5760), Velikiya Luki (6600). Alexandrovskii Posad (2920) and Soltsy (5825, an important shipping place on the Shelon river) have also municipal institutions. PSKOFF, capital of the above government, is pictur- esquely situated on both banks of the broad Velikaya river, 9 miles from Lake Pskoff and 171 miles by rail south-west of St Petersburg. The chief part of the town, with its kremlin on a hill and several suburbs, occupies the right bank of the river, to which the ruins of its old walls descend; the Zapskovie, consisting of several suburbs, stretches along the same bank of the Velikaya below its confluence with the Pskova ; and the Zavelitchie occupies the left bank of the Velikaya, — all three keeping their old historical names. The cathedral in the kremlin has been four times rebuilt since the 1 2th century and contains some very old shrines, as also the graves of the bishops of Pskoff and of several princes, including those of Dovmont and Vsevolod. The church of Dmitrii Solunskii also dates originally from the 1 2th century ; there are others belong- ing to the 14th and 15th. The Spaso-Mirojskii monastery, founded in 1156, has many remarkable antiquities. The ruins of numerous rich and populous monasteries in or near the town attest its former wealth and greatness. The present town is ill built, chiefly of wood, and shows traces of decay. Many of the inhabitants live by agriculture or gardening ; the remainder are engaged in loading and unloading merchandise on the Velikaya and at the rail- way station, in combing flax, fishing, and domestic trades. The manufactures are unimportant. Since the completion of the St Petersburg and Warsaw railway the trade of Pskoff has increased. In 1880 the exports reached 99,000 cwts. on the Velikaya and 463,000 cwts. by rail ; the imports were 125,700 cwts. on the Velikaya and 591,600 cwts. by rail. Pskoff has regular steam communication with Dorpat. The population in 1882 was 21,170 (15,086 in 1866). History. — Pskoff, formerly the sister republic of Novgorod, and one of the oldest cities of Russia, maintained its independence and its free institutions until the 16th century, being thus the last to be brought under the rule of Moscow. Its annals, unquestion- ably the fullest and liveliest of any in Russia, affirm that it already existed in the time of Rurik ; and Nestor mentions under the year 914 that Igor's wife, Olga, was brought from Pleskoff (i.e., Pskoff). It was quite natural that a Russian fortified town should rise at the entrance of the Velikaya valley within the earliest period of the Russian colonization of that region ; the river had from a remote antiquity been a channel for the trade of the south with the north Baltic coast. Pskoff being an important strategic point, its pos- session was obstinately disputed between the Russians and the Germans and Lithuanians, and throughout the llth and 12th centuries numerous battles were fought. At that time the place had its own independent institutions ; but, attacked as it was from the west, it became in the 12th century a "prigorod " of the Nov- gorod republic, — that is (so far as can be judged from the incom- plete testimony of historical documents), a city having its own free institutions, but included in certain respects within the juris- diction of the metropolis, and compelled in time of war to march against the common enemy. Pskoff had, however, its own prince (defensor municipii) ; and in the second half of the 13th century Prince (Timotheus) Dovmont fortified it so strongly, and was so successful in repelling its enemies, that the town acquired much importance and asserted its independence of Novgorod, with which in 1348 it concluded a treaty wherein the two republics were recog- nized as equals. The institutions of Pskoff resembled those of Novgorod ; it, in its turn, had several prigorods, and its rule ex- tended over the territory which now forms the districts of Pskoff, Ostroff, Opotchka, and Gdoff. Within this territory the "vyetche " or " forum " of Pskoff was sovereign, the vyetches of the subordinate towns being supreme in their own municipal affairs. The city of Pskoff was divided into several sections or "kontsy," according to the prevalent occupations of the inhabitants, and the kontsy were divided into "ulitsy" (streets), which enjoyed extensive powers of self-government. The vyetche was supreme in all affairs of general interest, as well as a supreme court of justice, and the princes were elected by it ; these last had to defend the city and levied the taxes, which were assessed by twelve citizens, who com- bined to some extent the functions of jiidges with those of a jury. Pskoff differed widely, however, from Novgorod in the more demo- cratic character of its institutions ; and, while the latter con- stantly showed a tendency to become an oligarchy of the wealthier merchants, the former figured as a republic where the influence of the poorer classes prevailed. Its trading associations, supported by those of the labourers, checked the influence of the wealthier merchants. This struggle (of which the annals give a lively picture) con- tinued throughout the 14th and 15th centuries, resulting sometimes in armed riots. Notwithstanding these conflicts Pskoff was a very wealthy city. Its strong walls, whose ruins are still to be seen, its forty-two large and wealthy churches, built during this period, as also its numerous monasteries and its extensive trade, bear testimony to the wealth of the inhabitants, who then numbered about 60,000. The " dyetinets" or fort, enclosed by a stone wall erected by Dov- mont, stood on a hill between the Pskova and the Velikaya, having within its walls the cathedral of the Holy Trinity. Another stone wall enclosed the commercial part, the Kromy (kremlin) or middle town. In 1465 the suburb Polonische became so prosperous that it also was enclosed by a wall, and included within the circuit of the town proper. Even the Zapskovie was enclosed by a wooden palisade in the 15th century and later on by a stone wall ; while the Zave- litchie was a busy centre of foreign trade. As early as the 13th century Pskoff had become an important station for the trade between Novgorod and Riga. A century later it entered the Hanseatic League. Its merchants and trading associations had factories at Narva, Revel, Riga, and exported flax, corn, tallow, skins, tar, pitch, honey, and timber for shipbuilding, which were transported or shipped via Lake Peipus, the Narova, and the Embach to the ports on the Baltic and on the Gulf of Finland. Silks, woollen stuffs, and all kinds of manufactured wares were brought back in exchange and sold throughout northern Russia. P S Y — P S Y 37 Nevertheless, the continuous struggle between the " black " and " white " people (the patricians and the plebeians) offered many opportunities to Moscow for interference in the internal affairs of 1'skofF, especially with regard to the election of the princes, which was often the occasion of severe conflicts. In 1399 the prince of Moscow arrogated the privilege of confirming the elected prince of Pskoff in his rights ; and though, fifty years later, Pskoff and Nov- gorod concluded several defensive treaties against Moscow the fall of both republics was inevitable, the poorer classes continuing to seek at Moscow a protection against the oppression of the richer citizens. After the fall of Novgorod (1475) Pskoff could no longer maintain its independence, and in 1510 it was taken by Vasilii Joannovitch. The vyetche was abolished and its bell taken away, and a waywode was nominated by Moscow to govern the city. Moscow merchants were settled at Pskoff, and put in possession of the fortunes of the former citizens. The conquered territory still maintained to some extent its self-government, especially with re- gard to trade, but the struggle between rich and poor was aggravated by the intervention of foreigners. The " lutschiye ludi " (wealthier merchants) prohibited the " malomotchnyie " (poorer merchants) from entering into direct trade relations with foreigners, and com- pelled them to sell their wares to themselves or to become their agents. These disputes furnished Moscow at the end of the 17th century with a pretext for abolishing the last vestiges of self-govern- ment at Pskoff, and for placing all affairs of local administration in the hands of the Moscow waywodes. Thenceforward Pskoff fell into rapid decay. It became a stronghold of Russia against Poland and was besieged for seven months by Stephan Bathory during the Livonian War, and later on by Gustavus Adolphus. Under Pete? I. it became a fortified camp, and its walls were protected by earth- works. But it never recovered its former importance, and is now one of the poorer cities of the empire. (P. A. K. ) PSYCHE. See CUPID. PSYCHOLOGY The Standpoint of Psychology. IN the several natural sciences the scope and subject- matter of each are so evident that little preliminary discussion on this score is called for. It is easy to dis- tinguish the facts dealt with in a treatise on light from those that belong to one on sound ; and even when the need arises to compare the results of two such sciences — as in the case, say, of light and electricity — there is still no difficulty, — apart, of course, from any which the im- perfect state of the sciences themselves may occasion. Theoretically, a standpoint is attainable from which this comparison can be made, in so far, say, as the facts of both sciences can be expressed in terms of matter and motion. But with psychology, however much it is freed from metaphysics, all this is different. It is indeed ordi- narily assumed that its subject-matter can be at once denned: "It is what you can perceive by consciousness or reflexion or the internal sense," says one, "just as the subject-matter of optics is what you can perceive by sight." Or, "psychology is the science of the phenomena of mind," we are told again, "and is thus marked off from the physical sciences, which treat only of the phenomena of matter." But, whereas nothing is simpler than to dis- tinguish between seeing and hearing, or between the phenomena of heat and the phenomena of gravitation, a very little reflexion may convince us that we cannot in the same fashion distinguish internal from external sense, or make clear to ourselves what we mean by phenomena of mind as distinct from phenomena of matter, .ternal Let us begin with the supposed differentia of internal and ex- id ex- ternal ; and first of all what are we to understand by an inner rnal. sense ? To every sense there corresponds a sense-organ ; the several senses are distinct and independent, so that no one sense can add to or alter the materials of another ; and each is sui generis as regards quality, — the possession of five senses, e.g., furnishing no data as to the character of a possible sixth. Moreover, sense-im- pressions are passively received and occur in the first instance with- out regard to the feeling or volition of the recipient and without any manner of relation to the ' ' contents of consciousness " at the moment. Now such a description will apply but very partially to the so-called "internal sense." We can imagine consciousness without self-consciousness, still more without introspection, much as we can imagine sight without taste or smell. But this does not entitle us to speak of self-consciousness as a sense. For we do not by means of it passively receive impressions differing from all previous presentations, as the sensations of colour for one couched differ from all he has experienced before : the new facts consist rather in the recognition of certain relations among pre-existing presentations, i.e., are due to our mental activity and not to a special mode of what has been called our sensitivity. For when •we taste we cannot hear that we taste, when we see we cannot smell that we see ; but when we taste we may be conscious that we taste, •when we hear we may be conscious that we hear. In this way all the objects of the external senses are recognized as having new relations by the miscalled "internal sense." Moreover, the facts so ascertained are never independent of feeling and volition and of the contents of consciousness at the time, as true sensations are. Also if we consult the physiologist we learn that there is no evidence of any organ or " centre " that could be regarded as the " physical basis " of this inner sense ; and, if self-consciousness alone is tempo- rarily in abeyance and a man merely " beside himself, " such state of delirium has little analogy to the functional blindness or deafness that constitutes the temporary suspension of sight or hearing. To the conception of an internal perception or observation the preceding objections do not necessarily apply, — that is to say, this conception may be so defined that they need not. But then in proportion as we escape the charge of assuming a special sense which furnishes the material for such perception or observation, in that same proportion are we compelled to seek for some other mode of distinguishing its subject-matter. For, so far as the mere mental activity of perceiving or observing is concerned, it is not easy to see any essential difference in the process whether what is observed be psychical or physical. It is quite true that the so-called psychological observation is more difficult, because the facts observed are often less definite and less persistent, and admit less of actual isolation than physical facts do ; but the process of recognizing similarities or differences, the dangers of mal-observa- tion or non-observation, are not materially altered on that account. It may be further allowed that there is one difficulty peculiarly felt in psychological observation, the one most inaccurately ex- pressed by saying that here the observer and the observed are one. But this difficulty is surely in the first instance due to the very obvious fact that our powers of attention are limited, so that we cannot alter the distribution of attention at any moment without altering the contents of consciousness at that moment. Accord- ingly, where there are no other ways of surmounting this difficulty, the psychological observer must either trust to representations at a later time, or he must acquire the power of taking momentary glances at the psychological aspects of the phase of consciousness in question. And this one with any aptitude for such studies can do with so slight a diversion of attention as not to disturb very seriously either the given state or that which immediately succeeds it. But very similar difficulties have to be similarly met by physical observers in certain special cases, as, e.g., in observing and registering the phenomena of solar eclipse j and similar apti- tudes in the distribution of attention have to be acquired, say, by extempore orators or skilful surgeons. Just as little, then, as there is anything that we can with propriety call an inner sense, just so little can we find in the process of inner perception any satis- factory characteristic of the subject-matter of psychology. The question still is : What is it that is perceived or observed ? and the readiest answer of course is : Internal experience as distinguished from external, what takes place in the mind as distinct from Avhat takes place without. This answer, it must be at once allowed, is adequate for most purposes, and a great deal of excellent psychological work has been done without ever calling it in question. But the distinction be- tween internal and external experience is not one that can be drawn from the standpoint of psychology, at least not at the outset. From this standpoint it appears to be either (1) inaccurate or (2) not extra - psychological. As to (1), the boundary between the internal and the external was, no doubt, originally the surface of the body, with which the subject or self was identified ; and in this sense the terms are of course correctly used. For a thing may, in the same sense of the word, be in one space and therefore not in — i.e., out of — another ; but we express no intelligible relation if we speak of two things as being one in a given room and the other in last week. Any one is at liberty to say if he choose that a certain thing is "in his mind"; but if in this way he distinguishes it from something else not in his mind, then to be intelligible this must imply one of two statements, — either that the something else is actually or possibly in some other mind, or, his own mind being alone considered, that at the time the something else does not exist at all. Yet, evident as it seems that the correlatives in and not-in must both apply to the same category, whether space, 38 PSYCHOLOGY Mental ind material Stand- ?oint of ogy- time, presentation (or non-presentation) to a given subject, and so forth, we still find psychologists more or less consciously con- fused between "internal," meaning " presented" in the psychological sense, and "external," meaning not "not-presented" but corporeal or oftener extra - corporeal. But (2), when used to distinguish between presentations (some of which, or some relations of which with respect to others, are called "internal," and others or other relations, " extemal "), these terms are at all events accurate ; only then they cease to mark off the psychological from the extra- psychological, inasmuch as psychology has to analyse this distinc- tion and to exhibit the steps by which it has come about. But we have still to examine whether the distinction of phenomena of Matter and phenomena of Mind furnishes a better dividing line than the distinction of internal and external. A phenomenon, as commonly understood, is what is manifest, sensible, evident, the implication being that there are eyes to see, ears to hear, and so forth, — in other words, that there is presenta- tion to a subject ; and wherever there is presentation to a subject it will be allowed that we are in the domain of psychology. But in talking of physical phenomena we, in a way, abstract from this fact of presentation. Though consciousness should cease, the physicist would consider the sum total of objects to remain the same : the orange would still be round, yellow, and fragrant as before. For the physicist — whether aware of it or not — has taken up a position which for the present may be described by saying that phenomenon with him means appearance or manifestation, or — as we had better say — object, not for a concrete individual, but rather for what Kant called Beicusstsein ilberhaupt, or, as some render it, the objective consciousness, i.e., for an imaginary subject freed from all the limitations of actual subjects save that of depending on "sensi- bility " for the material of experience. However, this is not all, for, as we shall see presently, the psychologist also occupies this posi- tion ; at least if he does not, his is not a true science. But further, the physicist leaves out of sight altogether the facts of attention, feeling, and so forth, all which actual presentation entails. From the psychological point of view, on the other hand, the removal of the subject removes not only all such facts as attention and feeling, but all presentation or possibility of presentation whatever. Surely, then, to call a certain object, when we abstract from its presentation, a material phenomenon, and to call the actual presentation of this object a mental phenomenon,, is a clumsy and confusing way of representing the difference between the two points of view. For the terms "material" and "mental" seem to imply that the two so-called phenomena have nothing in common, whereas the same object is involved in both, while the term " phenomenon " implies that the point of view is in each case the same, when in truth what is emphasized by the one the other ignores. Paradoxical though it may be, we must then conclude that psychology cannot be defined by reference to a special subject-matter as such concrete sciences, for example, as mineralogy and botany can ; and, since it deals in some sort with the whole of experience, it is obviously not an abstract science, in any ordinary sense of that term. To be characterized at all, therefore, apart from metaphysical assumptions, it must be characterized by the standpoint from which this experience is viewed. It is by way of expressing this that widely different schools of psychology define it as subjective, all other positive sciences being distinguished as objective. But this seems scarcely more than a first approximation to the truth, and, as we have seen incidentally, is apt to be misleading. The distinction rather is that the standpoint of psychology is what is some- times termed " individualistic," that of the so-called object- sciences being " universalistic," both alike being objective in the sense of being true for all, consisting of what Kant would call judgments of experience. For psychology is not a biography in any sense, still less a biography deal- ing with idiosyncrasies, and in an idiom having an interest and a meaning for one subject only, and incommunicable to any other. Locke, Berkeley, and Hume have been of late severely handled because they regarded the critical investigation of knowledge as a psychological problem, and set to work to study the individual mind simply for the sake of this problem. But none the less their stand- point was the proper one for the science of psychology itself; and, however surely their philosophy was fore- doomed to a collapse, there is no denying a steady psycho- logical advance as we pass from Locke to Hume and his modern representatives. By "idea" Locke tells us he means "whatsoever is the object of the understanding when a man thinks " (i.e., is conscious), and having, as it were, shut himself within such a circle of ideas he finds himself powerless to explain his knowledge of a world that is independent of it ; but he is able to give a very good account of some of these ideas themselves. He cannot justify his belief in the world of things whence certain of his simple ideas "were conveyed" anymore than Robinson Crusoe could have explored the continents whose products were drifted to his desert island, though he might perhaps survey the island itself well enough. Berkeley accord- ingly, as Professor Fraser happily puts it, abolished Locke's hypothetical outer circle. Thereby he made the psycho- logical standpoint clearer than ever — hence the truth of Hume's remark, that Berkeley's arguments " admit of n' (a . .) s (c . .) o' (/ . .)], and so forth. It is because the earlier apprehensions persist that the later are an advance upon them and an addition to them. There is nothing in this process properly answering to the repro- duction and association of ideas : in the last and complete apprehension as much as in the first vague and inchoate one the flower is there as a primary presentation. There is a limit, of course, to such a procedure, but the instance taken, we may safely say, is not such as to exceed the bounds of a simultaneous field of consciousness. Now the question is : Ought we not to assume that such increase of differentiation through the persistence of preceding differentiations holds of the contents of consciousness as a whole? Here, again, we shall find limitations, — limitations too of great practical importance ; for, if presentations did not pale as well as persist, and if the simpler presentations admitted of indefinite differentiation, mental advance — unless the field of consciousness, i.e., the number of pre- sentations to which we could attend together, increased without limit — would be impossible. But, allowing all this, it is still probably the more correct and fundamental view to suppose that, in those circumstances in which we now have a sensation of, say, red or sweet, there was in the primitive consciousness nothing but a vague modification, which persisted ; and that on a repetition of the circum- stances this persisting modification was again further modified. The whole field of consciousness would thus, like a continually growing picture, increase indefinitely in complexity of pattern, the earlier presentations not disap- pearing, like the waves of yesterday in the calm of to-day, but rather lasting on, like old scars that show beneath new ones. There is yet one more topic of a general kind calling for attention before we turn to the consideration of parti- cular presentations — the hypothesis of unconscious mental modifications, as it has been unfortunately termed, — the hypothesis of subconsciousness, as we may style it to avoid this contradiction in terms. It is a fact easily verified, that we do not distinguish or attend separately to presentations of less than a certain assignable intensity. On attaining this intensity presentations are said to pass over the threshold of consciousness, to use Herbart's now classic phrase. What are we to say of them before they have attained it 1 After they have attained it, any further increase in their intensity is certainly gradual ; are we then to suppose that before this their intensity changed instantly from zero to a finite quantity, and not rather that there was also a subliminal stage where too it only changed continuously ? The latter alternative constitutes the hypothesis of subconsciousness. According to this hypothesis, a presentation does not cease to be so long as it has any intensity, no matter how little. We can directly observe that an increase in the intensity of many complex presentations brings to light details and differences before imperceptible ; since these details are themselves presenta- tions, they have been brought by this increase from the subconscious stage into the field of consciousness. Simi- larly, presentations not separately distinguishable, because of too close a proximity in time, become distinguishable when the interval between them is such as to allow of a separate concentration of attention upon each. Again, we find that presentations "revived" or re-presented after their disappearance from the field of consciousness appear fainter and less distinct the longer the time that has elapsed between their exits and their re-entrances. Nobody hesi- tates to regard such obliviscence as a psychological fact ; why, then, should we hesitate to suppose that presenta- tions, even when no longer intense enough directly to influence attention, continue to be presented, though with ever lessening intensity 1 On the whole we seem justified in assuming three grades of consciousness thus widely understood — (1) a centre or focus of consciousness within (2) a wider field, any part of which may at once become the focus. Just as in sight, surrounding the limited area of distinct vision on which the visual axes are directed, there is a wider region of indirect vision to any part of which those axes may be turned either voluntarily or by a reflex set up by the part itself, as happens, e.g., with moving objects quite on the margin of vision. But in describing (3) subconscious- ness as the third grade, this simile, due to Wundt, more or less forsakes us. Presentations in subconsciousness have not the power to divert attention, nor can we voluntarily concentrate attention upon them. Before either can happen the subconscious presentations must cross the threshold of consciousness, and so cease to be subconscious ; and this, of course, is far from being always possible. Now in the case of sight an object may fail to catch the eye, either because, though within the field of sight, it is too far away to make a distinct impression or because it is outside the field altogether. But we cannot conveniently interpret " threshold of consciousness " in keeping with the latter alternative ; mere accretion from without is a conception as alien to psychology as it is to biology. We must make the best we can of a totum objectivum differen- tiated within itself, and so are confined to the first alternative. Our threshold must be compared to the sur- face of a lake and subconsciousness to the depths beneath it, and all the current terminology of presentations rising and sinking implies this or some similar figure. This hypothesis of subconsciousness has been strangely mis- understood, and it would be hard to say at whose hands it has suffered most, those of its exponents or those of its opponents. In the main it is nothing more than the application to the facts of presentation of the law of continuity, its introduction into psycho- logy being due to Leibnitz, who first formulated that law. Half the difficulties in the way of its acceptance are due to the manifold ambiguities of the word consciousness. With Leibnitz consciousness was not coextensive with all psychical life, but only with certain 48 PSYCHOLOGY higher phases J of it. Of late, however, the tendency has been to make consciousness cover all stages of mental development and all grades of presentation, so that a presentation of which there is no consciousness resolves itself into the manifest contradiction of an unpresented presentation — a contradiction not involved in Leibnitz's " unapperceived perception." Moreover, the active form of the word "conscious" almost unavoidably suggests that an "uncon- scious mental modification " must be one in which that subjective activity, variously called consciousness, attention, or thinking, has no part. But such is not the meaning intended when it is said, for example, that a soldier in battle is often unconscious of his wounds or a scholar unconscious at any one time of most of the knowledge "hidden in the obscure recesses of his mind." There would be no point in saying a subject is not conscious of objects that are not presented at all ; but to^say that what is presented lacks the intensity requisite in the given distribution of attention to change that distribution appreciably is pertinent enough. Sub- conscious presentations may tell on conscious life — as sunshine or mist tells on a landscape or the underlying writing on a palimpsest — although lacking either the differences of intensity or the indivi- dual distinctness requisite to make them definite features. Even if there were no facts to warrant this conception of a subliminal presentation of impressions and ideas it might still claim an a priori justification. For to assume that there can be no presentations save such as pertain to the complete and perfect consciousness of a human being is as arbitrary and as improbable as it would be to suppose — in the absence of evidence to the contrary — that there was no vision or audition save such as is mediated by human eyes and ears. Psychological magnification is not more absurd than physical, although the processes in the two cases must be materially different ; but of course in no case is magnification possible with- out limit. The point is that, while we cannot fix the limit at which the subconscious becomes the absolutely unconscious, it is only reasonable to expect beforehand that this limit is not just where our powers of discrimination cease. Over and above hindrances to its acceptance which may be set down to the paradoxical and inaccurate use of the word uncon- sciousness, there are two material difficulties which prevent this hypothesis from finding favour. First, the prevailingly objective implications of language are apt to make us assume that, as a tree remains the same tiling whether it is in the foreground of a land- scape or is lost in the grey distance, so a presentation must be a something which is in itself the same whether above the threshold of consciousness or below, if it exist, that is, in this lower degree at all. But it must be remembered that we are not now dealing with physical things but with presentations, and that to these the Berkeleyan dictum applies that their esse is percipi, provided, of course, we give to percipi the wide meaning now assigned to consciousness. The qualitative differences of all presentations and the distinctness of structure of such as are complex both diminish with a diminution of intensity. In this sense much is latent or "involved" in presentations lying below the threshold of con- sciousness that becomes patent or "evolved" as they rise above it. But, on the other hand, the hypothesis of subconsciousness does not commit us to the assumption that all presentations are by their very nature imperishable : while many modifications of con- sciousness sink only into obliviscence, many, we may well suppose, lapse into complete oblivion and from that there is no recall. Secondly, to any one addicted to the atomistic view of presenta- tions just now referred to it may well seem incredible that all the incidents of a long lifetime and all the items of knowledge of a well-stored mind that may possibly recur — " the infinitely greater part of our spiritual treasures," as Hamilton says — can be in any sense present continuously. The brunt of such an objection is effectually met by the fact that the same presentation may figure in very various connexions, as may the same letter, for example, in many words, the same word in many sentences. We cannot measure the literature of a language by its vocabulary, nor may we equate the extent of our spiritual treasures as successively unfolded with the psychical apparatus, so to say, into which they resolve.2 The attempt has more than once been made to avoid the diffi- culties besetting subconsciousness by falling back on the concep- tions of faculties, capacities, or dispositions. Stored-up knowledge, says J. S. Mill, " is not a mental state but a capability of being put into a mental state" ; similarly of the cases which Hamilton records, " in which the extinct memory [?] of whole languages was suddenly restored," he says, " it is not the mental impressions that are latent 1 The following brief passage from his Principe* de la Nature et de la Grace (§ 4) shows his meaning : — " II est bon de faire distinction entre la Perception, qui est 1'etat interieur de la Monade representant les choses externes, et V Ap- perception, qui est la Conscience, ou la connoissancc reflexive de cet etat interieur, laquelle n'est point dpnne'e 4 toutes les ames, ni toujours a la mfme &me. Et Jipte 2 Much light may be thrown on this matter and on many others by such inquiries as those undertaken by Mr Francis Gallon, and described in his Inquiries into Human Faculty, pp. 1S2-203. but the power of reproducing them." But surely the capability of being put into a mental state is itself a mental state and something actual, and is, moreover, a different something when the state to be reproduced is different. If not, how is such capability ever exerted ? Even where the capability cannot be consciously exerted, must there not still be something actual to justify the phrase latent power ? The " exaltation " of delirium may account for the intensi- fication but not for the contents of the "extinct memories" which its unwonted glow reveals. It seems extraordinary that Mill of all men, and in psychology of all subjects, should have supposed such merely formal conveniences as these conceptions of faculties and powers could ever dispense us from further inquiry. It might be urged in Mill's defence that he Juis investigated further and concludes that the only distinct meaning he can attach to uncon- scious mental modification is that of unconscious modification of the nerves — a modification of the nerves, that is to say, without any psychical accompaniment. But, while we can frequently under- stand a psychical fact better if we can understand its physical counterpart, a physiological explanation can never take the place of a psychological explanation. If all we have to deal with are nervous modifications which have no psychical concomitants, then so far there is nothing psychological to explain ; but, if there really is anything calling for psychological explanation— and this Mill does not deny — then physical accompaniments must admit of psychical interpretation if they are to be of any avail. And in fact, although Mill professes to recognize only unconscious modi- fications of nerves, he finds a psychological meaning for these by means of his "mental chemistry," — a doctrine which has done its work and which we need not here discuss. The exposition of subconsciousness given by Wundt is in the main an advance on that of Mill and calls for brief notice. Pre- sentations, says Wundt,3 are not substances but functions, whose physiological counterparts in like manner are functional activities, viz. , of certain arrangements of nerve-cells. Consciousness of the presentation and the nervous activity cease together, but the latter leaves behind it a molecular modification of the nervous structure which becomes more and more permanent with exercise, and is such as to facilitate the recurrence of the same functional activity. A more precise account of these after-effects of exercise is for the present unattainable ; nevertheless Wundt regards it as obvious that they are no more to be compared to the activity to which they predispose than the molecular arrangement of chlorine and nitrogen in nitric chloride is to be compared to the explosive decomposition that ensues if the chloride is slightly disturbed. Mutatis mutandis, on the psychological side the only actual pre- sentations are those which we are conscious of as such ; but pre- sentations that vanish out of consciousness leave behind psychical dispositions tending to renew them. The essential difference is that, whereas we may some day know the nature of the physical disposition, that of the psychical disposition must of necessity be for ever unknown, for the threshold of consciousness is also the limit of internal experience. The theory thus briefly summarized seems in some respects arbitrary, in some respects ambiguous. It is questionable, for instance, whether the extremely meagre in- formation that physiologists at present possess at all compels us to assume that the " physical disposition " of Wuudt cannot con- sist in a continuous but much fainter discharge of function. At all events it is quite beside the mark to urge, as he does, that the effect of training a group of muscles is not shown in the persist- ence of slight movements during intervals of apparent rest.4 The absence of molar motions is no evidence of the absence of molecular motions. And it is certain that psychologically we can be conscious of the idea of a movement without the movement actually ensuing, yet only iu such wise that the idea is more apt to pass over into action the intenser it is, and often actually passes over in spite of us. Surely there must be some functional activity answering to this conscious presentation, and if this amount of activity is possible without movement why may not a much less amount be conceived possible too ? Again, what meaning can possibly be attached to a psychical disposition which is the counterpart, not of physical changes, but of an arrangement of molecules ? Compared with such an inconceivable unknown, the perfectly conceivable hypothesis of infinitesimal presentations so faint as to elude discrimination is every way preferable. In fact, if conceivability is to count for any- thing, we have, according to Wundt, no choice, for "we can never think of a presentation that has disappeared from consciousness except as retaining the properties it had when in consciousness." None the less he holds it to be an error " to apply to presentations themselves a style of conception that has resulted from our being of necessity confined to consciousness." Verily, this is phenomenalism with a vengeance, as if presentations themselves were not also confined to consciousness ! 3 Physiologisfhe Psychologic, p. 203 sq. < J. 8. Mill adopts substantially the same line of argument : " I have the power to walk across the room, though I am sitting in my chair ; but we should hardly call this power a latent act of walking " (Examination of Sir W. Hamilton's Philosophy, 3d ed., p. 329). PSYCHOLOGY 49 This will be the most convenient place to take note of certain psychological doctrines which, though differing in some material respects, are usually included under the term Law of Relativity. 1. Hobbes's Idem semper sentire et non sentire ad idem recidunt is often cited as one of the first formulations of this law ; and if we take it to apply to the whole field of con- sciousness it becomes at once true and trite : a field of consciousness unaltered either by change of impression or of ideas would certainly be a blank and a contradiction. Understood in this sense the Law of Relativity amounts to what Hamilton called the Law of Variety (Reid's Works, p. 932). But, though consciousness involves change, it is still possible that particular presentations in the field of consciousness may continue unchanged indefinitely. When it is said that "a constant impression is the same as a blank," what is meant turns out to be something not psychological at all, as, e.g., our insensibility to the motion of the earth or to the pressure of the air — cases in which there is obviously no presentation, nor even any evidence of nervous change. Or else this paradox proves to be but an awkward way of expressing what we may call accommodation, whether physiological or psychological. Thus the skin soon adapts itself to certain seasonal altera- tions of temperature, so that heat or cold ceases to be felt : the sensation ceases because the nervous change, its proximate physical counterpart, has ceased. Again, there is what James Mill calls "an acquired incapacity of atten- tion," such that a constant noise, for example, in which we have no interest is soon inaudible. As attention moves away from a presentation its intensity diminishes, and when the presentation is below the threshold of conscious- ness its intensity is then subliminal, whatever that of the physical stimulus may be. In such a case of psychological accommodation we should expect also to find on the phy- siological side some form of central reflexion or isolation more or less complete. As a rule, no doubt, impressions do not continue constant for more than a very short time ; still there are sad instances enough in the history of disease, bodily and mental, to show that such a thing can quite well happen, and that such constant impressions (and " fixed ideas," which are in effect tantamount to them), instead of becoming blanks, may dominate the entire consciousness, colouring or bewildering everything. 2. From the fact that the field of consciousness is con- tinually changing it has been supposed to follow, not only that a constant presentation is impossible, but as a further consequence that every presentation is essentially nothing but a transition or difference. " All feeling," says Dr Bain, the leading exponent of this view, " is two-sided. . . . We may attend more to one member of the couple than to the other. .... We are more conscious of heat when passing to a higher temperature, and of cold when passing to a lower. The state we have passed to is our explicit con- sciousness, the state we have passed from is our implicit consciousness." But the transition need not be from heat to cold, or vice versa : it can equally well take place from a neutral state, which is indeed the normal state, of neither heat nor cold ; a new-born mammal, e.g., must experience cold, having never experienced heat. Again, suppose a sailor becalmed, gazing for a whole morning upon a stretch of sea and sky, what sensations are implicit here 1 Shall we say yellow as the greatest contrast to blue, or darkness as the contrary of light, or both? What, again, is the implicit consciousness when the explicit is sweet ; is it bitter or sour, and from what is the transition in such a case? It is difficult to avoid suspecting a certain confusion here between the transition of attention from one presentation to another and the qualitative differences among presenta- tions themselves. It is strange that the psychologist who has laid such stress on neutral states of surprise as being akin to feeling, and so distinct from special presentations, should in any way confound the two. The mistake, if mistake indeed it be, is perhaps accounted for by the fact that Dr Bain, in common with the rest of his school, nowhere dis- tinguishes between attention and the presentations that are attended to. To be conscious or mentally alive we must have a succession of shocks or surprises, new objects calling off attention from old ones ; but, over and above these movements of attention from presentation to presentation, do we find that each presentation is also itself but a transi- tion or difference? "We do not know any one thing of itself but only the difference between it and another thing," says Dr Bain. But it is plain we cannot speak of con- trast or difference between two states or things as a contrast or difference if the states or things are not themselves presented, else the so-called contrast or difference would itself be a single presentation, and its supposed "relativity" but an inference. Difference is not more necessary to the presentation of two objects than two objects to the presenta- tion of difference. And, what is more, a difference between presentations is not at all the same thing as the presenta- tion of that difference. The former must precede the latter ; the latter, which requires active comparison, need not follow. There is an ambiguity in the words "know," " knowledge," which Dr Bain seems not to have considered : " to know " may mean either to perceive or apprehend, or it may mean to understand or comprehend.1 Knowledge in the first sense is only what we shall have presently to dis- cuss as the recognition or assimilation of an impression (see below, p. 53) ; knowledge in the latter sense is the result of intellectual comparison and is embodied in a proposition. Thus a blind man who cannot know light in the first sense can know about light in the second if he studies a treatise on optics. Now in simple perception or recognition we cannot with any exactness say that two things are per- ceived : straight is a thing, i.e., a definite object presented ; not so not-straight, which may be qualitatively obscure or intensively feeble to any degree. Only when we rise to intellectual knowledge is it true to say, "No one could understand the meaning of a straight line without being shown a line not straight, a bent or crooked line."2 Two distinct presentations are necessary to the comparison that is here implied ; but we cannot begin with such definitional differentiation : we must first recognize our objects before we can compare them. We need, then, to distinguish be- tween the comparativity of intellectual knowledge, which we must admit — for it rests at bottom on a purely ana- lytical proposition — and the "differential theory of pre- sentations," which, however plausible at first sight, must be wrong somewhere since it commits us to absurdities. Thus, if we cannot have a presentation X but only the presentation of the difference between Y and Z, it would seem that in like manner we cannot have the presentation of T or Z, nor therefore of their difference X, till we have had the presentation of A and B say, which differ by Y, and of G and D, which we may suppose differ by Z. The lurking error in this doctrine, that all presentations are but differences, may perhaps emerge if we examine more closely what may be meant by difference. We may speak of (a) differences in intensity between sensations supposed 1 Other languages give more prominence to this distinction ; compare yvuvai and eldtvai, noscere and scire, kennen and wissen, connaitre and savoir. On this subject there are some acute remarks in a little- known book, the Exploratlo Philosophica, of Professor J. Grote. Hobbes too was well awake to this difference, as, e.g., when he says, "There are two kinds of knowledge; the one, sense or knowledge original and remembrance of the same ; the other, science or know- ledge of the truth of propositions, derived from understanding. " 2 Bain, Logic, vol. i. p. 3. XX. — 7 50 PSYCHOLOGY to be qualitatively identical, or of (6) differences in quality in the same continuum or class of presentations, or of (c) differences between sensations of different classes or con- tinua. Now, as regards (a) and (6), it will be found that the difference between two intensities of the same quality, or between two qualities of the same continuum, may be itself a distinct presentation. But nothing of this kind holds of (c).1 In passing from a load of 10 ft to one of 20 Ib, or from the sound of a note to that of its octave, it is possible to make the change continuously, and to esti- mate it as one might the distance between two places on the same road. But in passing from the scent of a rose to the sound of a gong or a sting from a bee we have no such means of bringing the two into relation — scarcely more than we might have of measuring the length of a journey made partly on the common earth and partly through the looking-glass. In (c), then, we have only a change, a difference of presentation, but not a presentation of difference ; and we only have more than this in (a) or (6) provided the selected presentations occur together. If red follows green we may be aware of a greater differ- ence than we could if red followed orange ; and we should ordinarily call a 10-Bb load heavy after one of 5 R> and light after one of 20 Bb. Facts like these it is which make the differential theory of presentations plausible. 3. On the strength of such facts Wundt has formulated a law of relativity, free, apparently, from the objections just urged against Dr Bain's doctrine, which runs thus : — " Our sensations afford no absolute but only a relative measure of external impressions. The intensities of stimuli, the pitch of tones, the qualities of light, we apprehend (empfinden) in general only according to their mutual rela- tion, not according to any unalterably fixed unit given along with or before the impression itself." 2 We are not now concerned with so much of this statement as relates to the physical antecedents of sensation ; but that what is of psychological account in it requires very substantial qualification is evident at once from a single consideration, viz., that if true this law would make it quite immaterial what the impressions themselves were : provided the rela- tion continued the same, the sensation would be the same too, just as the ratio of 2 to 1 is the same whether our unit be miles or millimetres. In the case of intensities, e.g., there is a minimum sensibile and a maximum sensibile. The existence of such extremes is alone sufficient to turn the flank of the thoroughgoing relativists ; but there are instances enough of intermediate intensities that are directly recognized. A letter -sorter, for example, who identifies an ounce or two ounces with remarkable exact- ness identifies each for itself and not the first as half the second ; of an ounce and a half or of three ounces he may have a comparatively vague idea. And so generally within certain limits of error, indirectly ascertained, we can identify intensities, each for itself, neither referring to a common standard nor to one that varies from time to time — to any intensity, that is to say, that chances to be simul- taneously presented; just as an enlisting sergeant will recognize a man fit for the Guards without a yard measure and whether the man's comrades are tall or short. Of course such identification is only possible through the re- production of past impressions, but then such reproduction itself is only possible because the several impressions con- cerned have all along had a certain independence of related impressions, and a certain identity among themselves. As 1 Common language seems to recognize some connexion even here, or we should not speak of harsh tastes and harsh sounds, or of dull sounds and dull colours, and so forth. All this is, however, super- added to the sensation, probably on the ground of similarities in the accompanying organic sensations. 3 Physiologische Psychologic, 1st ed., p. 421 ; the doctrine re- appears in the 2d ed., but no equally general statement of it is given. regards the qualities of sensations the outlook of the rela- tivists is, if anything, worse. In what is called Meyer's experiment, e.g. (described under EYE, vol. viii. p. 825), what appears greenish on a red ground will appear of an orange tint on a ground of blue ; but this contrast is only possible within certain very narrow limits. In fact, the phenomena of colour -contrast, so far from proving, dis- tinctly disprove that we apprehend the qualities of light only according to their mutual relation. In the case of tones it is very questionable whether such contrasts exist at all. Summing up on the particular doctrine of relativity of which Wundt is the most distinguished adherent, the truth seems to be that, in some cases where two presenta- tions whose difference is itself presentable occur in close connexion, this difference — as we indirectly learn — exerts a certain bias on the assimilation or identification of one or both of the presentations. There is no " unalterably fixed unit " certainly, but, on the other hand, " the mutual relations of impressions" are not everything.3 Sensation and Movement. One of the first questions to arise concerning our simplest Qu; presentations or sensations 4 is to account for their differ- t^ti ences of quality. In some respects it may well seem an idle question, for at some stage or other we must acknow- ledge final or irresolvable differences. Still, differences can be frequently shown to be due to variety in the number, arrangement, and intensity of parts severally the same, — these several parts being either simultaneously presented or succeeding each other with varying intervals. It is a sound scientific instinct which has led writers like G. H. Lewes and Mr Spencer to look out for evidence of some simple primordial presentation — the psychical counterpart, they supposed, of a single nerve-shock or neural tremor — out of which by various grouping existing sensations have arisen. It must, however, be admitted that but little of such evidence is at present forthcoming ; and further, if we look at the question for a moment from the physiological standpoint which these writers are too apt to affect, what we find seems on the whole to make against this assump- tion. Protoplasm in its simplest state is readily irritated either by light, heat, electricity, or mechanical shock. Till the physiological characteristics of these various stimuli are better known, it is fruitless to speculate as to the nature of primitive sensation. But we have certainly no warrant for supposing that any existing class of sensations is entitled to rank as original. Touch, as we experience it now, is probably quite as complex as any of our special sensations. If a supposition must be ventured at all, it is perhaps most in keeping with what we know to suppose that the sensations answering to the five senses in their earliest form were only slightly differing variations of the more or less massive organic sensation which constituted the primitive presentation-continuum. We may suppose, in other words, that at the outset these sensations corre- sponded more completely with what we might call the general physiological action of light, heat, &c., as distinct from the action of these stimulants on specially differen- tiated end-organs. But, short of resolving such sensations into combinations of one primordial modification of con- sciousness, if we could conceive such, there are many interesting facts which point clearly to a complexity that we can seldom directly detect. Many of our supposed sensations of taste, e.g., are complicated with sensations of 3 Those who, like Helmholtz, explain the phenomena of contrast and the like as illusions of judgment, must class them as cases of comparativity ; those who, like Hering, explain them physiologically, would see in them nothing but physiological adaptation. 4 For a detailed account of the various sensations and perceptions pertaining to the several senses the reader is referred to the articles EYE, EAR, TOUCH, TASTE, SMELL, &c. PSYCHOLOGY 51 touch and smell : thus the pungency of pepper and the dryness of wine are tactual sensations, and their spicy flavours are really smells. How largely smells mingle with what we ordinarily take to be simply tastes is best brought home to us by a severe cold in the head, as this temporarily prevents the access of exhalations to the olfac- tory surfaces. The difference between the smooth feel of a polished surface and the roughness of one that is unpolished, though to direct introspection an irresolvable difference of quality, is probably due to the fact that several nerve-terminations are excited in each case : where the sensation is one of smoothness all are stimulated equally ; where it is one of roughness the ridges compress the nerve-ends more, and the hollows compress them less, than the level parts do. The most striking instance in point, however, is furnished by musical timbre (see EAR, vol. vii. p. 593). We find other evidence of the complexity of our existing sensations in the variations in quality that accompany variations in intensity, extensity, and duration. With the exception of spectral red all colours give place, sooner or later, to a mere colourless grey as the intensity of the light diminishes, and all in like manner become indis- tinguishably white after a certain increase of intensity. A longer time is also in most cases necessary to produce a sensation of colour than to produce a sensation merely of light or brightness : the solar spectrum seen for a moment appears not of seven colours but of two only — faintly red towards the left side and blue towards the right. Very small objects, again, such as coloured specks on a white ground, though still distinctly seen, appear as colour- less if of less than a certain size, the relation between their intensity and extensity being such that within certain limits the brighter they are the smaller they may be with- out losing colour, and the larger they are the fainter in like manner. Similar facts are observable in the case of other senses, so that generally we seem justified in regard- ing what we now distinguish as a sensation as probably com- plicated in several respects. In other words, if psychical magnification were possible, we might be directly aware that sensations which we now suppose to be both single and simple were both compound and complex — that they consisted, that is, of two or more sensational elements or changes, alike or different in quality, of uniform or variable intensity, and occurring either simultaneously or in regular or irregular succession. It is interesting to note that all possible sensations of colour, of tone, and of temperature constitute as many groups of qualitative continua. By continuum is here meant a series of presentations changing gradually in quality, i.e., so that any two differ less the more they approximate in the series. We may represent this rela- tion among presentations spatially, so long as the differences do not exceed three. In this way our normal colour-sensa- tions have been compared to a sphere, in which (a) the maximum of luminosity is at one pole and the minimum at the other ; (6) the series of colours proper (red to violet and through purple back to red), constituting a closed line, are placed round the equator or in zones parallel to it, according to shade ; and (c) the amount of saturation (or absence of white) for any given zone of illumination in- creases with distance from the axis. The several musical tones, again, have been compared to an ascending spiral, a given tone and its octaves lying in the same perpen- dicular. Temperatures similarly might be represented as ranging in opposite directions, i.e., through heat or through cold, between a zero of no sensation and the organic sensa- tions that accompany the destructive action of heat and cold alike. As we frequently experience a continuous range of intensity of varying amount, so we may experience continuous variations in quality, as in looking at the rain- bow, for example. Still it is not to be- supposed that colours or notes are necessarily presented as continua : that they are such is matter of after-observation. The groups of sensations known as touches, smells, tastes, on the other hand, do not constitute continua : bitter tastes, for instance, will not shade off into acid or sweet tastes, except, of course, through a gradual diminution of inten- sity rendering the one quality subliminal followed by a gradual increase from zero in the intensity of the other. This want of continuity might be explained if there were grounds for regarding these groups as more complex than the rest, — in so far as tertiary colours or vowel -sounds, say, are complex and comparatively discontinuous. But it might equally well be argued that they are simpler than the rest and, as simple and different, are necessarily dis- parate, while the continuity of colours or tones is due to a gradual change of components. Our motor presentations contrast with the sensory by their want of striking qualitative differences. We may divide them into two groups, (a) motor presentations proper and (6) auxilio-motor presentations. The former answer to our " feelings of muscular effort " or " feelings of innerva- tion." The latter are those presentations due to the strain- ing of tendons, stretching and flexing of the skin, and the like, by which the healthy man knows that his efforts to move are followed by movement, and so knows the position of his body and limbs. It is owing to the absence of these presentations that the anaesthetic patient cannot directly tell whether his efforts are effectual or not, nor in what position his limbs have been placed by movements from without. Thus under normal circumstances motor pre- sentations are always accompanied by auxilio-motor ; but in disease and in passive movements they are separated and their distinctness thus made manifest. Originally we may suppose auxilio-motor objects to form one imper- fectly differentiated continuum, but now, as with sensa- tions, movements have become a collection of special continua, viz., the groups of movements possible to each limb and certain combinations of these. Perception. In treating apart of the differentiation of our sensory Mental and motor continua, as resulting merely in a number of synthesis distinguishable sensations and movements, we have been or V?te~ compelled by the exigencies of exposition to leave out of sight another process which really advances pari passu with this differentiation, viz., the integration or synthesis of these proximately elementary presentations into those complex presentations which are called perceptions, in- tuitions, sensori-motor reactions, and the like. It is, of course, not to be supposed that in the evolution of mind any creature attained to such variety of distinct sensations and movements as a human being possesses without making even the first step towards building up this material into the most rudimentary knowledge and action. On the contrary, there is every reason to think, as has been said already incidentally, that further differentiation was helped by previous integration, that perception prepared the way for distincter sensations, and purposive action for more various movements. This process of synthesis, which is in the truest sense a psychical process, deserves some general consideration before we proceed to the several complexes that result from it. Most complexes, certainly the most important, are consequences of that principle of subjective selection whereby interesting sensations lead through the intervention of feeling to movements ; and the movements that turn out to subserve such interest come to have a share in it. In this way — which we need not stay to examine more closely now — it happens that, in the 52 PSYCHOLOGY alternation of sensory and motor phases which is common to all psychical life, a certain sensation, comparatively in- tense, and a certain movement, definite enough to control that sensation, engage attention in immediate succession, to the more or less complete exclusion from attention of the other less intense sensations and more diffused movements that accompany them. Apart from this intervention of controlling movements, the presentation-continuum, how- ever much differentiated, would be for all purposes of know- ledge little better than the disconnected manifold for which Kant took it. At the same time it is to be remembered that the subject obtains command of particular movements out of all the mass involved in emotional expression only because such movements prove on occurrence adapted to control certain sensations. Before experience, and apart from heredity, there seems not only no scientific warrant for assuming any sort of practical prescience but also none for the hypothesis of a priori forms of knowledge. Of a pre-established harmony between the active and passive phases of consciousness we need none, or — it may be safer to say — at least indefinitely little. A sentient creature moves first of all because it feels, not because it intends. A long process, in which natural selection probably played the chief part at the outset — subjective selection becoming more prominent as the process advanced — must have been necessary to secure as much purposive movement as even a lobster displays. It seems impossible to except from this process the movements of the special sense-organs which are essential to our perception of external things. Here too subjective interest will explain, so far as psycho- logical explanation is possible, those syntheses of motor and sensory presentations which we call spatial perceptions and intuitions of material things. For example, some of the earliest lessons of this kind seem to be acquired, as we may presently see, in the process of exploring the body by means of the limbs, — a process for which grounds in sub- jective interest can obviously never be wanting. The mere process of " association " — whereby we may suppose the synthesis of presentations to be effected so that presentations originally in no way connected tend to move in consciousness together — will confront us with its own problems later on. We need for the present only to bear in mind that the conjunction or continuity upon which the association primarily depends is one determined by the movements of attention, which movements in turn depend very largely upon the pleasure or pain that pre- sentations occasion. To some extent, however, there is no doubt that attention may pass non-voluntarily from one indifferent presentation to another, each being sufficiently intense to give what has been called a "shock of surprise," but not so intense as to awaken feeling to move for their de- tention or dismissal. But throughout the process of mental development, where we are concerned with what is new, the range of such indifference is probably small : indifferent presentations there will be, but that does not matter while there are others that are interesting to take the lead. Meaning Perception as a psychological term has received various, of per- though related, meanings for different writers. It is ception. gometimes used for the recognition of a sensation or move- ment as distinct from its mere presentation, and thus is said to imply the more or less definite revival of certain residua or re-presentations of past experience which re- sembled the present. More frequently it is used as the equivalent of what has been otherwise called the " localiza- tion and projection " of sensations, — that is to say, a sensa- tion presented either as an affection of some part of our own body regarded as extended or as a state of some foreign body beyond it. According to the former usage, strictly taken, there might be perception without any spatial pre- sentation at all : a sensation that had been attended to a few times might be perceived as familiar. Such percept being a " presentative- representative " complex, and wholly sensory, we might symbolize it, details apart, as S + s, using S for the present sensation, and s for a former S re- presented. According to the latter usage, an entirely new sensation, provided it were complicated with motor experi- ences in the way required for its localization or projection, would become a perception. Such a perception might be roughly symbolized as X + (M+ m), or as X + m simply, M standing for actual movements, as in ocular adjustment, which in some cases might be only former movements re- presented or m. But as a matter of fact actual perception probably invariably includes both cases : impressions which we recognize we also localize or project, and impressions which are localized or projected are never entirely new, — they are, at least, perceived as sounds or colours or aches, &c. It will, however, frequently happen that we are speci- ally concerned with only one side of the whole process, as is the case with a tea- taster or a colour-mixer on the one hand, or, on the other, with the patient who is perplexed to decide whether what he sees and hears is " subjective," or whether it is " real." Usually we have more trouble to discriminate the quality of an impression than to fix it spatially ; indeed this latter process was taken for granted by most psychologists till recently. But, however little the two sides are actually separated, it is important to mark their logical distinctness, and it would be well if we had a precise name for each. In any other science save psychology such names would be at once forthcoming ; but it seems the fate of this science to be restricted in its terminology to the ill -defined and well-worn currency of common speech, with which every psychologist feels at liberty to do what is right in his own eyes, at least within the wide range which a loose connotation allows. If there were any hope of their general acceptance we might pro- pose to call the first-mentioned process the assimilation or recognition of an impression, and might apply the term localization to its spatial fixation, without distinguishing between the body and space beyond, — a matter of the less importance as projection hardly enters into primitive spatial experience. But there is still a distinction called for : perception as we now know it involves not only localization, or "spatial reference," as it is not very happily termed, but " objective reference " as well. We may perceive sound or light without any presentation of that which sounds or shines ; but none the less we do not regard such sound or light as merely the object of our attention, as having only immanent existence, but as the quality or change or state of a thing, an object distinct not only from the subject attending but from all presentations whatever to which it attends. Here again the actual separation is impossible, because this factor in perception has been so intertwined throughout our mental develop- ment with the other two. Still a careful psychological ana- lysis will show that such " reification," as we might almost call it, has depended on special circumstances, which we can at any rate conceive absent. These special circumstances are briefly the constant conjunctions and successions of impressions, for which psychology can give no reason, and the constant movements to which they prompt. Thus we receive together, e.g., those impressions we now recognize as severally the scent, colour, and " feel " of the rose we pluck and handle. We might call each a " percept," and the whole a "complex percept." But there is more in such a complex than a sum of partial percepts ; there is the apprehension or intuition of the rose as a thing having this scent, colour, and texture. We have, then, under perception to consider (i.) the assimilation and (ii.) the localization of impressions, and (iii.) the intuition of things. The range of the terms assimilation or recognition of PSYCHOLO-GY 53 Assimi- impressions is wide : between the simplest mental process lation of they may be supposed to denote and the most complex there is a great difference. The penguin that watched unmoved the first landing of man upon its lonely rock becomes as wild and wary as more civilized fowl after two or three visits from its molester : it then recognizes that featherless biped. His friends at home also recognize him though altered by years of peril and exposure. In the latter case some trick of his voice or manner, some " strik- ing " feature, calls up and sustains a crowd of memories of the traveller in the past, — events leading on to the present scene. The two recognitions are widely different, and it is from state's of mind more like the latter than the former that psychologists have usually drawn their descrip- tion of perception. At the outset, they say, we have a primary presentation or impression P, and after sundry repetitions there remains a mass or a series of P residua, 2hP'2Ps • • ' ') perception ensues when, sooner or later, Pn " calls up " and associates itself with these re-presentations or ideas. Much of our later perception, and especially Avhen we are at all interested, awakens, no doubt, both distinct memories and distinct expectations ; but, since these imply previous perceptions, it is obvious that the earliest form of recognition, or, as we might better call it, assimilation, must be free from such complications, can have nothing in it answering to the overt judgment, Pn is a P. Assimilation involves retentiveness and differentia- tion, as we have seen, and prepares the way for re-presenta- tion ; but in itself there is no confronting the new with the old, no determination of likeness, and no subsequent classification. The pure sensation we may regard as a psychological myth ; and the simple image, or such sensa- tion revived, seems equally mythical, as we may see later on. The nth sensation is not like the first : it is a change in a presentation-continuum that has itself been changed by those preceding ; and it cannot with any propriety be said to reproduce these past sensations, for they never had the individuality which such reproduction implies. Nor does it associate with images like itself, since where there is association there must first have been distinctness, and what can be associated can also, for some good time at least, be dissociated. ;ocaliza- To treat of the localization of impressions is really to give ion of an account of the steps by which the psychological indi- vidual comes to a knowledge of space. At the outset of such an inquiry it seems desirable first of all to make plain what lies within our purview, and what does not, lest we disturb the peace of those who, confounding philosophy and psychology, are ever eager to fight for or against the a priori character of this element of knowledge. That space is a priori in the epistemological sense it is no concern of the psychologist either to assert or to deny. Psychologically a priori or original in such sense that it has been either actually or potentially an element in all presentation from the very beginning it certainly is not. It will help to make this matter clearer if we distinguish what philosophers frequently confuse, viz., the concrete spatial experiences, constituting actual localization for the individual, and the abstract conception of space, generalized from what is found to be common in such experiences. A gannet's mind "possessed of" a philosopher, if such a conceit may be allowed, would certainly afford its tenant very different spatial experiences from those he might share if he took up bis quarters in a mole. So, any one who has revisited in after years a place from which he had been absent since childhood knows how largely a " personal equation," as it were, enters into his spatial perceptions. Or the same truth may be brought home to him if, walking with a friend more athletic than himself, they come upon a ditch, which both know to be twelve feet wide, but which the one feels he can clear by a jump and the other feels he cannot. In the concrete " up " is much more than a different direc- tion from "along." The hen-harrier, which cannot soar, is indifferent to a quarry a hundred feet above it — to which the peregrine, built for soaring, would at once give chase — but is on the alert as soon as it descries prey of the same apparent magnitude, but upon the ground. Similarly, in the concrete, the body is the origin or datum to which all posi- tions are referred, and such positions differ not merely quantitatively but qualitatively. Moreover, our various bodily movements and their combinations constitute a net- work of co-ordinates, qualitatively distinguishable but geo- metrically, so to put it, both redundant and incomplete. It is a long way from these facts of perception, which the brutes share with us, to that scientific conception of space as having three dimensions and no qualitative differences which we have elaborated by the aid of thought and lan- guage, and which reason may see to be the logical presup- position of what in the order of mental development has chronologically preceded it. That the experience of space is not psychologically original seems obvious — quite apart from any successful explanation of its origin — from the mere consideration of its complexity. Thus we must have a plurality of objects — A out of B, B beside C, distant from D, and so on ; and these relations of externality, juxtapo- sition, and size or distance imply further specialization ; for with a mere plurality of objects we have not straight- way spatial differences. Juxtaposition, e.g., is only possible when the related objects form a continuum ; but, again, not any continuity is extensive. Now how has this com- plexity come about 1 The first condition of spatial experience seems to lie Exten- in what has been noted above (p. 46) as the extensity of sensation. This much we may allow is original ; for the longer we reflect the more clearly we see that no combina- tion or association of sensations varying only in intensity and quality, not even if motor presentations are added, will account for the space-element in our perceptions. A series of touches a, b, c, d may be combined with a series of movements mv m2, mz, ra4 ; both series may be reversed ; and finally the touches may be presented simultaneously. In this way we can attain the knowledge of the coexistence of objects that have a certain quasi-distance between them, and such experience is an important element in our per- ception of space ; but it is not the whole of it. For, as has been already remarked by critics of the associationist psychology, we have an experience very similar to this in singing and hearing musical notes or the chromatic scale. The most elaborate attempt to get extensity out of succes- sion and coexistence is that of Mr Herbert Spencer. He has done, perhaps, all that can be done, and only to make it the more plain that the entire procedure is a va-repov TrpoTfpov. We do not first experience a succession of touches or of retinal excitations by means of movements, and then, when these impressions are simultaneously pre- sented, regard them as extensive, because they are asso- ciated with or symbolize the original series of movements ; but, before and apart from movement altogether, we ex- perience that massiveness or extensity of impressions in which movements enable us to find positions, and also to measure.1 But it will be objected, perhaps not without 1 We are ever in danger of exaggerating the competence of a new discovery ; and the associationists seem to have fallen into this mistake, not only in the use they have made of the conception of asso- ciation in psychology in general, but in the stress they have laid upon the fact of movement when explaining our space-perceptions in particular. Indeed, both ideas have here conspired against them, — association in keeping up the notion that we have only to deal with a plurality of discrete impressions, and movement in keeping to the front the idea of sequence. Mill's Examination of Hamilton (3d ed., p. 266 sq.) surely ought to convince us that, unless we are prepared to 54 PSYCHOLOGY impatience, that this amounts to the monstrous absurdity of making the contents of consciousness extended. The edge of this objection will be best turned by rendering the conception of extensity more precise. Thus, suppose a postage stamp pasted on the back of the hand ; we have in consequence a certain sensation. If another be added beside it, the new experience would not be adequately described by merely saying we have a greater quantity of sensation, for intensity involves quantity, and increased intensity is not what is meant. For a sensation of a certain intensity, say a sensation of red, cannot be changed into one having two qualities, red and blue, leaving the inten- sity unchanged ; but with extensity this change is possible. For one of the postage stamps a piece of wet cloth of the same size might be substituted and the massiveness of the compound sensation remain very much the same. Inten- sity belongs to what may be called graded quantity : it admits of increment or decrement, but is not a sum of parts. Extensity, on the other hand, does imply plurality : we might call it latent or merged plurality or a " ground " of plurality, inasmuch as to say that a single presentation has massiveness is to say that a portion of the presentation- continuum at the moment undifferentiated is capable of Local differentiation. Attributing this property of extensity to signs. the presentation-continuum as a whole, we may call the relation of any particular sensation to this larger whole its local sign, and can see that, so long as the extensity of a presentation admits of diminution without the pre- sentation becoming nil, such presentation has two or more local signs, — its parts, taken separately, though identical in quality and intensity, having a different rela- tion to the whole. Such difference of relation must be regarded fundamentally as a ground or possibility of distinctness of sign — whether as being the ground or pos- sibility of different complexes or otherwise — rather than as being from the beginning such an overt difference as the term " local sign," when used by Lotze, is meant to imply.1 From this point of view we may say that more partial presentations are concerned in the sensation caused by two stamps than in that caused by one. The fact that these partial presentations, though identical in quality and intensity, on the one hand are not wholly identical, and on the other are presented only as a quantity and not as a plurality, is explained by the distinctness along with the continuity of their local signs. Assuming that to every distinguishable part of the body there corresponds a local sign, we may allow that at any moment only a certain portion of this continuum is definitely within the field of consciousness ; but no one will maintain that a part of one hand is ever felt as continuous with part of the other or with part of the face. This we can only represent by saying that the local signs have an invariable relation to each other : two continuous signs are not one day coin- cident and the next widely separate.2 This last fact is say, as Mill seems to do, " that the idea of space is at bottom one of time " (p. 276), we must admit the inadequacy of our experience of movement to explain the origin of it. 1 To illustrate what is meant by different complexes it will be enough to refer to the psychological implications of the fact that scarcely two portions of the sensitive surface of the human body are anatomically alike. Not only in the distribution and character of the nerve-endings but in the variety of the underlying parts — in one place bone, in another fatty tissue, in others tendons or muscles variously arranged — we find ample ground for diversity in "the local colour- ing" of sensations. And comparative zoology helps us to see how such diversity has been developed as external impressions and the answering movements have gradually differentiated an organism origin- ally almost homogeneous and symmetrical. Between one point and another on the surface of a sphere there is no ground of difference ; but this is no longer true if the sphere revolves round a fixed axis, still less if it also runs in one direction along its axis. 8 The improvements in the sensibility of our "spatial sense" con- sequent on its variations under practice, the action of drugs, &c., are hardly perhaps implied in the mere massiveness of a sensa- tion, but it will be convenient to include it when speaking of the continuum of local signs as extensive. We have, then, a plurality of presentations constituting a continuum, presented simultaneously as impressions and having certain fixed and invariable relations to each other. Of such experience the typical case is that of passive touch, though the other senses exemplify it. It must be allowed that our conception of space in like manner involves a fixed continuity of positions ; but then it involves, further, the possibility of movement. Now in the continuum of local signs there is nothing whatever of this ; we might call this continuum an implicit plenum. It only becomes the pre- sentation of occupied space after its several local signs are complicated or " associated " in an orderly way with active touches, when in fact we have experienced the contrast of movements with contact and movements without, i.e., in vacuo. It is quite true that we cannot now think of this plenum except as a space, because we cannot divest ourselves of these motor experiences by which we have explored it. We can, however, form some idea of the difference between the perception of space and this one element in the perception by contrasting massive internal sensations with massive superficial ones, or the general sensation of the body as "an animated organism " with our perception of it as extended. It must seem strange, if this conception of extensity is essential to a psychological theory of space, that it has escaped notice so long. The reason may be that in investi- gations into the origin of our knowledge of space it was always the conception of space and not our concrete space perceptions that came up for examination. Now in space as we conceive it one position is distinguishable from another solely by its co-ordinates, i.e., by the magnitude and signs of certain lines and angles, as referred to a certain datum position, or origin ; and these elements our motor experiences seem fully to explain. But on re- flexion we ought, surely, to be puzzled by the question, how these coexistent positions could be known before those movements were made which constitute them different positions. The link we thus suspect to be missing is supplied by the more concrete experiences we obtain from our own body, in which two positions have a qualitative difference or " local colour " independently of movement. True, such positions would not be known as spatial without move- ment ; but neither would the movement be known as spatial had those positions no other difference than such as arises from movement. We may now consider the part which movement plays Mo-v in elaborating the presentations of this dimensionless men continuum into perceptions of space. In so doing we must bear in mind that this continuum implies the inco- presentability of two impressions having the same local sign, but allows not only of the presentation of impressions of varying massiveness but of several distinct impressions at the same time. As regards the motor element itself, the first point of importance is the incopresentability and invariability of a series of auxilio- motor presentations, P^P2,PS,P^. Pj cannot be presented along with P2, and from P4 it is impossible to reach Pl again save through Ps and P2. Such a series, taken alone, could afford us, it is evident, nothing but the knowledge of an invariable sequence of impressions which it was in our own power to produce. Its psychological interest would lie solely in the fact that, whereas other impressions depend on an object- ive initiative, these depend on a subjective. But in the course of the movements necessary to the exploration of obviously no real contradiction to this ; on the contrary, such facts are all in favour of making extensity a distinct factor in our space experi- ence and one more fundamental than that of movement. PSYCHOLOGY the body — probably our earliest lesson in spatial perception — these auxilio-motor presentations receive a new signifi- cance from the active and passive touches that accompany them, just as they impart to these last a significance they could never have alone. It is only in the resulting complex that we have the presentations of position and of spatial magnitude. For space, though conceived as a coexistent continuum, excludes the notion of omnipresence or ubiquity ; two positions ) 'd and lg must coexist, but they are not strictly distinct positions so long as we conceive ourselves present in the same sense in both. But, if Fd and Fg are, e.g., two impressions produced by compass -points touching two different spots as I and lg on the hand or arm, and we place a finger upon ld and move it to ly, experiencing thereby the series P^P^P^P^ this series constitutes ld and lg into positions and also invests Fd and Fg with a relation not of mere distinctness but of definite distance. The resulting complex perhaps admits of symbolization as follows : — T t t t Here the first line represents a portion of the tactual continuum, Fd and Fg being distinct " feels," if we may so say, or passive touches presented along with the fainter sensations of the continuum as a whole ; T stands for the active touch of the exploring finger and Pl for the corre- sponding auxilio-motor object ; the rest of the succession, as not actually present at this stage but capable of re- vival from past explorations, is symbolized by the ttt and PiPsPv When the series of movements is accompanied by active touches without passive there arises the distinc- tion between one's own body and foreign bodies ; when the initial movement of a series is accompanied by both active and passive touches, the final movement by active touches only, and the intermediate movements are unaccompanied by either, we get the further presentation of empty space lying between us and them, — but only when by frequent experience of contacts along with those intermediate move- ments we have come to know all movement as not only succession but change of position. Thus active touches come at length to be projected, passive touches alone being localized in the stricter sense. But in actual fact, of course, the localization of one impression is not perfected before that of another is begun, and we must take care lest our necessarily meagre exposition give rise to the mistaken notion that localizing an impression consists wholly and solely in performing or imaging the particular movements necessary to add active touches to a group of passive im- pressions. That this cannot suffice is evident merely from the consideration that a single position out of relation to all other positions is a contradiction. Localization, though it depends on many special experiences of the kind de- scribed, is not like an artificial product which is completed a part at a time, but is essentially a growth, its several constituent^ocalizations advancing together in definiteness and interconnexion. So far has this development advanced that we do not even imagine the special movements which the localization of an impression implies, that is to say, they are no longer distinctly represented as they would be if we definitely intended to make them : the past experiences are " retained," but too much blended in the mere perception to be appropriately spoken of as remembered or imaged. Apropos of this almost instinctive character of even our earliest spatial perceptions it will be appropriate to animadvert on a mis- leading implication in the current use of such terms as "localization," "projection,'' "bodily reference," "spatial reference," and the like. The implication is that external space, or the body as extended, is in some sort presented or supposed apart from the localization, projection, or reference of impressions to such space. That it may be possible to put a book in its place on a shelf there must be (1) the book, and (2), distinct and apart from it, the place on the shelf. But in the evolution of our spatial experience impressions and positions are not thus presented apart. We can have, or at least we can suppose, an impression which is recognized without being localized ; but if it is localized this means that a more complex presentation is formed by the addition of new elements, not that a second distinct object is presented and some indescribable connexion established between the impression and it, still less that the im- pression is referred to something not strictly presented at all. The truth is that the body as extended is from the psychological point of view not perceived at all apart from localized impressions. In like manner impressions projected (or the absence of impressions projected) constitute all that is perceived as the occupied (or un- occupied) space beyond. It is not till a much later stage, after many varying experiences of different impressions similarly local- ized or projected, that even the mere materials are present for the formation of such an abstract conception of space as "spatial reference " implies. Psychologists, being themselves at this later stage, are apt to commit the oversight of introducing it into the earlier stage which they have to expound. In a complex presentation, such as that of an orange or Intuition a piece of wax, may be distinguished the following pointsoftflings- concerning which psychology may be expected to give an account : — (a) its reality, (6) its solidity or occupation of space, (c) its permanence, or rather its continuity in time, (d) its unity and complexity, and (e) its substantiality and the connexion of its attributes and powers. Though, in fact, these items are most intimately blended, our exposi- tion will be clearer if we consider each for a moment apart. (a) The terms actuality and reality have each moreActual- than one meaning. Thus what is real, in the sense of ily or material, is opposed to what is mental ; as the existent or rea"tv< actual it is opposed to the non-existent ; and again, what is actual is distinguished from what is possible or necessary. But here both terms, with a certain shade of difference, in so far as actual is more appropriate to movements and events, are used, in antithesis to whatever is ideal or repre- sented, for what is sense-given or presented. This seems at least their primary psychological meaning ; and it is the one most in vogue in English philosophy at any rate, over-tinged as that is with psychology.1 Any examination of this characteristic will be best deferred till we come to deal with ideation generally (see p. 58 below). Meanwhile it may suffice to remark that reality or actuality is not a single distinct element added to the others which enter into the complex presentation we call a thing, as colour or solidity may be. Neither is it a special relation among these elements, like that of substance and attribute, for example. In these respects the real and the ideal, the actual and the possible, are alike ; all the elements or qualities within the complex, and all the relations of those elements to each other, are the same in the rose repre- sented as in the presented rose. The difference turns not upon what these elements are, regarded as qualities or relations presented or represented, but upon whatever it is that distinguishes the presentation from the representation of any given qualities or relations. Now this, as we shall see, turns partly upon the relation of such complex pre- sentation to other presentations in consciousness with it, partly upon its relation as a presentation to the subject whose presentation it is. In this respect we find a differ- ence, not only between the simple qualities, such as cold, hard, red, and sweet in strawberry ice, e.g., as presented and as represented, but also, though less conspicuously, in the spatial, and even the temporal, relations which enter into our intuition as distinct from our imagination of it. Where no such difference exists we have passed beyond 1 Thus Locke says, "Our simple ideas [i.e., presentations or im- pressions, as we should now say] are all real . . . and not fictions at pleasure ; for the mind . . . can make to itself no simple idea more than what it has received " (Essay, ii. 30, 2). And Berkeley says, "The ideas imprinted on the senses by the Author of Nature are called real things ; and those excited in the imagination, being less regular, vivid, and constant, are more properly termed ideas or images of things, which they copy or represent" (Prin. of Hum. Know., part i. § 33). 56 PSYCHOLOGY the distinction of percept and image to the higher level of conception and thought. So, then, reality or actuality is not strictly an item by itself, but a characteristic of all the items that follow. Impene- (6) Here our properly motor presentations or " feelings trability. Of effort or innervation " come specially into play. They are not entirely absent in those movements of exploration by which we attain a knowledge of space ; but it is when these movements are definitely resisted, or are only pos- sible by increased effort, that we reach the full meaning of body as that which occupies space. Heat and cold, light and sound, the natural man regards as real, and by and by perhaps as due to the powers of things known or unknown, but not as themselves things. At the outset things are all corporeal like his own body, the first and archetypal thing, that is to say : things are intuited only when touch is accompanied by pressure ; and, though at a later stage pass- ive touch without pressure may suffice, this is only because pressures depending on a subjective initiative, i.e., on voluntary muscular exertion, have been previously experi- enced. It is of more than psychological interest to remark how the primordial factor in materiality is thus due to the projection of a subjectively determined reaction to that action of a not-self on which sense-impressions depend, — an action of the not-self which, of course, is not known as such till this projection of the subjective reaction has taken place. Still we must remember that accompany- ing sense -impressions are a condition of its projection : muscular effort without simultaneous sensations of contact would not yield the distinct presentation of the resistant occupying the space into which we have moved and would move again. Nay more, it is in the highest degree an essential circumstance in this experience that muscular effort, though subjectively initiated, is still only possible when there is contact with something that, as it seems, is making an effort the counterpart of our own. But this something is so far no more than thing -stuff; without the elements next to be considered our psychological in- dividual would fall short of the complete intuition of dis- tinct things. Unity (c) The remaining important factors in the psychologi- and com- ^j constitution of things might be described in general P exi ^' terms as the time-relations of their components. Such relations are themselves in no way psychologically deter- mined ; impressions recur with a certain order or want of order quite independently of the subject's interest or of any psychological principles of synthesis or association whatever. It is essential that impressions should recur, and recur as they have previously occurred, if knowledge is ever to begin ; out of a continual chaos of sensation, all matter and no form, such as some philosophers describe, nothing but chaos could result. But a flux of impressions having this real or sense-given order will not suffice ; there must be also attention to and retention of the order, and these indispensable processes at least are psychological. Still they need not be further emphasized here, nor would it have been necessary at this point to call them to mind at all had not British empirical philosophers brought psycho- logy into disrepute by overlooking them altogether. But for its familiarity we should marvel at the fact that out of the variety of impressions simultaneously presented we do not instantly group together all the sounds and all the colours, all the touches and all the smells, but, divid- ing what is given together, single out a certain sound or smell as belonging with a certain colour and feel, similarly singled out from the rest, to what we call one thing. We might wonder, too — those at least who have made so much of association by similarity ought to wonder — that, say, the white of snow calls up directly, not other shades of white or other colours, but the expectation of cold or of powdery soft- ness. The first step in this process has been the simultane- ous projection into the same occupied space of the several impressions which we thus come to regard as the qualities of the body filling it. Yet such simultaneous and coincident projection would avail but little unless the constituent im- pressions were again and again repeated in like order so as to prompt anew the same grouping, and unless, further, this constancy in the one group was present along with changes in other groups and in the general field. There is nothing in its first experience to tell the infant that the song of the bird does not inhere in the hawthorn whence the notes proceed, but that the fragrance of the may-flower does. It is only where a group, as a whole, has been found to change its position relatively to other groups, and — apart from causal relations — to be independent of changes of position among them, that such complexes can become distinct unities and yield a world of things. Again, be- cause things are so often a world within themselves, their several parts or members not only having distinguishing qualities but moving and changing with more or less inde- pendence of the rest, it comes about that what is from one point of view one thing becomes from another point of view several, — like a tree with its separable branches and fruits, for example. Wherein, then, more precisely, does the unity of a thing consist 1 This question, so far as it here admits of answer, carries us over to temporal continuity. (d) Amidst all the change above described there is one Tern thing comparatively fixed : our own body is both constant ™1 c as a group and a constant item in every field of groups ; tinu' and not only so, but it is beyond all other things an object of constant and peculiar interest, inasmuch as our earliest pleasures and pains depend solely upon it and what affects it. The body becomes, in fact, the earliest form of self, the first datum for our later conceptions of permanence and individuality. A continuity like that of self is then transferred to other bodies which resemble our own, so far as our direct experience goes, in passing continuously from place to place and undergoing only partial and gradual changes of form and quality. As we have ex- isted— or, more exactly, as the body has been continuously presented — during the interval between two encounters with some other recognized body, so this is regarded as having continuously existed during its absence from us. However permanent we suppose the conscious subject to be, it is "hard to see how, without the continuous presenta- tion to it of such a group as the bodily self, we should ever be prompted to resolve the discontinuous presenta- tions of external things into a continuity of existence. It might be said : " Since the second presentation of a par- ticular group would, by the mere workings of psychical laws, coalesce or become identical with the image of the first, this coalescence suffices to ' generate ' the conception of continued existence." But such assimilation is only the ground of an intellectual identification and furnishes no motive, one way or the other, for resolving two like things into the same thing : between a second presentation of A and the presentation at different times of two A's there is so far no difference. Real identity no more involves exact similarity than exact similarity involves sameness of things ; on the contrary, we are wont to find the same thing alter with time, so that exact similarity after an interval, so far from suggesting one thing, is often the surest proof that there are two concerned. Of such real identity, then, it would seem we must have direct experience ; and we have it in the continuous presentation of the bodily self ; apart from this it could not be " generated " by association among changing presentations. Other bodies being in the first instance personified, that then is regarded as one thing — from whatever point of view we look at it, whether PSYCHOLOGY 57 as part of a larger thing or as itself compounded of such parts — which has had one beginning in time. But what is it that has thus a beginning and continues indefinitely ? This leads to our last point. Jubstau- (e^ go far we have been concerned only with the com- iality. bination of sensory and motor presentations into groups and with the differentiation of group from group; the relations to each other of the constituents of each group still for the most part remain. To these relations in the main must be referred the correlative conceptions of sub- stance and attribute, the distinction in substances of qualities and powers, of primary qualities and secondary, and the like.1 Of all the constituents of things only one is universally present, that above described as physical solidity, which presents itself according to circumstances as impenetrability, resistance, or weight. Things differing in temperature, colour, taste, and smell agree in resisting compression, in filling space. Because of this quality we regard the wind as a thing, though it has neither shape nor colour, while a shadow, though it has both but not resistance, is the very type of nothingness. This constituent is invariable, while other qualities are either absent or change, — form altering, colour disappearing with light, sound and smells intermitting. Many of the other qualities — colour, tem- perature, sound, smell — increase in intensity until we reach and touch a body occupying space ; with the same move- ment too its visual magnitude varies. At the moment of contact an unvarying tactual magnitude is ascertained, while the other qualities and the visual magnitude reach a fixed maximum ; then first it becomes possible by effort to change or attempt to change the position and form of what we apprehend. This tangible plenum we thence- forth regard as the seat and source of all the qualities we project into it. In other words, that which occupies space is psychologically the substantial ; the other real consti- tuents are but its properties or attributes, the marks or manifestations which lead us to expect its presence. Imagination or Ideation. npres- Before the intuition of things has reached a stage so °"s complete and definite as that just described, imagination leag or ideation as distinct from perception has well begun. In passing to the consideration of this higher form of mental life we have to note the distinction between im- pressions and images or ideas, to which Hume first gave general currency. Hume did not think it " necessary to employ many words in explaining this distinction. Every one of himself will readily perceive the difference . . . ; though it is not impossible but in particular instances they may very nearly approach to each other. Thus in sleep, in a fever, in madness, or in any very violent emotions of soul, our ideas may approach to our impressions ; as, on the other hand, it sometimes happens our impressions are so faint and low that we cannot distinguish them from our ideas." 2 In most cases, no doubt, the obvious differ- ence in intensity, or, as Hume puts it, "in the force or liveliness with which they strike upon the mind," is a sufficient characteristic, but we must examine a good deal further and pay more attention to his uncertain cases if this important distinction is ever to be in any sense psychologically " explained." To begin with, it is very questionable whether Hume was right in applying Locke's distinction of simple and complex to ideas in the narrower sense as well as to im- 1 The distinction between the thing and its properties, like all the foregoing distinctions, is one that might be more fully treated under the head of "Thought and Conception." Still, inasmuch as the material warrant for these concepts is contained more or less implicitly in our percepts, some consideration of it is in place here. 3 Treatise of Human Nature, book i. part i. § 1. pressions. "That idea of red," says Hume, "which we form in the dark and that impression which strikes our eyes in the sunshine differ only in degree, not in nature."3 But what he seems to overlook is that, whereas there can be a mere sensation red — and such a presentation may for present purposes be regarded as simple — we can only have an image or representation of a red thing or a red form, i.e., of red in some way ideally projected or intuited. In other words, there are no ideas answering to simple or isolated impressions : what are revived in memory and imagination are percepts, not unlocalized sensations and movements. It is not only that we cannot now directly observe such representations, — because, for that matter, we can no longer directly observe even the original pre- sentations as merely elementary impressions; the point rather is that ideas as such are from the first complex, and do not begin to appear in consciousness apart from the impressions which they are said to reproduce till after these impressions have been frequently attended to together, and have been more or less firmly synthesized into percepts or intuitions. The effects of even the earliest of these syntheses or "associations " of impressions must of course in some way persist, or progress in perception would be impossible. On this account it has been usual to say that " perception " implies both " memory " and " imagina- tion" ; but such a statement can be allowed only so long as these terms are vaguely used. The dog's mouth waters only at the sight of food, but the gourmand's mouth will also water at the thought of it. We recognize the smell of violets as certainly as we recog- nize the colour when the spring brings them round again ; but few persons, if any, ca.i recall the scent when the flower has gone, so as to say with Shelley — " Odours, when sweet violets sicken, Live within the sense they quicken " — though most can recall the colour with tolerable clearness. In like manner everybody can perform innumerable complex voluntary movements which only a few can mentally rehearse or describe without the prompting of actual execution. And not only does such reproduction as suffices for perception fall short of that in- volved in reminiscence or memory in the narrower sense, but the manner in which the constituent elements in a perception are com- bined differs materially from what is strictly to be called the asso- ciation of ideas. To realize this difference we need only to observe first how the sight of a suit of polished armour, for example, instantly reinstates and steadily maintains all that we retain of former sensations of its hardness and smoothness and coldness, and then to observe how this same sight gradually calls up ideas now of tournaments, now of crusades, and so through all the changing imagery of romance. Though tlie percept is complex, it is but a single whole, and the act of perception is single too ; but, where, as is the case in memory and imagination, attention passes, whether voluntarily or non - voluntarily, from one repre- sentation to another, it is obvious that these several objects of attention are still distinct and tbat it is directed in turn to each. The term " association " seems only appropriate to the latter. To the connexion of the partial presentations in a complex, whether perception or idea, it would be better to apply the term " complica- tion," which was used in this sense by Herbart, and has been so used by many psychologists since. When we perceive an orange by sight we may say that its taste or feel is represented, when we perceive it by touch we may in like manner say that its colour is represented, symbolizing the whole complex in the first case sufficiently for our present purpose as Ctf, in the second as Fct. We might also symbolize the idea of an orange as seen by c'^/and the idea of an orange as felt by /' c t, using the accented letter to signify that different constituents are dominant in the two cases. What we have, then, to observe is briefly (1) that the processes by which the whole complex c'tforfct is brought into conscious- ness differ importantly from the process by which C or F rein- states and maintains tf or c t, and (2) that c, t, and/ never have that distinct existence as representations which they had as pre- sentations or impressions. The mental synthesis which has taken place in the evolu- tion of the percept can only partially fail in the idea, and never so far as to leave us with a chaotic " manifold " of mere sensational remnants. On the contrary, we find that in " constructive imagination " a new kind of effort is often requisite in order to dissociate these representational com- 3 Ibid. XX. — 58 PSYCHOLOGY plexes as a preliminary to new combinations. But it is doubtful whether the results of such an analysis are ever the ultimate elements of the percept, that is, merely isolated impressions in a fainter form. We may now try to ascertain further the characteristic marks which distinguish what is imaged from what is perceived. Charac- The most obvious, if not the most invariable, difference teristics js that which, as we have seen, Hume calls the superior ideas. force or liveliness of primary presentations as compared with secondary presentations. But what exactly are we to understand by this somewhat figurative language ? A simple difference of intensity cannqt be all that is meant, for, though we may be momentarily confused, we can per- fectly well distinguish the faintest impression from an image, and yet can hardly suppose the faintest impression to be intenser than the most lively image. Moreover, we can reproduce such faintest impressions in idea, so that, if everything depended on intensity, we should be committed to the gratuitous supposition that secondary presentations can secure attention with a less intensity than is required for primary presentations. The whole subject of the in- tensity of representations awaits investigation. Between moonlight and sunlight or between midday and dawn we could discriminate many grades of intensity ; but it does not appear that there is any corresponding variation of intensity between them when they are not seen but ima- gined. Many persons suppose they can imagine a waxing or a waning sound or the gradual abatement of an intense pain ; but what really happens in such cases is probably not a rise and fall in the intensity of a single representa- tion, but a change in the complex represented. In the primary presentation there has been a change of quality along with change of intensity, and not only so, but most frequently a change in the muscular adaptations of the sense-organs too, to say nothing of organic sensations accompanying these changes. A representation of some or all of these attendants is perhaps what takes place when variations of intensity are supposed to be reproduced. Again, hallucinations are often described as abnormally intense images which simply, by reason of their intensity, are mistaken for percepts. But such statement, though supported by very high authority, is almost certainly false, and would probably never have been made if physiological and epistemological considerations had been excluded as they ought to have been. Hallucinations, when carefully examined, seem just as much as percepts to contain among their constituents some primary presentation — either a so- called subjective sensation of sight and hearing or some organic sensation due to deranged circulation or secretion. Now we have noticed already incidentally in a preced- ing paragraph that primary presentations reinstate and maintain the representational constituents of a percept in a manner very different from that in which what are unmis- takably ideas reproduce each other. The intensity and steadiness of the impressional elements are, as it were, shared by the ideational elements in a complex containing both. Intensity alone, then, will not suffice to discrimi- nate, neither will extremes of intensity alone lead us to confuse, impressions and images. The superior steadiness just mentioned is perhaps a more constant and not less striking characteristic of per- cepts. Ideas are not only in a continual flux, but even when we attempt forcibly to detain one it varies continu- ally in clearness and completeness, reminding one of nothing so much as of the illuminated devices made of gas jets, common at fetes, when the wind sweeps across them, momentarily obliterating one part and at the same time intensifying another. There is not this perpetual flow and flicker in what we perceive ; for this, unlike the train of ideas, has at the outset neither a logical nor a psychological continuity. The impressions entering con- sciousness at any one moment are psychologically inde- pendent of each other ; they are equally independent of the impressions and images presented the moment before — independent, i.e,, as regards their order and character, not, of course, as regards the share of attention they secure. Attention to be concentrated in one direction must be withdrawn from another, and images may absorb it to the exclusion of impressions as readily as a first impression to the exclusion of a second. But, when attention is secured, a faint impression has a fixity and definiteness lacking in the case of even vivid ideas. One ground for this definite- ness and independence lies in the localization or projec- tion which accompanies all perception. But why, if so, it might be asked, do we not confound percept and image when what we imagine is imagined as definitely localized and projected? Because we have a contrary percept to give the image the lie ; where this fails, as in dreams, or where, as in hallucination, the image obtains in other ways the fixity characteristic of impressions, such con- fusion does in fact result. But in normal waking life we have the whole presentation-continuum, as it were, occu- pied and in operation : we are distinctly conscious of being embodied and having our senses about us. This contrariety between impression and image suggests, however, a deeper question : we may ask, not how it is resolved, but IIOAV it is possible. With eyes wide open, and while clearly aware of the actual field of sight and its filling, one can recall or imagine a wholly different scene : lying warm in bed one can imagine oneself out walking in the cold. It is useless to say the terms are different, that what is perceived is present and what is imaged is past or future.1 The images, it is true, have certain temporal marks — of which more presently — by which they may be referred to past or future ; but as imaged they are present, and, as we have just observed, are regarded as both actual and present in the absence of correcting im- pressions. We cannot at once see the sky red and blue ; how is it we can imagine it the one while perceiving it to be the other1? When we attempt to make the field of sight at once red and blue, as in looking through red glass with one eye and through blue glass with the other, either the colours merge and we see a purple sky or we see the sky first of the one colour and then of the other in irregular alternation. That this does not happen between impres- sion and image shows that, whatever their connexion, images altogether are distinct from the presentation-con- tinuum and cannot with strict propriety be spoken of as revived or reproduced impressions. This difference is manifest in another respect, viz., when we compare the effects of diffusion in the two cases. An increase in the intensity of a sensation of touch entails an increase in the extensity ; an increase of muscular innervation entails irradiation to adjacent muscles ; but when a particular idea becomes clearer and more distinct there rises into consciousness an associated idea qualitatively related prob- ably to impressions of quite another class, as when the smell of tar calls up memories of the sea-beach and fish- ing-boats. Since images are thus distinct from impres- sions, and yet so far continuous with each other as to form a train in itself unbroken, we should be justified, if it were convenient, in speaking of images as changes in a repre- sentation- or memory-continuum ; and later on we may see that this is convenient. Impressions, then, have no associates to whose presence their own is accommodated and on whose intensity their own depends. Each bids independently for attention, so 1 Moreover, as we shall see, the distinction between present and past or future psychologically presupposes the contrast of impression and image. PSYCHOLOGY 59 xion of Ipres- |>ns 1,1 iages. that often a state of distraction ensues, such as the train of ideas left to itself never occasions. The better to hear we listen ; the better to see we look ; to smell better we dilate the nostrils and sniff ; and so with all the special senses : each sensory impression sets up nascent movements for its better reception.1 In like manner there is also an adjustment for images which can be distinguished from sensory adjustments almost as readily as these are distin- guished from each other. We become most aware of this, as, mutatis mutandis, we do of them, when we voluntarily concentrate attention upon particular ideas instead of remaining mere passive spectators, as it were, of the general procession. 'To this ideational adjustment may be referred most of the strain and "head-splitting" connected with recollecting, reflecting, and all that people call head- work ; and the "absent look" of one intently thinking or absorbed in reverie seems directly due to the absence of sensory adjustment that accompanies the concentration of attention upon ideas. But, distinct as they are, impressions and images are still closely connected. In the first place, there are two or three well-marked intermediate stages, so that, though we cannot observe it, we seem justified in assuming a steady transition from the one to the other. As the first of such intermediate stages, it is usual to reckon what are often, and — so far as psychology goes — inaccurately, styled after-images. They would be better described as after- sensations, except perhaps when the sense of sight is speci- ally in question, inasmuch as they are due either (1) to the persistence of the original peripheral excitation after the stimulus is withdrawn, or (2) to the effects of the exhaustion or the repair that immediately follows this excitation. In the former case they are qualitatively identical with the original sensation and are called " posi- tive," in the latter they are complementary to it and are called " negative " (see EYE, vol. viii. p. 823). These last, then, of which we have clear instances only in connexion with sight, are obviously in no sort re-presentations of the original impression, but a sequent presentation of dia- metrically opposite quality ; while positive after-sensations are, psychologically regarded, nothing but the original sensations in a state of evanescence. It is this continu- ance and gradual waning after the physical stimulus has completely ceased that give after -sensations their chief title to a place in the transition from impression to image. There is, however, another point of resemblance : after- sensations are less affected by movement. If we turn away our eyes we cease to see the flame at which we have been looking, but the after-image remains and is projected upon the wall, and continues still localized in the dark field of sight even if we close our eyes altogether. But the fact that movement affects their localization, though it does not exclude them, and the fact also that we are dis- tinctly aware of our sense-organs being .concerned in their presentation, both serve to mark them off as primary and not secondary presentations. The after- sensation is in reality more elementary than either the preceding percept or its image. In both these, in the case of sight, objects appear in space of three dimensions, i.e., with all the marks of solidity and perspective ; 2 but the so-called after-image 1 Organic sensations, though distinguishable from images by their definite though often anatomically inaccurate localization, furnish no clear evidence of such adaptations. But in another respect they are still more clearly marked off from images, viz., by the pleasure or pain they directly occasion. 2 The following scant quotation from Fechner, one of the best observers in this department, must suffice in illustration. " Lying awake in the early morning after daybreak, with my eyes motionless though open, there usually appears, when I chance to close them for a moment, the black after-image of the white bed immediately before me and the white after-image of the black stove-pipe some distance away against the opposite wall. . . . Both [after-images] appear as lacks all these. Still further removed from normal sensa- tions (i.e., sensations determined by the stimuli appropri- ate to the sense-organ) are the " recurrent sensations " often unnoticed but probably experienced more or less frequently by everybody — cases, that is, in which sights or sounds, usually such as at the time were engrossing and impressive, suddenly reappear several hours or even days after the phy- sical stimuli, as well as their effects on the terminal sense- organ, seem entirely to have ceased. Thus workers with the microscope often see objects which they have examined during the day stand out clearly before them in the dark ; it was indeed precisely such an experience that led the anatomist Henle first to call attention to these facts. But he and others have wrongly referred them to what he called a " sense-memory " ; all that we know is against the supposition that the eye or the ear has any power to retain and reproduce percepts. "Recurrent sensations" have all the marks of percepts which after-images lack ; they only differ from what are more strictly called " hallu- cinations" in being, as regards form and quality, exact reproductions of the original impression and in being independent of all subjective suggestion determined by emotion or mental derangement. In what Fechner has called the " memory-after-image," or primary memory-image, as it is better termed, we have the ordinary image in its earliest form. As an instance of what is meant may be cited the familiar experience that a knock at the door, the hour struck on the clock, the face of a friend whom we have passed unnoticed, may sometimes be recognized a few moments later by means of the persist- ing image, although the actual impression was entirely disregarded. But the primary memory-image can always be obtained, and is obtained to most advantage, by looking intently at some object for an instant and then closing the eyes or turning them away. The object is then imaged for a mom«t very vividly and distinctly, and can be so recovered several times in succession by an effort of atten- tion. Such reinstatement is materially helped by rapidly opening and closing the eyes, or by suddenly moving them in any way. In this respect a primary memory-image re- sembles an after-sensation, which can be repeatedly revived in this manner when it would otherwise have disappeared. But in other respects the two are very different : the after- sensation is necessarily presented if the intensity and direction of the original excitation suffice for its production, and cannot be presented, however much we attend, if they do not. Moreover, the after-sensation is only for a moment positive, and then passes into the negative or complement- ary phase, when, so far from even contributing towards the continuance of the original percept, it directly hinders it. Primary memory-images, on the other hand, and indeed all images, depend mainly upon the attention given to the impression ; provided that was sufficient the faintest impression may be long retained, and without it very in- tense ones will soon leave no trace. The primary memory- image retains so much of its original definiteness and intensity as to make it possible with great accuracy to- compare two physical phenomena, one of which is in this way remembered while the other is really present ; for the most part this is indeed a more accurate procedure than that of dealing with both together. But this is only possible for a very short time. From "Weber's experiment* with weights and lines3 it would appear that even after if they were in juxtaposition in the same plane ; and, though — when my eyes are open — I seem to see the white bed in its entire length, the after-image — when my eyes are shut — presents instead only a narrow black stripe owing to the fact that the bed is seen considerably fore- shortened. But the memory -image on the other hand completely reproduces the pictorial illusion as it appears when the eyes are open '* (Elemtnie der Psychophysik, ii. p. 473). 3 Die Lehre vom Tastsinne, &c., p. 86 sq. 60 PSYCHOLOGY 10 seconds a considerable waning has taken place, and after 100 seconds all that is distinctive of the primary image has probably ceased. On the whole, then, it appears that the ordinary memory- image is a joint effect; it is not the mere residuum of changes in the presentation -continuum, but an effect of these only when there has been some concentration of attention upon them. It has the form of a percept, but is not constituted of " revived impressions," for the essential marks of impressions are absent ; there is no localization or projection, neither is there the motor adaptation, nor the tone of feeling, incident to the reception of impressions. Ideas do not reproduce the intensity of these original con- stituents, but only their quality and complication. What we call the vividness of an idea is of the nature of inten- sity, but it is an intensity very partially and indirectly determined by that of the original impression ; it depends much more upon the state of the memory-continuum and the attention the idea receives. The range of vividness in ideas is probably comparatively small ; what are called variations in vividness are often really variations in dis- tinctness and completeness.1 Where we have great in- tensity, as in hallucinations, primary presentations may be reasonably supposed to enter into the complex. It is manifest that the memory-continuum has been in some way formed out of or differentiated from the pre- sentation-continuum by the movements of attention, but the precise connexion of the two continua is still very difficult to determine. We see perhaps the first distinct step of this evolution in the primary memory- image : here there has been no cessation in presentation and yet the characteristic marks of the impression are gone, so much so, indeed, that superposition without "fusion" with an exactly similar impression is possible. In this manner we . seem to have several primary images in the field of consciousness together, as when we cB»Unt up the strokes of the clock after it has ceased striking. But, though the image thus first arises in the field of conscious- ness as a sort of ajroppoia. or emanation from the presenta- tion-continuum, its return (at which stage it first becomes a proper re-presentation) is never determined directly and solely by a second presentation like that which first gave it being. Its "revival" is not another birth. With a second impression exactly like the first we should have assimilation or simple recognition — an identity of the in- discernible which precludes the individual distinctness required in representation. But how, then, was this dis- tinctness in the first instance possible in the series of primary images just referred to as being due to the re- petition of the same presentation 1 Seemingly to differ- ences in the rest of that field of consciousness in which each in turn occurred and to some persistence of these differences. If the whole field which the second impres- sion entered had been just like the field of the first it is hard to see what ground for distinctness there would have been. When such second impression does not occur till after the primary memory-image has ceased, a representa- tion is still possible provided the new impression can reinstate sufficient of the mental framing of the old to give the image individual distinctness. This is really what happens in what is ordinarily called " association by similarity,"— similarity, that is, in the midst of some diversity. Our inquiry into the connexion between pre- sentations and representations has thus brought us to the general consideration of mental association. As we have seen that there is a steady transition from percept to image, so, if space allowed, the study of hallucinations might make clear an opposite and abnormal process — the passage, that is to say, of images into percepts, for such, to all intents and purposes, are hallucinations of perception, psychologically regarded. Mental Association and the Memory-continuum. Only a very brief treatment of this important subject Ass is permissible here, as it has already been handled at length ti(» under ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS (q.v.). Great confusion has sini been occasioned, as we have seen incidentally, by the lax JUn use of the term "association"; this confusion has been in- me) creased by a further laxity in the use of the term " associa- tion by similarity." In so far as the similarity amounts to identity, as in assimilation, we have a process which is more fundamental than association by contiguity, but then it is not a process of association. Yet, when the re- viving presentation is only partially similar to the pre- sentation revived, the nature of the association does not appear to differ from that operative when one "contiguous" presentation revives another. In the one case we have, say, a b x recalling a b y and in the other a b c recalling def. ^ Now anybody who will reflect must surely see that the similarity between a b x and a b y, as distinct from the identity of their partial constituent a b, cannot be the means of recall; for this similarity is nothing but the state of mind — to be studied presently — which results when a b x and a b y, having been recalled, are in con- sciousness together and then compared. But, if a b, having concurred with y before and being now present in a b x, again revives y, the association, so far as that goes, is manifestly one of contiguity, albeit the state of mind im- mediately incident as soon as the revival is complete be what Dr Bain loves to style "the flash of similarity." So far as the mere revival itself goes, there is no more simi- larity in this case than there is when a b c revives def. For the very a b c that now operates as the reviving pre- sentation was obviously never in time contiguous with the def that is revived; if all traces of previous experiences of a b c were obliterated there would be no revival. In other words, the a b c now present must be "automatically asso- ciated," or, as we prefer to say, must be assimilated to those residua of a b c which were " contiguous " with d ef, before its representation can occur. And this, and nothing more than this, we have seen, is all the " similarity " that could be at work when a b x " brought up " a b y. On the whole, then, we may assume that the onlyconti principle of association we have to examine is the so-called guity "association by contiguity, "which, as ordinarily formulated, exPlf' runs : — Any presentations whatever, which are in conscious- ness together or in close succession, cohere in such a way that when one recurs it tends to revive the rest, such tendency increasing with the frequency of the conjunction. But such a statement is liable to all the objections already urged against what we may call atomistic psychology. Pre- sentations do not really crowd into Mansoul by the avenues of Eyegate, Eargate, &c., there to form bonds and unions as in Bunyan's famous allegory. It has been often con- tended that any investigation into the nature of association must be fruitless.2 But, if association is thus a first princi- ple, it ought at least to admit of such a statement as shall remove the necessity for inquiry. So long, however, as we are asked to conceive presentations originally distinct and isolated becoming eventually linked together, we shall naturally feel the need of some explanation of the process, for neither the isolation nor the links are clear, — not the isolation, for we can only conceive two presentations sepa- rated by other presentations intervening ; nor the links, unless these are also presentations, and then the difficulty recurs. But, if for contiguity we substitute continuity and regard the associated presentations as parts of a new con- tinuum, the only important inquiry is how this new whole was first of all integrated. 3 So Hume, Treatise of Human Nature, pt. i. § 4 (Green and Grose's ed., p. 321); also Lotze, Metaphysik, 1st ed., p. 526. To ascertain this point we must examine each of the two leading divisions of contiguous association — that of simul- ' taneous presentations and that of presentations occurring in close succession. The last, being the clearer, may be taken first. In a series of associated presentations, A B C D E, such as the movements made in writing, the words of a poem learned by heart, or the simple letters of the alphabet themselves, we find that each member recalls its successor but not its predecessor. Familiar as this fact is, it is not perhaps easy to explain it satisfactorily. Since C is associated both with B and D, and apparently as in- timately with the one as with the other, why does it revive the later only and not the earlier 1 B recalls C ; why does not C recall B 1 We have seen that any reproduction at all of A or B or C depends primarily upon its having been the object of special attention so as to occupy at least momentarily the focus of consciousness. Now we can in the first instance only surmise that the order in which they are reproduced is determined by the order in which they were thus attended to when first presented. The next question is whether the association of objects simul- taneously presented can be resolved into an association of objects successively attended to. Whenever we try to recall a scene we saw but for a moment there are always a few traits that recur, the rest being blurred and vague, instead of the whole being revived in equal distinctness or indistinctness. On seeing the same scene a second time our attention is apt to be caught by something un- noticed before, as this has the advantage of novelty ; and so on, till we have " lived ourselves into " the whole, which may then admit of simultaneous recall. Dr Bain, who is rightly held to have given the best ex- position of the laws of association, admits something very like this in saying that " coexistence is an artificial growth formed from a certain peculiar class of mental successions." But, while it is easy to think of instances in which the associated objects were attended to suc- cessively, and we are all perfectly aware that the surest — not to say the only — way to fix the association of a number of objects is by thus concentrating attention on each in turn, it seems hardly possible to mention a case in which attention to the associated objects could not have been successive. In fact, an aggregate of objects on which attention could be focused at once would be already associated. The only case, then, that now remains to be considered is that — to take it in its simplest form — of two primary presentations A and X, parts of different special continua or distinct — i.e., non-adjacent — parts of the same, and occupying the focus of consciousness in immediate succes- sion. This constitutes their integration ; for the result of this occupation may be regarded as a new continuum in which A and X become adjacent parts. For it is characteristic of a continuum that an increase in the intensity of any part leads to the intenser presentation of adjacent parts ; and in this sense A and X, which were not originally continuous, have come to be so. We have here, then, some justification for the term secondary or memory-continuum when applied to this continuous series of representations to distinguish it from the primary or presentation -continuum from which its constituents are derived. The most important peculiarity of this con- tinuum, therefore, is that it is a series of representations integrated by means of the movements of attention out of the differentiations of the primary or presentation- continuum, or rather out of so much of these differentia- tions as pertain to what we know as the primary memory- image. These movements of attention, if the phrase may be allowed, come in the end to depend mainly upon in- terest, but at first appear to be determined entirely by 61 mere intensity.1 To them it is proposed to look for that continuity which images lose in so far as they part with the local signs they had as impressions and cease to be either localized or projected. Inasmuch as it is assumed that these movements form the connexion between one re- presentation and another in the memory-train they may be called "temporal signs."2 The evidence for their ex- istence can be more conveniently adduced presently; it must suffice to remark here that it consists almost wholly of facts connected with voluntary attention and the volun- tary control of the flow of ideas, so that temporal signs, unlike local signs, are fundamentally motor and not sensory. And, unlike impressions, representations can have each but a single sign,3 the continuum of which, in contrast to that of local signs, is not rounded and com- plete but continuously advancing. But in saying this we are assuming for a moment that the memory-continuum forms a perfectly single and un- broken train. If it ever actually became so, then, in the absence of any repetition of old impressions and apart from voluntary interference with the train, consciousness, till it ceased entirely, would consist of a fixed and mechanical round of images. Some approximation to such a state is often found in uncultured persons who lead uneventful lives, and still more in idiots, who can scarcely think at all. In actual fact, however, the memory-train is liable to Oblivis- change in two respects, which considerably modify itscence- structure, viz., (1) through the evanescence of some parts, and (2) through the partial recurrence of like impressions, which produces reduplications of varying amount and extent in other parts. As regards the first, we may infer that the waning or sinking towards the threshold of con- sciousness which we can observe in the primary mental image continues in subconsciousness after the threshold is past. For the longer the time that elapses before their revival the fainter, the less distinct, and the less complete are the images when revived, and the more slowly they rise. All the elements of a complex are not equally revivable, as we have seen already : tastes, smells, and organic sensations, though powerful as impressions to revive other images, have little capacity for ideal repro- duction themselves, while muscular movements, though perhaps of all presentations the most readily revived, do not so readily revive other presentations. Idiosyncrasies are, however, frequent ; thus we find one person has an exceptional memory for sounds, another for colours, another for forms. Still it is in general true that the most intense, the most impressive, and the most interesting presentations persist the longest. But the evanescence, which is in all cases comparatively rapid at first, deepens sooner or later into real or apparent oblivion. In this manner it comes about that parts of the memory-continuum lose all distinct- ness of feature and, being without recognizable content, 1 This connexion of association with continuous movements of atten- tion makes it easier to understand the difficulty above referred to, viz. that in a series A B C D . . . B revives C but not A , and so on — a diffi- culty that the analogy of adhesiveness or links leaves unaccountable. To ignore the part played by attention in association, to represent the memory-continuum as due solely to the concurrence of presentations, is perhaps the chief defect of the associationist psychology, both Eng- lish and German. Mr Spencer's endeavour to show "that psychical life is distinguished from physical life by consisting of successive changes only instead of successive and simultaneous changes" (Prin- ciples of Psychology, pt. iv. ch. ii., in particular pp. 403, 406) is really nothing but so much testimony to the work of attention in forming the memory - continuum, especially when, as there is good reason to do, we reject his assumption that this growing seriality is physically determined. 2 A term borrowed from Lotze (Meiaphysik, 1st ed., p. 295), but the present writer is alone responsible for the sense here given to it and the hypothesis in which it is used. 3 Apart, that is to say, of course, from the reduplications of the memory-train spoken of below. PSYCHOLOGY shrivel up to a dim and meagre representation of life that has lapsed — a representation that just suffices, for example, to show us that "our earliest recollections" are not of our first experiences, or to save them from being not only isolated but discontinuous. Such discontinuity can, of course, never be absolute ; we must have something repre- sented even to mark the gap. Oblivion and the absence of all representation are thus the same, and the absence of all representation cannot psychologically constitute a break. The terms " evolution " and " involution " have in this respect been happily applied to the rising and falling of representations. When we recall a particular period of our past life or what has long ceased to be a familiar scene, events and features gradually unfold and, as it were, spread out as we keep on attending. A precisely opposite process may then be supposed to take place when they are left in undisturbed forgetfulness ; with loss of distinct- ness in the several members of a whole or series, there is a loss of individuality and of individual differences. And such loss is not a mere latency, as some psychologists, on metaphysical grounds l or from a mistaken use of physical analogies, have been led to suppose. There is no real resemblance between the action, or rather inaction, of a particle obedient to the first law of motion and the per- sistence of a presentation,2 which is not even the psychical equivalent of an atom. Repeti- More important changes are produced by the repetition tion. of parts of the memory -train. The effect of this is not merely to prevent the evanescence of the particular image or series of images, but by partial and more or less frequent reduplications of the train upon itself to convert it into a partially new continuum, which we might perhaps call the "ideational continuum." The reduplicated por- tions of the train are strengthened, while at the points of divergence it becomes comparatively weakened, and this apart from the effects of obliviscence. One who had seen the queen but once would scarcely be likely to think of her without finding the attendant circumstances recur as well ; this could not happen after seeing her in a hundred Generic different scenes. The central representation of the whole images- complex would have become more distinct, whereas the several diverging lines would tend to dissipate attention and, by involving opposing representations, to neutralize each other, so that probably no definite background would be reinstated. Even this central representation would be more or less generalized. It has been often remarked that one's most familiar friends are apt to be mentally pictured less concretely and vividly than persons seen more seldom and then in similar attitudes and moods ; in the former case a " generic image " has grown out of such more specific representations as the latter affords. Still further removed from memory-images are the images that result from such familiar percepts as those of horses, houses, trees, aragraph : the fox in the fable is said to have desired the grapes he vilified because out of his reach. Again, at the other extreme it is usual to speak of a desire for honour, or for wealth, and the like ; but such are not so much single states of mind as inclinations or habitual desires. Moreover, abstractions of this kind belong to a more advanced stage of development than that at which desire begins, and of necessity imply more complicated grounds of action than we can at present examine. The essential characteristics of desire will be more apparent if we suppose a case somewhere between these extremes. A busy man reads a novel at the close of the day, and finds himself led off by a reference to angling or tropical scenery to picture himself with his rods packed en route for Scot- land, or booked by the next steamer for the fairyland of the West Indies. Presently, while the ideas of Jamaica or fishing are at least as vividly imagined as before, the fancied preparations receive a rude shock as the thought of his work recurs. Some such case we may take as typical and attempt to analyse it. First of all it is obviously true, at least of such more concrete desires, that what awakens desire at one time fails to do so at another, and that we are often so absorbed or content with the present as not to be amenable to (new) desires at all. A given X or Y cannot, then, be called desirable per se, it is only desirable by relation to the con- tents of consciousness at the moment. Of what nature is this relation? (1) At the level of psychical life that we have now reached very close and complete connexions have been formed between ideas and the movements necessary for their realization, so that when the idea is vividly present these movements are apt to be nascent. This association is the result of subjective selection — i.e., of feeling — but, being once established, it persists like other associations independently of it. (2) Those movements are especially apt to become nascent which have not been recently exe- cuted, which are therefore fresh and accompanied by the organic sensations of freshness, but also those which are frequently executed, and so from habit readily aroused. The latter fact, which chiefly concerns habitual desires, may be left aside for a time. (3) At times, then, when there is a lack of present interests, or when these have begun to wane, or when there is positive pain, attention is ready to fasten on any new suggestion that calls for more activity, requires a change of active attitude, or promises relief. Such spontaneous concentration of attention ensures greater vividness to the new idea, whatever it be, and to its be- longings. In some cases this greater vividness may suffice. This is most likely to happen when the new idea affords intellectual occupation, and this is at the time congenial, or with indolent and imaginative persons who prefer dreaming to doing. (4) But when the new idea does not lead off the pent-up stream of action by opening out fresh channels, when, instead of this, it is one that keeps them intent upon itself in an attitude comparable to expectation, then we have desire. In such a state the intensity of the re-presentation is not adequate to the intensity of the incipient actions it has aroused. This is most obvious when the latter are directed towards sensations or percepts, and the former remains only an idea. If it were possible by concentrating attention to convert ideas into percepts, there would be an end of most desires : "if wishes were horses beggars would ride." (5) But our voluntary power over movements is in general of this kind : here the fiat may become fact. When we cannot hear we can at least listen, and, though there be nothing to fill them, we can at least hold out our hands. It would seem, then, that the source of desire lies essentially in this excess of the active reaction above the intensity of the re-presentation (the one constituting the "impulse," the other the "object" of desire, or the desideratum), and that this disparity rests ultimately on the fact that movements have, and sensations have not, a subjective initiative. (6) The impulse or striving to act will, as already hinted, be stronger the greater the available energy, the fewer the present outlets, and, habits apart, the fresher the new opening for activity. (7) Finally, it is to be noted that, when such inchoate action can be at once consummated, desire ends where it begins : to constitute a definite state of desire there must be not only an obstacle to the realization of the desider- atum— if this were all we should rather call the state one of wishing — but an obstacle to its realization by means of the actions its representation has aroused. However the desire may have been called forth, its Eelat intensity is primarily identical with the strength of this of dei impulse to action, and has no definite or constant relation *° fee to the amount of pleasure that may result from its satisfac- m tion. The feeling directly consequent on desire as a state of want and restraint is one of pain, and the reaction which this pain sets up may either suppress the desire or prompt to efforts to avoid or overcome the obstacles in its way. To inquire into these alternatives would lead us into the higher phases of voluntary action ; but we must first con- sider the relation of desire to feeling more closely. Instances are by no means wanting of very imperious desires accompanied by the clear knowledge that their gratification will be positively distasteful.1 On the other hand it is possible to recollect or picture circumstances known or believed to be intensely pleasurable without any desire for them being awakened at all : we can regret or admire without desiring. Yet there are many psycho- logists who maintain that desire is excited only by the prospect of the pleasure that may arise through its grati- fication, and that the strength of the desire is propor- tional to the intensity of the pleasure thus anticipated. Quidquid petitur, petitur sub specie boni is their main formula. The plausibility of this doctrine rests partly upon a seemingly imperfect analysis of what strictly per- tains to desire and partly on the fact that it is substantially true both of what we may call " presentation-prompted " action, which belongs to an earlier stage than desire, and of the more or less rational action that comes later. In the very moment of enjoyment it may be fairly supposed that action is sustained solely by the pleasure received and is proportional to the intensity of that pleasure. But there is here no re-presentation and no seeking ; the con- ditions essential to desire, therefore, do not apply. Again, in rational action, where both are present, it may be true — to quote the words of an able advocate of the view here controverted— that " our character as rational beings is to desire everything exactly according to its pleasure value." 2 But consider what such conceptions as the good, pleasure value, and rational action involve. Here we have foresight and calculation, regard for self as an object of permanent 1 As such an instance may be cited Plato's story of Leontius, the son of Aglaeon, in Rep., iv. 439,/Jn. 2 Bain, Emotions and Will, 3d ed., p. 438. PSYCHOLOGY 75 interest, — Butler's cool self-love; but desire as such is blind, without either the present certainty of sense or the assured prevision of reason. Pleasure in the past, no doubt, has usually brought about the association between the representation of the desired object and the movement for its realization; but neither the recollection of this pleasure nor its anticipation is necessary to desire, and even when present they do not determine what urgency it will have. The best proof of this lies in certain habitual desires. Pleasures are diminished by repetition, whilst habits are strengthened by it ; if the intensity of desire, therefore, were proportioned to the "pleasure value" of its gratification, the desire for renewed gratification should diminish as this pleasure grows less ; but, if the present pain of restraint from action determines the intensity of desire, this should increase as the action becomes habitual. And observation seems to show that, unless prudence sug- gest the forcible suppression of belated desires or the active energies themselves fail, desires do in fact become more imperious, although less productive of positive pleasure, as time goes on. In this there is, of course, no exception to the general principle that action is consequent on feeling, — a greater pleasure being preferred before a less, a less pain before a greater ; for, though the feeling that follows upon its satisfaction be less or even change entirely, still the pain of the unsatisfied desire increases as the desire hardens into habit. It is also a point in favour of the position here taken that appetites, which may be compared to inherited desires, certainly prompt to action by present pain rather than by prospective pleasure. Intellection. Desire naturally prompts to the search for the means to its satisfaction and frequently to a mental rehearsal of various possible courses of action, their advantages and disadvantages. Thus, by the time the ideational continu- um has become, mainly by the comparatively passive work- ing of association, sufficiently developed to furnish thinking material, motives are forthcoming for thinking to begin. It is obviously impossible to assign any precise time for this advance ; like all others, it is gradual. Fitfully, in strange circumstances and under strong excitement, the lower animals give unmistakable signs that they can under- stand and reason. But thought as a permanent activity may be fairly said to originate in and even to depend upon the acquisition of speech. This indispensable instrument, which more than anything else enables our psychological individual to advance to the distinctly human or rational stage, consists of gestures and vocal utterances, which were originally— and indeed are still to a large extent — emotional expressions.1 It is a question of the highest 1 It must here be noted that, though we still retain our psychological standpoint, the higher development of the individual is only possible through intercourse with other individuals, that is to say, through society. Without language we should be mutually exclusive and impenetrable, like so many physical atoms ; with it each several mind may transcend its own limits and share the minds of others. As a herd of individuals mankind would have a natural history as other animals have ; but personality can only emerge out of intercourse with persons, and of such intercourse language is the means. But, important as is this addition of a transparent and responsive world of minds to the dead opaqueness of external things, the development of our psychological individual still remains a purely individual development. The only new point is — -and it is of the highest importance to keep it in sight — that the materials of this development no longer consist of nothing but presentations elaborated by a single mind in accordance with psychical laws. But that combination of individual experiences that converts subjective idiosyncrasy and isolation into the objectivity and solidarity of Universal Mind only affects the individual in accordance with psychical laws, and we have no need therefore to overstep our proper domain in studying the advance from the non-rational phase to the phase of reason. interest to ascertain the general mode of its elaboration ; but as to this the reader must consult the article PHILOLOGY (vol. xviii. p. 766 sq.}. Our space will only allow us to note in what way language, when it already exists, is instru- mental in the development as distinct from the communi cation of thought. But, first of all, what in general is thinking, of which language is the instrument ? In entering upon this inquiry we are really passing one of the Distinc- hardest and fastest lines of the old psychology,— that between sense tion be- and understanding. So long as it was the fashion to assume atween multiplicity of faculties the need was less felt for a clear exposition sense of their connexion. A man had senses and intellect much as he and un- had eyes and ears ; the heterogeneity in the one case was no more derstaud- puzzling than in the other. But for psychologists who do not cut ing. the knot in this fashion it is confessedly a hard matter to explain the relation of the two. The contrast of receptivity and activity hardly avails, for all presentation involves activity and essentially the same activity, that of attention. Nor can we well maintain that the presentations attended to differ in kind, albeit such a view has been held from Plato downwards. Nihil est in intellcctu qicod non fuerit prius in sensu : the blind and deaf are necessarily with- out some concepts that we possess. If pure being is pure nothing, pure thought is equally empty. Thought consists of a certain elaboration of sensory and motor presentations and has no content apart from these. We cannot even say that the forms of this ela- boration are psychologically a priori ; on the contrary, what is epistemologically the most fundamental is the last to be psycho- logically realized. This is not only true as a fact ; it is also true of necessity, in so far as the formation of more concrete concepts is an essential preliminary to the formation of others more abstract, — those most abstract, like the Kantian categories, &c., being thus the last of all to be thought out or understood. And though this formative work is substantially voluntary, yet, if we enter upon it, the form at each step is determined by the so-called matter, and not by us; in this respect "the spontaneity of thought" is not really freer than the receptivity of sense.2 It is sometimes said that thought is synthetic, and this is true ; but imagination is synthetic also ; and the processes which yield the ideational train are the only processes at work in intellectual synthesis. Moreover, it would be arbitrary to say at what point the mere generic image ceases and the true concept begins, — so continuous are the two. No wonder, therefore, that English psychology has been prone to regard thought as only a special kind of perception — perceiving the agreement or disagreement of ideas — and the ideas themselves as mainly the products of association. Yet this is much like con- founding observation with experiment or invention, — the act of a cave-man in betaking himself to a drifting tree with that of Noah in building himself an ark. In reverie, and even in understanding the communications of others, we are comparatively passive spec- tators of ideational movements, non-voluntarily determined. But in thinking or "intellection," as it has been conveniently termed, there is always a search for something more or less "vaguely con- ceived, for a clue which will be known when it occurs by seeming to satisfy certain conditions. Thinking may be broadly described as solving a problem, — finding an AX that is B. In so doing we start from a comparatively fixed central idea or intuition and work along the several diverging lines of ideas associated with it, — hence far the aptest and in fact the oldest description of thought is that it is discursive. Emotional excitement — and at the outset the natural man does not think much in cold blood — quickens the flow of ideas : what seems relevant is at once contemplated more closely, while what seems irrelevant awakens little interest and receives little attention. At first the control acquired is but very imperfect ; the actual course of thought of even a disciplined mind falls far short of the clearness, distinctness, and coherence of the logician's ideal. Familiar associations hurry attention away from the proper topic, and thought becomes not only discursive but wandering ; in place of concepts of fixed and crystalline completeness, such as logic describes, we may find a congeries of ideas but imperfectly compacted into one generic idea, subject to continual transforma- tion and implicating much that is irrelevant and confusing. Thus, while it is possible for thought to begin without Thought language, just as arts may begin without tools, yet language and lan- enables us to carry the same process enormously farther. In the first place it gives us an increased command of even such comparatively concrete generic images as can be 2 Locke, so often misrepresented, expressed this truth according to his lights in the following : — " The earth will not appear painted with flowers nor the fields covered with verdure whenever we have a mind to it. ... Just thus is it with our understanding : all that is voluntary in our knowledge is the employing or withholding any of our faculties from this or that sort of objects and a more or less accurate survey of them" (Essay, iv. 13, 2). 76 PSYCHOLOGY formed without it. The name of a thing or action becomes for one who knows the name as much an objective mark or attribute as any quality whatever can be. The form and colour of what we call an " orange " are perhaps even more intimately combined with the sound and utterance of this word than with the taste and fragrance which we regard as strictly essential to the thing. But, whereas its essential attributes often evade us, we can always com- mand its nominal attribute, in so far as this depends upon movements of articulation. By uttering the name (or hearing it uttered) we have secured to us, in a greater or less degree, that superior vividness* and definiteness that pertain to images reinstated by impressions : our idea approximates to the fixity and independence of a percept (comp. p. 57 above). With young children and uncultured minds — who, by the way, commonly " think aloud " — the gain in this respect is probably more striking than those not confined to their mother-tongue or those used to an analytical handling of language at all realize.1 When things are thus made ours by receiving names from us and we can freely manipulate them in idea, it becomes easier mentally to bring together facts that logically belong together, and so to classify and generalize. For names set us free from the cumbersome tangibility and particu- larity of perception, which is confined to just what is pre- sented here and now. But as ideas increase in generality they diminish in definiteness and unity ; they not only become less pictorial and more schematic, but they become vague and unsteady as well, because formed from a num- ber of concrete images only related as regards one or two constituents, and not assimilated as the several images of the same thing may be. The mental picture answering to the word "horse" has, so to say, body enough to remain a steady object when under attention from time to time; but that answering to the word "animal" is perhaps scarcely twice alike. The relations of things could thus never be readily recalled or steadily controlled if the names of those relations, which as words always remain concrete, did not give us a definite hold upon them, — make them comprehensible. Once these " airy nothings " have a name, we reap again the advantages a concrete constituent affords : by its means that which is relevant becomes more closely associated, and that which is irrele- vant— abstracted from — falls off. When what answers to the logical connotation or meaning of a concept is in this way linked with the name, it is no longer necessary that such " matter or content " should be distinctly present in consciousness. It takes time for an image to raise its associates above the threshold ; and, when all are there, there is more demand upon attention in proportion. There is thus a manifest economy in what Leibnitz happily styled " symbolic," in contrast to " intuitive " thinking. Our power of efficient attention is limited, and with words for counters we can, as Leibnitz remarks, readily perform operations involving very complex presentations, and wait till these operations are concluded before realizing and spreading out the net result in sterling coin. Thought But this simile must not mislead us. In actual thinking and idea- there never is any complete separation between the symbol and the ideas symbolized : the movements of the one are never entirely suspended till those of the other are com- plete. "Thus," says Hume, "if, instead of saying, that in war the weaker have always recourse to negotiation, we should say, that they have always recourse to conquest, the custom which we have acquired of attributing certain relations to ideas still follows the words and makes us 1 Raskin, in his Pars Clavigera, relates that the sight of the word " crocodile " used to frighten him as a child so much that he could not feel at ease again till he had turned over the page on which it occurred. tion. immediately perceive the absurdity of that proposition." 2 How intimately the two are connected is shown by the surprises that give what point there is to puns, and by the small confusion that results from the existence of homo- nymous terms. The question thus arises — What are the properly ideational elements concerned in thought? Over this question psychologists long waged fight as either nominalists or conceptualists. The former maintain that what is imaged in connexion with a general concept, such as triangle, is some individual triangle " taken in a certain light,"3 while the latter maintain that an "abstract idea" is formed embodying such constituents of the several par- ticulars as the concept connotes, but dissociated from the specific or accidental variations that distinguish one par- ticular from another. As often happens in such contro- versies, each party saw the weak point in the other. The nominalists easily showed that there was no distinct abstract idea representable apart from particulars; and the conceptualists could as easily show that a particular presentation " considered in a certain light " is no longer merely a particular presentation nor yet a mere crowd of presentations. The very thing to ascertain is what this consideration in a certain light implies. Perhaps a speedier end might have been put to this controversy if either party had been driven to define more exactly what was to be understood by image or idea. Such ideas as are possible to us apart from abstraction are, as we have seen, revived percepts, not revived sensations, are complex total re-pre- sentations made up of partial re-presentations (comp. p. 57). Reproductive imagination is so far but a faint rehearsal of actual perceptions, and constructive imagina- tion but a faint anticipation of possible perceptions. In either case we are busied with elementary presentations complicated or synthesized to what are tantamount to intuitions, in so far as the forms of intuition remain in the idea, though the fact, as tested by movement, &c., is absent. The several partial re -presentations, however, which make up an idea might also be called ideas, not merely in the wide sense in which every mental object may be so called, but also in the narrower sense as second- ary presentations, i.e., as distinguished from primary pre- sentations or impressions. But such isolated images of an impression, even if possible, would no more be intuitions than the mere impression itself would be one : taken alone the one would be as free of space and time as is the other. Till it is settled, therefore, whether the ideational elements concerned in conception are intuitive complexes or some- thing answering to the ultimate elements of these, nothing further can be done. In the case of what are specially called " concrete " as distinct from " abstract " conceptions — if this rough-and- ready, but unscientific, distinction maybe allowed — the idea answering to the concept differs little from an intuition, and we have already remarked that the generic image (Gemeinhild of German psychologists) constitutes the con- necting link between imagination and conception. But even concerning these it is useless to ask what does one imagine in thinking, e.g., of triangle or man or colour. We never — except for the sake of this very inquiry — attempt to fix our minds in this manner upon some isolated conception ; in actual thinking ideas are not in conscious- ness alone and disjointedly but as part of a context. When the idea " man " is present, it is present in some proposition or question, as — Man is the paragon of animals ; In man there is nothing great but mind ; and so on. It is quite clear that in understanding or mentally verifying such statements very different constituents out of the 2 Treatise of Human Nature, pt. i. § vii. (Green and Grose's ed.) p. 331. 8 So Hume, op. cit., p. 456. PSYCHOLOGY 77 whole complex " man " are prominent in each. Further, what is present to consciousness when a general term is imderstood will differ, not only with a different context, but also the longer we dwell upon it : we may either ana- lyse its connotation or muster its denotation, as the con- text or the cast of our minds may determine. Thus what is relevant is alone prominent, and the more summary the attention we bestow the less the full extent and intent of the concept are displayed. To the nominalist's objection, that it is impossible to imagine a man without imagining him as either tall or short, young or old, dark or light, and so forth, the conceptualist might reply that at all events percepts may be clear without being distinct, that we can recognize a tree without recognizing what kind of tree it is, and that, moreover, the objection proves too much : for, if our image is to answer exactly to fact, we must represent not only a tall or a short man but a man of definite nature, — one not merely either light or dark, but of a certain precise complexion. But the true answer rather is that in conceiving as such we do not necessarily imagine a man or a tree at all, any more than — if such an illustration may serve — in writing the equation to the parabola we necessarily draw a parabola as well. The individuality of a concept is thus not to be con- founded with the sensible concreteness of an intuition either distinct or indistinct, and " the pains and skill " which Locke felt were required in order to frame what he called an abstract idea are not comparable to the pains and skill that may be necessary to discriminate or decipher what is faint or fleeting. The material " framed " consists no doubt of ideas, if by this is meant that in thinking we work ultimately with the ideational continuum, but what results is never a mere intuitive complex nor yet a mere group of such. The concept or " abstract idea " only emerges when a certain intelligible relation is established among the members of such a group ; and the very same intuition may furnish the material for different concepts as often as a different geistiges Band is drawn between them. The stuff of this bond, as we have seen, is the word, and this brings into the foreground of consciousness when necessary those elements — whether they form an , intuition or not — which are relevant to the concept. Con- | ception, then, is not identical with imagination, although i the two terms are still often, and were once generally, regarded as synonymous. The same ultimate materials occur in each ; but in the one they start with and retain a sensible form, in the other they are elaborated into the form which is called " intelligible." ieil The distinctive character of this intellectual synthesis roer lies, we have seen, in the fact that it is determined entirely , by what is synthesized, whether that be the elementary j* constituents of intuitions or general relations of whatever :io kind among these. It differs, therefore, in being selective ! from the synthesis of ideation, which rests upon contiguity and unites together whatever occurs together. It differs : also from any synthesis, though equally voluntary in its • initiation, which is determined by a purely subjective preference, in that intellection depends upon objective . relations alone. Owing to the influence of logic, which has long been in a much more forward state than psycho- logy, it has been usual to resolve intellection into compari- son, abstraction, and classification, after this fashion : ABCM and ABCN are compared, their differences M and N left out of sight, and the class notion ABC formed ; including both ; the same process repeated with ABC and ABD yields a higher class notion AB ; and so on. But our ideational continuum is not a mere string of ideas of ' concrete things, least of all such concrete things as this [ view implies. Not till our daily life resembles that of a museum porter receiving specimens will our higher mental activity be comparable to that of the savant who sorts such specimens into cases and compartments. What we perceive is a world of things in continual motion, waxing, waning, the centres of manifold changes, affecting us and apparently affected by each other, amenable to our action and, as it seems, continually interacting among themselves. Even the individual thing, as our brief analysis of percep- tion attempts to show (comp. pp. 55, 56), is not a mere sum of properties which can be taken to pieces and distributed like type, but a whole combined of parts very variously related. To understand intellection we must look at its actual development under the impetus of practical needs, rather than to logical ideals of what it ought to be. Like other forms of purposive activity, thinking is primarily undertaken as a means to an end, and especially the end of economy. It is often easier and always quicker to manipulate ideas than to manipulate real things ; to the common mind the thoughtful man is one who " uses his head to save his heels." In all the arts of life, in the growth of language and institutions, in scientific explana- tion, and even in the speculations of philosophy, we may remark a steady simplification in the steps to a given end or conclusion, or — what is for our present inquiry the same thing — the attainment of better results with the same means. The earliest machines are the most cum- brous and clumsy, the earliest speculations the most fanci- ful and anthropomorphic. Gradually imitation yields to invention, the natural fallacy of post hoc, ergo propter hoc to methodical induction, till what is essential and effective is realized and appreciated and what is accidental and inert is discarded and falls out of sight. In this way man advances in the construction of a complete mental clue or master-key to the intricacies of the real world, but this key is still the counterpart of the world it enables us to control and explain. To describe the process by which such insight is attained as a mere matter of abstraction deserves the stigma of "soulless blunder" which Hegel applied to it. Of course if attention is concentrated on X it must pro tanto be abstracted from Y, and such command of attention may require "some pains and skill." But to see in this invariable accompaniment of thinking its essential feature is much like the schoolboy's saying that engraving consists in cutting fine shavings out of a hard block. The great thing is to find out what are the light-bearing and fruit- bearing combinations. Moreover, thinking does not begin with a conscious abstraction of attention from recognized differences in the way logicians describe. The actual process of generalization, for the most part at all events, is much simpler. The same name is applied to different things or events because only their more salient features are perceived at all. Their differences, so far from being consciously and with effort left out of account, often can- not be observed when attention is directed to them : to the inexperienced all is gold that glitters. Thus, and as an instance of the principle of progressive differentiation already noted (p. 42), we find genera recognized before species, and the species obtained by adding on differences, not the genus by abstracting from them. Of course such vague and indefinite concepts are not at first logically general : they only become so when certain common ele- ments are consciously noted as pertaining to presentations in other respects qualitatively different, as well as numer- ically distinct. But actually thinking starts from such more potential generality as is secured by the association of a generic image with a name. So far the material of thought is always general, — is freed, that is, from the local and temporal and other defining marks of percepts. The process of thinking itself is psychologically much better described as (1) an analysis and (2) a re-synthesis of 78 PSYCHOLOGY lytic. this material already furnished by the ideational trains. Thought The logical resolution of thought into hierarchies of con- as ana- cepts arranged like Porphyry's tree, into judgments uniting such concepts by means of a logical copula, &c , is the out- come of later reflexion — mainly for technical purposes — upon thought as a completed product, and entirely pre- supposes all that psychology has to explain. The logical theory of the formation of concepts by generalization (or abstraction) and by determination (or concretion) — i.e., by the removal or addition of defining marks — assumes the previous existence of the very things to be formed, for these marks or attributes — X's and xY's, A's and B's— are themselves already concepts. Moreover, the act of gener- alizing or determining is really an act of judgment, so that the logician's account of conception presupposes judgment, while at the same time his account of judgment presup- poses conception. But this is no evil ; for logic does not essay to exhibit the actual genesis of thought but only an ideal for future thinking. Psychologically — that is to say, chronologically — the judgment is first. The growing mind, we may suppose, passes beyond simple perception when some striking difference in what is at the moment perceived is the occasion of a conflict of presentations (comp. p. 62). The stalking hunter is not instantly recognized as the de- stroying biped, because he crawls on all fours; or the scare- crow looks like him, and yet not like him ; for, though it stands on two legs, it never moves. There is no immedi- ate assimilation : percept and idea remain distinct till, on being severally attended to and compared, what is there is known in spite of the differences. Recognition under such circumstances is in itself a judgment ; but of more account is the further judgment involved in it or accom- panying it — that which connects the new fact with the old idea. Though actually complex, as the result of a combination of impressions, generic images are not neces- sarily known as complexes when they first enter into judgments ; as the subjects of such judgments they are but starting-points for predication, — It crawls; It does not move; and the like. Such impersonal judgments, according to most philologists, are in fact the earliest; and we may reasonably suppose that by means of them our generic images have been partially analysed, and have attained to something of the distinctness and constancy of logical concepts. But the analysis is rarely complete : a certain confused and fluctuating residuum remains behind. The psychological concept merges at sundry points into those cognate with it, — in other words, the continuity of the underlying memory-train still operates ; only the ideal concepts of logic are in all respects totus, teres, atque rotun- dus. Evidence of this, if it seem to any to require proof, is obtainable on all sides, and, if we could recover the first vestiges of thinking, would be more abundant still. Logical But, if we agree that it is through acts of judgment which sue- bias in cessively resolve composite presentations into elements that con- psycho- cepts first arise, it is still very necessary to inquire more carefully what these elements are. On the one side we have seen logicians comparing them to so many letters, and on the other psychologists enumerating the several sensible properties of gold or wax — their colour, weight, texture, &c. —as instances of such elements. In this way formal logic and sensationalist psychology have been but blind leaders of the blind. Language, which has enabled thought to ad- vance to the level at which reflexion about thought can begin, is now an obstacle in the way of a thorough analysis of it. A child or savage would speak only of " red " and " hot," but we of " redness " and " heat." They would probably say, " Swallows come when the days are lengthening and snipe when they are shortening " ; we say, "Swallows are spring and snipe are winter migrants." In- stead of "The sun shines and plants grow," we should say, "Sun- light is the cause of vegetation." In short, there is a tendency to resolve all concepts into substantive concepts ; and the reason of this is not far to seek. Whether the subject or starting-point of our discursive thinking be actually what we perceive as a thing, or whether it be a quality, an action, an effectuation (i.e., a transi- tive action), a concrete spatial or temporal relation, or finally, a logy. resemblance or difference in these or in other respects, it becomes by the very fact of being the central object of thought pro tanto a unity, and all that can be affirmed concerning it may so far be re- garded as its property or attribute. It is, as we have seen, the characteristic of every completed concept to be a fixed and inde- pendent whole, as it were, crystallized out of the still-fluent matrix of ideas. Moreover, the earliest objects of thought and the earliest concepts must naturally be those of the things that live and move about us ; hence, then — to seek no deeper reason for the present — this natural tendency, which language by providing distinct names powerfully seconds, to reify or personify not only things but every element and relation of things which we can single out, or, in other words, to concrete our abstracts.1 It is when things have reached this stage that logic begins. But ordinary, so-called for- mal, logic, which intends to concern itself not with thinking but only with the most general structure of thought, is debarred from recognizing any difference between concepts that does not affect their relations as terms in a proposition. As a consequence it drifts inevitably into that compartmental logic or logic of extension which knows nothing of categories or predicables, but only of the one relation of whole and part qualitatively considered. It thus pushes this reduction to a common denomination to the utmost : its terms, grammatically regarded, are always names and symbolize classes or compartments of things. From this point of view all dis- parity among concepts, save that of contradictory exclusion, and all connexion, save that of partial coincidence, are at an end. Of a piece with this are the logical formula for a simple judgment, X is Y, and the corresponding definitions of judgment as the com- parison of two concepts and the recognition of their agreement or disagreement.2 It certainly is possible to represent every judg- ment as a comparison, although the term is strictly adequate to only one kind and is often a very artificial description of what actually happens. But for a logic mainly concerned with inference — i.e., with explicating what is implicated in any given statements concerning classes — there is nothing more to be done but to ascertain agreements or disagreements ; and the existence of these, if not necessarily, is at least most evidently represented by spatial rela- tions. Such representation obviously implies a single ground of comparison only and therefore leaves no room for differences of category. The resolution of all concepts into class concepts and that of all judgments into comparisons thus go together. On this view if a concept is complex it can only be so as a class combination ; and, if the mode of its synthesis could be taken account of at all, this could only be by treating it as an element in the combination like the rest : — iron is a substance, &c., virtue a quality, &c., distance a relation, &c., and so on. There is much of directly psychological interest in this thoroughgoing reduction of thought to a form which makes its consistency and logical concatenation conspicuously evi- dent. But of the so-called matter of thought it tells us nothing. And, as said, there are many forms in that matter of at least equal moment, both for psychology and for epistemology ; these formal logic has tended to keep out of sight. It has generally been under the bias of such a formal or com- putational logic that psychologists, and especially English psycho- logists, have entered upon the study of mind. They have brought with them an analytic scheme which affords a ready place for sensations or "simple ideas "as the elements of thought, but none for any differences in the combinations of these elements. Sensations being in their very nature concrete, all generality becomes an affair of names ; and, as Sigwart has acutely remarked, sensationalism and nominalism always go together. History would have borne him out if he had added that a purely formal logic tends in like manner to be nominalistic (see LOGIC, vol. xiv. p. 791). If we are still to speak of the elements of thought, we Foi must extend this term so as to include not only the sensory sy1 elements we are said to receive but three distinct ways in which this pure matter is combined : — (1) the forms of intuition,3' — Time and Space ; (2) the real categories, — Substance, Attribute, State, Act, Effect, End or Purpose, Wi*v> v^jww ^ f pression " generated by association is then projected ; tor tis a common observation that^the mind has a great propensity to spread itself on external objects." The subjective origin and the after-projection we must admit, but all else in Hume?s famous doctrine seems glaringly at variance with facts. In one respect it proves too much, for all constant sequences are not regarded as causal, as according to his analysis they ought to be ; again, in another respect it proves too little, for causal connexion is continually predicated on a first occurrence. The natural man has always distinguished between causes and signs or portents ; but there is nothing to show that he produced an effect many times before regarding himself as the cause of it. J. fc>. Mill has indeed obviated the first objection epistemplogically by addin^ to constant conjunction the further characteristic of "uncon- ditionality." But this is a conception that cannot be psychologi- cally explained from Hume's premisses, unless perhaps by resolving it into the qualification that the invariability must be complete and not partial, whereupon the second objection applies. ' Uncondi- tional " is a word for which we can find no meaning as long as we confine our attention to temporal succession. It will not do to say both that an invariable succession generates the idea, and that such invariable succession must be not only invariable but also uncondi- tional in order to generate it. We may here turn the master against the disciple : "the same principle," says Hume, "cannot be both the cause and the effect of another, and this is perhaps the only proposition concerning that relation which is either intui- tively or demonstratively certain " (op. cit., p. 391). Uncondition- ally is then part of the causal relation and yet not the product of invariable repetition. Perhaps the source of this element in the relation will become clear if we examine more closely the internal impression of the mind which according to Hume constitutes the whole of our idea of power or efficacy. To illustrate the nature of this impression Hume cites the instant passage of the imagination to a particular idea on hearing the word commonly annexed to it, when "'twill scarce be possible for the mind by its utmost efforts to prevent that transition" (op. cit., p. 393). It is this determination, then, which is felt internally, not perceived externally, that we mis- takenly transfer to objects and regard as an intelligible connexion between them. But, if Hume admits this, must he not admit more ? Can it be pretended that it is through the workings of association among our ideas that we first feel a determination which our utmost efforts can scarce resist, or that we feel such determination under no other circumstances ? If it be allowed that the natural man is irresistibly determined to imagine an apple when he hears its name or to expect thunder when he sees lightning, must it not also be allowed that he is irresistibly determined much earlier and in a much more impressive way when overmastered by the elements or by his enemies? But further, such instances bring to light what Hume's "determination" also implies, viz., its necessary correla- tive, effort or action. Even irresistible association can' only be known as such by efforts to resist it. Hume allows this when he says that his principles of association "are not infallible causes ; for one may fix his attention during some time on any one object without looking farther" (op. cit., p. 393). But the fact is, we know both what it is to act and what it is to suffer, to go where we would and to be carried where we would not, quite apart from the work- ings of association. And, had Hume not confused the two differ- ent inquiries, that concerning the origin of the idea of causation and that concerning the ground of causal inference or law of causation, it could never have occurred to him to offer such an analysis of the former as he does. Keeping to the former and simpler question, it would seem that when in ordinary thinking we say A causes this or that in B we project or analogically attribute to A what we experience in acting, and to B what we experience in being acted on ; and the structure of language shows that such projection was made long before it was suspected that what A once did and B once suffered must happen in like manner again. The occasions suitable for this projection are determined by the temporal and spatial relations of the objects concerned, which relations are matter of intuition. These are of no very special interest from a psychological point of view, but the subjective elements we shall do well to consider further. First of all, we must note the distinction of immanent action and transitive action ; the former is what we call action simply, and implies only a single thing, the agent ; the latter, which we might_with adyan- ta»e call effectuation, implies two things, i.e., a patient distinct from the agent. In scientific language the agent in an intransitive act is called a causa immanens and so distinguished from the agent in effectuation or causa traiisieiis. Common thought, however, does not regard mere action as caused at all ; and we shall find it, in fact, impossible to resolve action into effectuation. But, since the things with which we ordinarily deal are complex, have many parts, pro- perties, members, phases, and in consequence of the analytic pro- cedure of thought, there ensues, indeed, a continual shifting of the point of view from which we regard any given thing, so that what is in one aspect one thing, is in another many (comp. p. 56 c). So it conies about that, when regarding himself as one, the natural man speaks of himself as walking, shouting, &c. ; but, when dis- tinguishing between himself and his members, he speaks of raising his voice, moving his legs, and so forth. Thus no sooner do we re- solve any given action into an effectuation, by analytically d tinguishing within the original agent an agent and a patient, than a new action appears. Action is thus a simpler notion than causation and inexplicable by means of it. It is certainly no easy problem in philosophy to determine where the resolution of the complex is to cease, at what point we must stop, because in the presence of an individual thing and a simple activity. At any rate, we reach such a point psychologically in the conscious subject, and that energy in consciousness we call attention. If this be allowed, Hume's critique of the notion of efficacy is really wide of the mark. "Some,"2 he says, "have asserted that we feel an energy or power in our own mind ; and that, having in this manner acquir d the idea of power, we transfer that quality to matter, where we are not able immediately to discover it. ... But to convince us how fallacious this reasoning is, we need only consider that the will, being here consider'd as a cause, has no more a discoverabl nexion with its effects than any material cause has with its proper effect . . The effect is there [too] distinguishable and separable from the cause, and cou'd not be foreseen without the experience of their constant conjunction " (op. cit., p. 4.15). This is logical analysis, not psychological ; the point is that the will is not considered as a cause and distinguished from its effects, nor in fact consider Treatise of Human Nature, pt. iii., § xiv., "Of the idea of necessary connexion. " 2 Hume here has Locke and Berkeley specially in view. Locke as a patient and acute inquirer was incomparably better as a psychologist than a man addicted to literary foppery like Hume, for all his genius, could possibly be. On the particular question, see Locke, u. 21, 6- PSYCHOLOGY 83 (ject- ity of taught. alL It is not a case of sequence between two separable impressions ; for we cannot really make the indefinite regress that such logical distinctions as that between the conscious subject and its acts im- plies. Moreover, our activity as such is not directly presented at all : we are, being active ; and further than this psychological analysis will not go. There are, as we have seen, two ways in which this activity is manifested, the receptive or passive and the motor or active in the stricter sense — (comp. p. 44) and our experience of these we project in predicating the causal relation. But two halves do not make a whole ; so we have no complete experience of effectua- tion, for the simple reason that we cannot be two things at once. We are guided in piecing it together by the temporal and spatial relations of the things concerned. Hence, perhaps, some of the antinomies that beset this conception. In its earliest form, then, the so-called necessary connexion of cause and effect is perhaps nothing more than that of physical constraint. To this, no doubt, is added the strength of expectation — as Hume supposed — when the same effect has been found invariably to follow the same cause. Finally, when upon a basis of associated uniformities of sequence a definite intellectual elaboration of such material ensues, the logical necessity of reason and consequent finds a place, and so far as deduc- tion is applicable cause and reason become interchangeable ideas.1 The mention of logical necessity brings up a topic already inci- dentally noticed, viz., the objectivity of thought and cognition gen- erally (comp. pp. 55, 77). The psychological treatment of this topic is tantamount to an inquiry into the characteristics of the states of mind we call certainty, doubt, belief — all of which centre round the one fact of evidence. Between the certainty that a proposition is true and the certainty that it is not there may intervene continu- ous grades of uncertainty. We may know that A is sometimes B, or sometimes not ; or that some at least of the conditions of B are present or absent ; or the presentation of A may be too confused for distinct analysis. This is the region of probability, possibility, more or less obscurity. Leaving this aside, it will be enough to notice those cases in which certainty may be complete. With that certainty which is absolutely objective, i.e., with knowledge, psycho- logy has no direct concern ; it is for logic to furnish the criteria by which knowledge is ascertained. Emotion and desire are frequent indirect causes of subjective certainty, in so far as they determine the constituents and the grouping of the field of consciousness at the moment — "pack the jury" or "suborn the witnesses," as it were. But the ground of certainty is in all cases some quality or some relation of these pre- sentations inter se. In a sense, therefore, the ground of all certainty is objective — in the sense, that is, of being something at least directly and immediately determined for the subject and not by it. But, though objective, this ground is not itself — at least is not ultimately — an object or presentation. Where certainty is mediate, one judg- ment is often spoken of as the ground of another ; but a syllogism is still psychologically a single, though not a simple, judgment, and the certainty of it as a whole is immediate. Between the judgment A is B and the question Is A B ? the difference is not one of content nor scarcely one of form : it is a difference which depends upon the effect of the proposition on the subject judging, (i.) We have this effect before us most clearly if we consider what is by common con- sent regarded as the type of certainty and evidence, the certainty of present sense-impressions whence it is said, "Seeing is believing." The evident is here the actual, and the "feeling or consciousness " of certainty is in this case nothing but the sense of being taken fast hold of and forced to apprehend what is there, (ii. ) The like is true of memory and expectation : in these also there is a sense of being tied down to what is given, whereas in mere imagination, however lively, this non-voluntary determination is absent (comp. p. 63). Hume saw this at times clearly enough, as, e.g., when he says, "An idea assented to feels different from a fictitious idea that the fancy alone presents to us. " But unfortunately he not only made this difference a mere difference of intensity, but spoke of belief itself as "an operation of the mind" or "manner of conception that bestowed on our ideas this additional force or vivacity." 2 In short, Hume confounded one of the indirect causes of belief with the ground of it, and again, in describing this ground committed the irvrepov Trp&repov of making the mind determine the ideas instead of the ideas determine the mind. (iii. ) In speaking of intellection he is clearer: "The answer is easy with regard to propositions that are prov'd by intuition or demonstration. In that case, the person who assents not only conceives the ideas according to the proposition, but is necessarily determin'd to con- ceive them in that particular manner" (op. cit., p. 395). It has been often urged — as by J. S. Mill, for example — that belief is something "ultimate and primordial." No doubt it is ; but so is the distinc- tion between activity and passivity, and it is not here maintained that certainty can be analysed into something simpler, but only that it is identical with what is of the nature of passivity — 1 Comp. Wuiidt, Logik — " Das Causal-Gesetz und Satz vom Grunde," vol. i. p. 544. 2 Treatise of Human Nature, Green and Grose's ed., i. p. 396. objective determination. As Dr Bain puts it, " The leading fact in belief ... is our primitive credulity. We begin by believing everything : whatever is is true " (Emotions and Will, 3d ed., p. 511). But the point is that in this primitive state there is no act answering to " believe " distinct from the non-voluntary attention answering to "perceive," and no reflexion such as a modal terra like "true" implies. With eyes open in the broad day no man says, " I am certain there is light " : he simply sees. He may by and by come absolutely to disbelieve much that he sees— e.g., that things are nearer when viewed through a telescope — just as he will come to disbelieve his dreams, though while they last he is certain in these too. The limits of this article forbid any attempt to deal specially with the intellectual aspects of such conflicts of presenta- tions (comp. p. 62) or with their resolution and what is meant by saying that reason turns out superior to sense. The consistency we find it possible to establish among certain of our ideas becomes an ideal, to which we expect to find all our experience conform. Still the intuitive evidence of logical and mathematical axioms is psychologically but a new form of the actual ; we are only certain that two and two make four and we are not less certain that we see things nearer through a telescope.3 Presentation of Self, Self -Consciousness, and Conduct. The conception of self we have just seen underlying and to a great extent shaping the rest of our intellectual furni- ture ; on this account it is at once desirable and difficult to analyse it and ascertain the conditions of its develop- ment.4 In attempting this we must carefully distinguish between the bare presentation of self and that reference of other presentations to it which is often called specially self-consciousness, "inner sense," or internal perception. Concerning all presentations whatever — that of self no less than the rest — it is possible to reflect, " This presentation is mine ; it is my object ; I am the subject attending to it." Self, then, is one presentation among others, the result, like them, of the differentiation of the original continuum. But it is obvious that this presentation must be in existence first before other presentations can be re- lated to it. On the other hand, it is only in and by means of such relations that the conception of self is completed. We begin, therefore, with self simply as an object, and end with the conception of that object as the subject or " myself " that knows itself. Self has, in contradistinction from all other presentations, first of all (a) a unique in- terest and (b} a certain inwardness ; (c) it is an individual that (tZ) persists, (e) is active, and finally (/) knows itself. These several characteristics of self are intimately involved ; so far as they appear at all they advance in definiteness from the lowest level of mere sentience to those moments of highest self-consciousness in which conscience approves or condemns volition. The earliest and to the last the most important element in self — Self and what we might perhaps term its root or material element — is that the body, variously styled the organic sensations, vital sense, ccena;sthesis, or somatic consciousness. This largely determines the tone of the 3 See BELIEF, vol. iii. p. 532. 4 A large, though certainly diminishing, school of thinkers would entirely demur to such a proposal. "This personality," says one, " like all other simple and immediate presentations, is indefinable . . . it can be analysed into no simpler elements ; for it is revealed to us in all the clearness of an original intuition " (Mansel, Metaphysics, p. 182). Such an objection arises from that confusion between psycho- logy and epistemology which we have met already several times before (as, e.g., in the case of space, p. 53, and of unity, p. 79). The fact is that a conception that is logically " simple and immediate," in such wise as to be underivable from others, and therefore indefinable, may be — we might almost say will be — psychologically the result of a long process of development ; for the more abstract a concept is, i.e., the more fundamental in epistemological structure, the more thinking there has been to elaborate it. The most complex integrations of experience are needed to furnish the ideas of its ultimate elements. Such ideas when reached have intellectually all the clearness of an original intuition, no doubt ; but they are not therefore to be con- founded with what is psychologically a simple and immediate presenta- tion. It was in this last sense that idealists like Berkeley and Kant denied any presentation of self as much as sceptics like Hume. Self is psychologically a product of thought, not a datum of sense ; hence, while Berkeley called it a "notion" and Kant an "idea of the reason, " Hume treated it as a philosophical fiction. 84 PSYCHOLOGY special sensations and enters, though little suspected, into all our higher feelings. If, as sometimes happens in serious nervous affections, the whole body or any part of it should lose common sensibility, the whole body or that part is at once regarded as strange and even as hostile. In some forms of hypochondria, in which this extreme somatic insensibility and absence of zest leave the intellect and memory unaffected, the individual doubts his own existence or denies it altogether. Ribot cites the case of such a patient who, declaring that he had been dead for two years, thus expressed his perplexity: — "J'existe, mais en dehors de la vie reelle, materielle, et, malgre moi, rien ne m'ayant donne la mort. Tout est mecanique chez moi et se fait inconsciemment. 'n It is not because they accompany physiological functions essential to the efficiency of the organism as an organism, but simply because they are the most immediate and most constant sources of feeling, that these massive but ill-defined organic sensations are from the first the objects of the directest and most unreflecting interest. Other objects have at the outset but a mediate interest through subjective selection in relation to these, and never become so instinctively and inseparably identified with self, never have the same inwardness. This brings iis to a new point. As soon as definite perception begins, the body as an extended thing is dis- tinguished from other bodies, and such organic sensations as can be localized at all are localized within it. At the same time the actions of other bodies upon it are accompanied by pleasures and pains, while their action upon each other is not. The body also is the only thing directly set in motion by the reactions of these feelings, the purpose of such movements being to bring near to it the things for which there is appetite and to remove from it those towards which there is aversion. It is thus not merely the type of occupied space and the centre from which all positions are reckoned, but it affords us an unfailing and ever-present intuition of the actu- ally felt and living self, to which all other things are external, more or less distant, and at times absent altogether. The body then first of all gives to self a certain measure of individuality, permanence, and inwardness. But with the development of ideation there arises within this what we may call an inner zone of self, having still more unity and permanence. We have at this stage not only an intuition of the bodily self doing or suffering here and now, but also memories of what it has been and done under varied circumstances in the past. External impressions have by this time lost in novelty and become less absorbing, while the train of ideas, largely increased in number, distinctness, and mobility, diverts attention and often shuts out the things of sense altogether. In all such reminiscence or reverie a generic image of self is the centre, and every new image as it arises derives all its interest from relation to this ; and so apart from bodily appetites new desires may be quickened and old emotions stirred again when all that is actually present is dull and unexciting. But desires and emotions, it must be remembered, though awakened by what is only imaginary, invariably entail actual organic perturbations, and with these the generic image of self comes to be intimately combined. Hence arises a contrast between the inner self, which the natural man locates in his breast or p>fy>t the chief seat of these emotional disturbances, and the whole visible and tangible body besides. Although from their nature they do not admit of much ideal representation, yet, when actually present, these organic sensations exert a powerful and often irresistible in- fluence over other ideas ; they have each their appropriate train, and so heighten in the very complex and loosely compacted idea of self those traits they originally wrought into it, suppressing to an equal extent all the rest. Normally there is a certain equilibrium to which they return, and which, we may suppose, determines the so-called temperament, natural, or disposition, thus securing some tolerable uniformity and continuity in the presentation of self. But even within the limits of sanity great and sudden changes of mood are possible, as, e.g., in hysterical persons or those of a "mercurial temperament," or among the lower animals at the onset of parental or migratory instincts. Beyond those limits — as the concomitant apparently of serious visceral derangements or the altered nutrition 01 parts of the nervous system itself — complete " alienation " may ensue. A new self may arise, not only distinct from the old and devoid of all save the most elementary know- ledge and skill that the old possessed, but diametrically opposed to it in tastes and disposition, — obscenity, it may be, taking the place of modesty and cupidity or cowardice succeeding to generosity or courage. The most convincing illustrations of the psycho- logical growth and structure of the presentation of self on the lower levels of sensation and ideation are furnished by these melancholy spectacles of minds diseased ; but it is impossible to refer to them in detail here. Passing to the higher level of intellection, we come at length upon the concept which every intelligent being more or less dis- tinctly forms of himself as a person, M. or N., having such and such a character, tastes, and convictions, such and such a history, and "Bases affectives de la Personnalite," in Revue philosophique, xviii. p. 149. such and such an aim in life. The main instrument in the forma- tion of this concept, as of others, is language, and especially the social intercourse that language makes possible. Up to this point the presentation of self has shaped that of not-self, — that is to say, external things have been comprehended by the projection of its characteristics. But now the order is in a sense reversed : the indi- vidual advances to a fuller self-knowledge by comparing the self within with what is first discernible in other persons witliout. So far avant I'homme cst la socitM ; it is through the " us " that we learn of the " me " (comp. p. 75 note 1 ). Collective action for common ends is of the essence of society, and in taking counsel together for the good of his tribe each one learns also to take counsel with himself for his own good on the whole ; with the idea of the common weal arises the idea of happiness as distinct from momentary gratification. The extra-regarding impulses are now confronted by a reasonable self-love, and in the deliberations that thus ensue activity attains to its highest forms, those of thought and volition. In the first we have a distinctly active manipulation of ideas as compared with the more passive spectacle of memory and imagination. Thereby emerges a contrast between the thinker and these objects of his thought, including among them the mere generic image of self, from which is now formed this conception of self as a person. A similar, even sharper, contrast also accompanies the exercise of what is very misleadingly termed "self-control," i.e., control by this personal self of "the various natural affections," to use Butler's phrase, which often hinder it as external objects hindered them. It is doubtful whether the reasoning, regulating self is commonly regarded as definitely localized. The effort of thinking and concen- trating attention upon ideas is no doubt referred to the brain, but this is only comparable with the localization of other efforts in the limbs ; when we think we commonly feel also, and the emotional basis is of all the most subjective and inalienable. If we speak of this latest phase of self as par excellence "the inner self" such language is then mainly figurative, inasmuch as the contrasts just described are contrasts into which spatial relations do not enter. The term "reflexion" or internal perception is applied to that state Self-c of mind in which some particular presentation or group of presenta- scions tions (x or y) is not simply in the field of consciousness but there as ness, consciously related to self, which is also presented at the same time. Self here may be symbolized by M, to emphasize the fact that it is in like manner an object in the field of consciousness. The relation of the two is commonly expressed by saying, " This (x or y) is my (M's) percept, idea, or volition ; I (M) it is that perceive, think, will it." Self-consciousness, in the narrowest sense, as when we say, " I know myself, I am conscious that I am," &c., is but a special, though the most important, instance of this internal perception : here self (M) is presented in relation to self (with a difference, M') ; the subject itself — at least so we say — is or appears as its own object. It has been often maintained that the difference between con- sciousness and reflexion is not a real difference, that to know and to know that you know are " the same tlimg considered in different aspects."2 But different aspects of "iiie same thing are not the same thing, for psychology at least. Not only is it not the same thing to feel and to know that you feel ; but it might even be held to be a different thing still to know that you feel and to know that you know that you feel, — such being the difference perhaps between ordinary reflexion and psychological introspection.^ The difficulty of apprehending these facts and keeping them distinct seems obvi- ously due to the necessaiy presence of the earlier along with the later ; that is to say, we can never know that we feel without feel- ing. But the converse need not be true. How distinct the two states are is shown in one way by their notorious incompatibility, the direct consequence of the limitation of attention : whatever we have to do that is not altogether mechanical is ill done unless we lose ourselves in the doing of it. This mutual exclusiveness receives a further explanation from the fact so often used to dis- credit psychology, viz., that the so-called introspection and indeed all reflexion are really retrospective. It is not while we are angry or lost in reverie that we take note of such states, but afterwards, or by momentary side glances intercepting the main interest, if this be not too absorbing. But we require an exacter analysis of the essential fact in this retrospect — the relation of the presentation x or y to that of self or M. What we have to deal with, it will be observed, is, implicitly at least, a judgment. First of all, then, it is noteworthy that we are never prompted to such judgments by every-day occurrences or acts of routine, but only by matters of interest, and, as said, gener- 2 So— misled possibly by the confusions incident to a special faculty of reflexion, which they controvert — James Mill, Analysis, i. p. 224 sq. (corrected, however, by both his editors, pp. 227 and 230), and also Hamilton, Lect., i. p. 192. 3 It has been thought a fatal objection to this view that it implies the possi- bility of an indefinite regress ; but why should it not? We reach the limit of our experience in reflexion or at most in deliberate introspection, just as in space of three dimensions we reach the limit of our experience in another respect. But there is no absurdity in supposing a consciousness more evolved and explicit than our self-consciousness and advancing on it as it advances on that of the unreflecting brutes. PSYCHOLOGY 85 ally when these are over or have ceased to be all-engrossing. Now in such cases it will be found that some effect of the preceding state of objective absorption persists, like wounds received in battle un- noticed till the fight is over, — such, e.g., as the weariness of muscular exertion or of long concentration of attention ; some pleasurable or painful after- sensation passively experienced, or an emotional wave subsiding but not yet spent ; "the jar of interrupted expectation," or the relief of sudden attainment after arduous striving, making prominent the contrast of contentment and want in that particular ; or, finally, the quiet retrospect and mental rumination in which we note what time has wrought upon us and either regret or approve what we were and did. All such presentations are of the class out of which, as we have seen, the presentation of self is built up, and so form in each case the concrete bond connecting the generic image of self with its object.1 In this way and in this respect each is a concrete instance of what we call a state, act, affection, &c., and the judgments in which such relations to the standing presentation of self are recognized are the original and the type of all real pre- dications (comp. p. 81). The opportunities for reflexion are at first few, the materials being as it were thrust upon attention, and the resulting " percepts " are but vague. By the time, however, that a clear conception of self has been attained the exigencies of life make it a frequent object of contemplation, and as the abstract of a series of instances of such definite self-consciousness we reach the purely formal notion of a subject or pure ego. For empirical psychology this notion is ultimate ; its speculative treatment falls altogether — usually under the heading "rational psychology" — to metaphysics. The growth of intellection and self-consciousness reacts power- fully upon the emotional and active side of mind. To describe the various sources of feeling and of desire that thus arise — festhetic, social and religious sentiments, pride, ambition, selfishness, sym- pathy, &c. — is beyond the scope of systematic psychology and certainly quite beyond the limits of an article like the present. 2 But at least a general resume of the characteristics of activity on this highest or rational level is indispensable. If we are to gain any oversight in a matter of such complexity it is of the first im- portance to keep steadily in view, as a fundamental principle, that as the causes of feeling become more complex, internal, and repre- sentative the consequent actions change in like manner. We have noted this connexion already in the case of the emergence of desires, and seen that desire in prompting to the search for means to its end is the primum movcns of intellection (pp. 73-75). But intellect does much more than devise and contrive in unquestioning sub- servience to the impulse of the moment, like some demon of Eastern fable ; even the brutes, whose cunning is on the whole of this sort, are not without traces of self-control. As motives conflict and the evils of hasty action recur to mind, deliberation succeeds to mere invention and design. In moments of leisure, the more imperious cravings being stilled, besides the rehearsal of failures or successes in the past, come longer and longer flights of imagination into the future. Both furnish material for intellectual rumination, and so we have at length (1) conceptions of general and distant ends, as wealth, power, knowledge, and — self-consciousness having arisen — the conception also of the happiness or perfection of self, and (2) maxims or practical generalizations as to the best means to these ends. Instead of actions determined by the vis a tergo of blind passion we have conduct shaped by what is literally prudence or foresight, the pursuit of ends that are not esteemed desirable till they are judged to be good. The good, it is truly urged, is not to be identified with the pleasant, for the one implies a standard and a judgment and the other nothing but a bare fact of feeling ; thus the good is often not pleasant and the pleasant not good ; in talk- ing of the good, in short, we are passing out of the region of nature into that of character. It is so, and yet this progress is itself so far natural as to admit of psychological explication. As already urged (p. 72), the causes of feeling change as the constituents of con- sciousness change and depend more upon the form of that conscious- ness as that increases in complexity. When we can deliberately range to and fro in time and circumstances, the good that is not directly pleasant may indeed be preferred to what is only pleasant while attention is confined to the seen and sensible ; but then the choice of such good is itself pleasant, — pleasanter than its rejection would have been. Freedom of will in the sense of absolute arbi- trariness or "causeless volition," then, is at least without support from experience. The immediate affirmation of self-consciousness 1 They have thus a certain analogy to the presentative element in external perception, the re-presentative elements being furnished by the rest of the generic image of self. But, as this generic image is combined with and prim- arily sustained by a continuous stream of organic sensations, the analogy is not very exact. 2 The psychology of a century or so ago, like the biology of the same period, was largely of the "natural history" type and was much occupied with such descriptions ; writers like Dugald Stewart, Brown, and Abercrotnbie, e.g., draw freely from biography (and even from fiction) illustrations of the popularly received mental faculties and affections. A very complete and competent handling of the various emotions and springs of action will be found in Bain, The Emotions and the Will; Nahlowsky, Das Gefiihlsleben, 2d ed., 1884, is also good. that in the moment of action we are free must be admitted indeed, but it does not prove what it is supposed to prove — the existence of a liberum arbitrium indifferentix — but only that the relation of the end approved to the empirical self as then presented was the determining motive. This freedom of this empirical self is in all cases a relative freedom ; hence at a later time we often come to see that in some past act of choice we were not our true selves, not really free. Or perhaps we hold that we were free and could have acted otherwise ; and this also is true if we suppose the place of the purely formal and abstract conception of self had been occupied by some other mood of that empirical self which is con- tinuously, but at no one moment completely, presented. It must, however, be admitted that psychological analysis in such cases is not only actually incomplete but in one respect must necessarily always remain so ; and that for the simple reason that all we discern by reflexion must ever be less than all we are. That empirical self that the subject sees and even fashions is after all only its object and workmanship, not itself. If this be so, the indeterminist posi- tion, that particular acts are not fully determined by aught in con- sciousness, can neither be certainly established nor finally overthrown on scientific grounds ; but the presumption is against it. In another sense, however, it may be allowed that freedom is possible, if not actual, viz. , as synonymous with self-rule or autonomy. Freedom applies not to the ultimate source of an activity but to execution ; that man is free "externally" who can do what he pleases, and when we talk of internal freedom the same meaning holds.3 BIBLIOGRAPHY. — A. Historical. — There are few good works on the history of psychology ; the only one in English (R. Blakey, History of the Philosophy of Mind from the Earliest Period to the Present Time, London, 1848) is said to be worthless. F. A. Carus's Geschichte der Psychologie (Leipsic, 1808) is at least useful for refer- ence. A work bearing the same title by H. Siebeck, of which only the first part has yet appeared (consisting of two divisions — (i. ) Die Psychologie von Aristoteles, (ii.) Die Psychologie von Aristoteles bis zu Thomas von Aquino, Gotha, 1880 and 1884) is thoroughly and carefully done. Die Philosophie in ihrer Geschichte (I. Psychologie}, by the late Professor Harms (Berlin, 1878), is also good. Ribot's La Psychologie Anglaise contemporaine (2d ed., Paris, 1875) and La Psychologie Allemande contemporaine (Paris, 1879) are lucid and concise in style, though the latter work in places is superficial and inaccurate. B. Positive. — The most useful and complete work as an intro- duction, and for the English reader, is Mr Sully's well-arranged and well-written Outlines of Psychology (2d ed., London, 1885). Of more advanced text-books the late Professor Volkmann's Lehr- buch der Psychologie (2 vols., 3d ed., Kbthen, 1885, edited by Cornelius) is a monument worthy the lifelong labours it entailed. Written in the main from a Herbartian standpoint, it is still the work of one who not only had read and thought over all that was worth reading by psychologists of every school but was unusually gifted with the qualities that make a good investigator and a good expositor. The importance of the Herbartian psychology to English students has been too long overlooked ; while it has much in common with the English preference for empirical methods, it is in aim, if not in attainment, greatly in advance of English writers in exactness and system. Other excellent works of the same school are M. W. H. Drobisch's Empirische Psychologie (Leipsic, 1842), T. Waitz's Lehrbuch der Psychologie als Naturwissenschaft (Bruns- wick, 1849), and Steinthal's Einleitung in die Psychologie und Sprachwissenschaft (Berlin, 1871). To the honoured name of Lotze belongs a distinguished place in any enumeration of recent produc- tions in philosophy ; his Medicinische Psychologie (Gbttingen, 1852) is still valuable ; but it is out of print and scarce. A large part of his Mikrokosmos (3 vols., 3d ed., 1876-80 ; translated into English, 2 vols., 1885) and one book of his Metaphysik (2d ed., 1884 ; also translated into English) are, however, devoted to psycho- logy. The close connexion between the study of mind and the study of the organism has been more and more recognized as the present century has advanced, and the doctrine of evolution in particular has been as fruitful in this study as in other sciences that deal with life. In this respect Mr Herbert Spencer's Principles of Psychology (2 vols., 2d ed., 1870) and Data of Ethics (1879) occupy a foremost place. Dr Bain's standard volumes, The Senses and the Intellect (3d ed., 1873) and The Emotions and the Will (3d ed., 1875), contain a good deal of " physiological psychology," but no adequate recognition of the importance of the modern theory of development ; still, with the exception of Locke, perhaps no English writer has made equally important contributions to the science of mind. It is very questionable whether the time has yet come for a systematic treatment of the connexions of mind and body. Wundt's Physio- logische Psychologie (2 vols., 2d ed., 1880) is rather a physiology added to a psychology than an attempt at such a systematic treat- ment. It is, however, a thoroughly able work by one who is both a good psychologist and a good physiologist. (J. W*.) PSYCHOPHYSICS. See WEBER'S LAW. 3 See ETHICS, to which these questions more fitly belong. 86 P T A — P T E PTARMIGAN. See GROUSE, vol. xi. p. 222. PTERODACTYLE. The extinct flying reptiles known as " pterodactyles " are among the most aberrant forms of animals, either living or extinct. Since the beginning of this century, when Blumenbach and Cuvier first described the remains of these curious creatures, they have occupied the attention of naturalists, and various opinions have been expressed as to their natural affinities. The general pro- portions of their bodies (excepting the larger head and neck) and the modification of the forelimb, to support a mem- brane for flight, remind one strongly of, the bats, but the resemblance is only superficial ; a closer inspection shows that their affinities are rather with reptiles and birds. In all pterodactyles the head, neck, and forelimb are large in proportion to the other parts of the body (fig. 1). The skull is remarkably avian, and even the teeth, which Fio. 1. — Pterodactylus tpectabilis, Von Meyer, natural size, from the lithographic slate. A., humerus ; ru, radius and ulna ; me, metacarpals ; ptt pteroid bone ; 2, 3, 4, digits with claws ; 5, elongated digit for support of wing membrane : st, sternum, crest not shown ; is, ischium ; pp, prepubis. The teeth are not shown. most of them possess, and which seem so unbird-like, are paralleled in the Cretaceous toothed birds of North America. Judging from the form of the skull, the brain was small, but rounded and more like that of a bird than that of a reptile. The position of the occipital condyle, beneath and not at the back of the skull, is another char- acter pointing in the same direction. The nasal opening is not far in advance of the large orbit, and in some forms there is a lachry mo-nasal fossa between them. The pre- maxillse are large, while the maxillse are slender. In certain species the extremities of the upper and lower jaws seem to have been covered with horn, and some forms at least had bony plates around the eye. The union of the post-frontal bone with the squamosal to form a supra- temporal fossa is a reptilian character. Both jaws are usually provided with long slender teeth, but they are not always present. The vertebral column may be divided into cervical, dorsal, sacral, and caudal regions. The centra of the vertebrae are procoelous, — that is, the front of each centrum is cup -like and receives the ball -like hinder ex- tremity of the vertebra next in front of it. The eight or nine cervical vertebrae are always large, and are succeeded by about fourteen or sixteen which bear ribs. Probably there are no vertebras which can be called lumbar. The sacrum consists of from three to six vertebrae. The tail is short in some genera and very long in others. The sternum has a distinct median crest, and the scapula and coracoid are also much like those of carinate birds. The humerus has a strong ridge for the attachment of the pectoral muscle, and the radius and ulna are separate bones. There are four distinct metacarpals ; passing from the inner or radial side, the first three of these bear respectively two, three, and four phalanges, the terminal ones having had Fro. 2. — KJunnphorhynchus phylluntf, Marsh, from the Solenhofen slates, one- fourth natural size, with the greater part of the wing membranes preserved. x, caudal membrane ; st, sternum ; h, humerus ; sc, scapula and coracoid ; tern, wing membrane. claws. The phalanges of the outermost digit are much elongated, and except in one doubtful form are always four in number. It is the extreme elongation of this outer digit, for the support of the patagium, which is the most characteristic feature of the pterodactyle's organization. A slender bone called the "pteroid" is sometimes seen extending from the carpal region in the direction of the upper part of the humerus. Some naturalists look upon the pteroid merely as an ossification of a tendon, corre- sponding with one which is found in this position in birds, while others are inclined to regard it rather as a rudiment- ary first digit, modified to support the edge of the patagium. The pelvis is small. In form the ilia resemble rather the ornithic than the reptilian type ; but the other portions of the pelvis are more like those of the crocodiles. The hind P T O — P T O 87 limb is small, and the fibula seems to have been feebly developed and fixed to the tibia. The hind foot has five digits in. some forms, but only four in others. In the latter case the number of phalanges to each digit, counting from the tibial side, is two, three, four, five respectively. The long bones and vertebrae, as well as some parts of the skull, contained large pneumatic cavities similar to those found in birds. There can be little doubt that the ptero- dactyles had the power of sustained flight. The large size of the sternal crest indicates a similar development of the pectoral muscles and a corresponding strength in the arms. The form of the forelimb, especially its outer digit, indi- cates in no uncertain 'manner that it supported a flying membrane ; but within the last few years this has been more clearly demonstrated by the discovery of a specimen in the Solenhofen slates with the membrane preserved (fig. 2). The occurrence of pterodactyle remains in marine deposits would seem to indicate that they frequented the seashore ; and it is tolerably certain that those forms with long and slender teeth were, in part at least, fish-eaters. Seeing, however, that the armature of the jaws varies considerably in the different genera, it is most likely that their diet varied accordingly. Pterodactyles present so many avian peculiarities that it has been proposed to place them in a special group, to be called Ornithosauria, which would hold a position intermediate between Aves and Reptilia. On the other hand, pterodactyles are thought by most authorities to have a closer relationship with the reptiles, and the different genera are placed in a separate order of the Reptilia called Ptero- sauria. The most important genera are five. (1) Pterodactylus; these have the jaws pointed and toothed to their extremities, and the tail very short. (2) Rhamphorhynchus (fig. 2) ; this genus has the jaws provided with slender teeth, but the extremities of both mandible and upper jaw are produced into toothless beaks, which were prob- ably covered with horn ; the tail is extremely long. (3) Dimor- pkodon ; in this form the anterior teeth in both upper and lower jaws are long, but those at the hinder part of the jaws are short ; the tail is extremely long. (4) Pteranodon ; similar in most respects to Pterodactylus, but the jaws are devoid of teeth. In these four genera the outer digit of the manus has four phalanges. (5) Orni- thoptcrus ; this form is said to have only two phalanges in the outer digit of the manus ; the genus, however, is very imperfectly known, and it has been suggested that it may perhaps be a true, bird. The Pterosauria are only known to have lived during the Meso- zoic period. They are first met with in the Lower Lias, the Dimor- phodon macronyx from Lyme Regis being perhaps the earliest known species. The Jurassic slates of Solenhofen have yielded a large number of beautifully preserved examples of Pterodactylus and PJiampJiorhynchus, and remains of the same genera have been found in England in the Stonesfield slate. Bones of pterodactyles have also been obtained in some abundance from the Cretaceous phosphatic deposits near Cambridge ; and their remains have been met with occasionally in the Wealdeu and Chalk of Kent. The genus Pteranodon is only known from the Upper Cretaceous rocks of North America. The Pterosauria were for the most part of moderate or small size (see fig. 1), but some attained to very con- siderable dimensions ; for instance, Rhamphorhynchus Bucklandi from the Stonesfield slate probably measured 7 feet between the wing-tips. But the largest forms existed apparently towards the close of the Mesozoic period, the pterodactyles of the British Cretaceous rocks and the American Pteranodon being of still larger size : some of them, it is calculated, must have had wings at least 20 feet in extent. See Buckland, Bridge-water Treatise, 1836 ; Cuvier, Ossements fossiles, vol. v. pt. 2, p. 359(1824); Huxley, " On Rhamphorhynchus Bucklandi," in Quart. Journ. Geol. Soc., vol. xv. p. 658 (1859), and Anatomy of Vertebrated Animals (1871), p. 266 ; Marsh, " Notice of New Sub-order of Pterosauria (Pteranodon)," Amer. Journ. Sci. and Art, vol. xi. p. 507 (1876), and on the "Wings of Pterodac- tyles," in Amer. Journ. Science, vol. xxiii. p. 251 (1882) ; Owen, Palxonto- graphical Society (1851, 1859, 1860) ; Seeley, Ornithosauria (1870) ; Von Meyer, Reptilien aits dem lithograph. Schiefer [Fauna der Voruxlt] (1859), and Palssonto- grapUca, vol. x. p. 1 (1861). (E. T. N.) PTOLEMIES, the Macedonian dynasty of sovereigns of Egypt. See EGYPT, vol. vii. pp. 745-748, and MACE- DONIAN EMPIRE, vol. xv. p. 144. PTOLEMY (CLAUDIUS PTOLEM^US), celebrated as a mathematician, astronomer, and geographer. He was a native of Egypt, but there is an uncertainty as to the place of his birth ; some ancient manuscripts of his works describe him as of Pelusium, but Theodorus Meliteniota, a Greek writer on astronomy of the 12th century, says that he was born at Ptolemais Hermii, a Grecian city of the Thebaid. It is certain that he observed at Alexandria during the reigns of Hadrian and Antoninus Pius, and that he sur- vived Antoninus. Olympiodorus, a philosopher of the Neoplatonic school who lived in the reign of the emperor Justinian, relates in his scholia on the Phxdo of Plato that Ptolemy devoted his life to astronomy and lived for forty years in the so-called Hrepa. rov KavwfBov, probably elevated terraces of the temple of Serapis at Canopus near Alexandria, where they raised pillars with the results of his astronomical discoveries engraved upon them. This statement is probably correct ; we have indeed the direct evidence of Ptolemy himself that he made astronomical ob- servations during a long series of years ; his first recorded observation was made in the eleventh year of Hadrian, 127 A.D.,1 and his last in the fourteenth year of Antoninus, 151 A.D. Ptolemy, moreover, says, "We make our obser- vations in the parallel of Alexandria." St Isidore of Seville asserts that he was of the royal race of the Ptolemies, and even calls him king of Alexandria ; this assertion has been followed by others, but there is no ground for their opinion. Indeed Fabricius shows by numerous instances that the name Ptolemy was common in Egypt. Weidler, from whom this is taken, also tells us that according to Arabian tradition Ptolemy lived to the age of seventy-eight years ; from the same source some description of his personal appearance has been handed down, which is generally considered as not trustworthy, but which may be seen in Weidler, Historia Astronomic, p. 177, or in the preface to Halma's edition of the Almagest, p. Ixi. Ptolemy's work as a geographer is treated of below (p. 91 sq.\ and an account of the discoveries in astronomy of Hipparchus and Ptolemy has been given in the article ASTRONOMY. Their contribu- tions to pure mathematics have not yet been noticed in the present work. Of these the chief is the foundation of trigonometry, plane and spherical, including the formation of a table of chords, which served the same purpose as our table of sines. This branch of mathematics was created by Hipparchus for the use of astronomers, and its exposi- tion was given by Ptolemy in a form so perfect that for 1400 years it was not surpassed. In this respect it may be compared with the doctrine as to the motion of the heavenly bodies so well known as the Ptolemaic system, which was paramount for about the same period of time. There is, however, this difference, that, whereas the Ptole- maic system was then overthrown, the theorems of Hip- parchus and Ptolemy, on the other hand, will be, as Delambre says, for ever the basis of trigonometry. The astronomical and trigonometrical systems are contained in the great work of Ptolemy 'H /j.adrjfj.ariKr) O-WTU^I?, or, as Fabricius after Syncellus writes it, MeyaA^ o-uvra^ts TTJS dcrr/oovo/Aias; and in like manner Suidas says OVTOS [II-ToA.] eypa^e rov p.eyav dcrrpovofwv -tjroi crvvra£iv. The Syntaxis of Ptolemy was called CO /ttyas acrr/Dovd/xos to distinguish it from another collection called '0 /ii/c/aos do-r/>ovo/zo?, also highly esteemed by the Alexandrian school, which con- tained some works of Autolycus, Euclid, Aristarchus, Theo- dosius of Tripolis, Hypsicles, and Menelaus. To designate the great work of Ptolemy the Arabs used the superlative fj.eyia-Tf), from which, the article cd being prefixed, the hybrid name Almagest, by which it is now universally known, is derived. We proceed now to consider the trigonometrical work of Hippar- chus and Ptolemy. In the ninth chapter of the first book of the Almagest Ptolemy shows how to form a table of chords. He sup- poses the circumference divided into 360 equal parts (r/j.rifj.ara), and then bisects each of these parts. Further, he divides the diameter 1 Weidler and Halma give the ninth year ; in the account of the eclipse of the moon in that year Ptolemy, however, does not say, as in other similar cases, he had observed, but it had been observed (Almagest, iv. 9). PTOLEMY into 120 equal parts, and then for the subdivisions of these he em- ploys the sexagesimal method as most convenient in practice, i.e., he divides each of the sixty parts of the radius into sixty equal parts, and each of these parts he further subdivides into sixty equal parts. In the Latin translation these subdivisions become " partes minute primae" and "partes minute secundse," whence our "minutes" and " seconds " have arisen. It must not be supposed, however, that these sexagesimal divisions are due to Ptolemy ; they must have been familiar to his predecessors, and were handed down from the Chal- dseans. Nor did the formation of the table of chords originate with Ptolemy ; indeed, Theou of Alexandria, the father of Hypatia, who lived in the reign of Theodosius, in his commentary on the Almagest says expressly that Hipparchus had already given the doctrine of chords inscribed in a circle in twelve books, and that Menelaus had done the same in six books, but, he continues, every one must be astonished at the ease with which Ptolemy, by means of a few simple theorems, has found their values ; hence it is inferred that the method of calculation in the Almagest is Ptolemy's own. As starting-point the values of certain chords in terms of the diameter were already known, or could be easily found by means of the Elements of Euclid. Thus the side of the hexagon, or the chord of 60°, is equal to the radius, and therefore contains sixty parts. The side of the decagon, or the chord of 36°, is the greater segment of the radius cut in extreme and mean ratio, and therefore contains approximately 37» 4' 55" parts, of which the diameter contains 120 parts. Further, the square on the side of the regular pentagon is equal to the sum of the squares on the sides of the regular hexagon and of the regular decagon, all being inscribed in the same circle (Eucl. XIII. 10) ; the chord of 72° can therefore be calculated, and contains approximately 70? 32' 3". In like manner, the square on the chord of 90°, which is the side of the inscribed square, is twice the square on the radius ; and the square on the chord of 120°, or the side of the equilateral triangle, is three times the square on the radius ; these chords can thus be calculated approximately. Further, from the values of all these chords we can calculate at once the chords of the arcs which are their supplements. This being laid down, we now proceed to give Ptolemy's exposition of the mode of obtaining his table of chords, which is a piece of geometry of great elegance, and is indeed, as De Morgan says, " one of the most beautiful in the Greek writers." He takes as basis and sets forth as a lemma the well-known theorem, which is called after him, concerning a quadrilateral in- scribed in a circle : The rectangle under the diagonals is equal to the sum of the rectangles under the opposite sides. By means of this theorem the chord of the sum or of the difference of two arcs whose chords are given can be easily found, for we have only to draw a diameter from the common vertex of the two arcs the chord of whose sum or difference is required, and complete the quadri- lateral ; in one case a diagonal, in the other one of the sides is a diameter of the circle. The relations thus obtained are equivalent to the fundamental formulae of our trigonometry — sin (A + B) = sin A cos B + cos A sin B, sin (A - B) = sin A cos B - cos A sin B, which can therefore be established in this simple way. Ptolemy then gives a geometrical construction for finding the chord of half an arc from the chord of the arc itself. By means of the foregoing theorems, since we know the chords of 72° and of 60°, we can find the chord of 12° ; we can then find the chords of 6°, 3°, 1£°, and three-fourths of 1°, and lastly, the chords of 4^°, 7^°, 9°, 10^°, &c., — all those arcs, namely, as Ptolemy says, which being doubled are divisible by 3. Performing the calculations, he finds that the chord of 1J° contains approximately IP 34' 55", and the chord of three-fourths of 1° contains OP 47' 8". A table of chords of arcs increasing by 1^° can thus be formed ; but this is not suffi- cient for Ptolemy's purpose, which was to frame a table of chords increasing by half a degree. This could be effected if he knew the chord of one-half of 1° ; but, since this chord cannot be found geometrically from the chord of 1^°, inasmuch as that would come to the trisection of an angle, he proceeds to seek in the first place the chord of 1°, which he finds approximately by means of a lemma of great elegance, due probably to Apollonius. It is as follows : If two unequal chords be inscribed in a circle, the greater will be to the less in a less ratio than the arc described on the greater will be to the arc described on the less. Having proved this theorem, he proceeds to employ it in order to find approximately the chord of 1°, which he does in the following manner — chord 60' 60 . 4 , „„ . 4 45'1' «"* 3' •'•Ch°rd < 3 ch°rd 45' ' again — chord 90' 90 . -:^,i.e.t 60' ' 3 , , , „ 2 , , . rt, —, .'.chord 1 >-= chord 90. 2' 3 chord 60' For brevity we use modern notation. It has been shown that the chord of 45' is OP 47' 8" q.p., and the chord of 90' is IP 34' 15" q.p. ; hence it follows that approximately chord 1° <1P 2' 50" 40'" and > IP 2' 50*. Since these values agree as far as the seconds, Ptolemy takes IP 2' 50" as the approximate value of the chord of 1°. The chord of 1" being thus known, he finds the chord of one-half of a degree, the approximate value of which is OP 31' 25", and he is at once in a position to complete his table of chords for arcs increasing by half a degree. Ptolemy then gives his table of chords, which is arranged in three columns ; in the first he has entered the arcs, increasing by half-degrees, from 0° to 180° ; in the second he gives the values of the chords of these arcs in parts of which the diameter contains 120, the subdivisions being sexagesimal ; and in the third he has inserted the thirtieth parts of the differences of these chords for each half-degree, in order that the chords of the intermediate arcs, which do not occur in the table, may be calculated, it being assumed that the increment of the chords of arcs within the table for each interval of 30' is proportional to the increment of the arc.1 Trigonometry, we have seen, was created by Hipparchus for the use of astronomers. Now, since spherical trigonometry is directly applicable to astronomy, it is not surprising that its development was prior to that of plane trigonometry. It is the subject-matter of the eleventh chapter of the Almagest, whilst the solution of piano triangles is not treated separately in that work. To resolve a plane triangle the Greeks supposed it to be inscribed in a circle ; they must therefore have known the theorem — which is the basis of this branch of trigonometry — The sides of a triangle are proportional to the chords of the double arcs which measure the angles opposite to those sides. In the case of a right-angled triangle this theorem, together with Eucl. I. 32 and 47, gives the complete solution. Other triangles were resolved into right- angled triangles by drawing the perpendicular from a vertex on the opposite side. In one place (Aim., vi. c. 7 ; vol. i. p. 422, ed. Halma) Ptolemy solves a triangle in which the three sides arc given by finding the segments of a side made by the perpendicular on it from the opposite vertex. It should be noticed also that the eleventh chapter of the first book of the Almagest contains inci- dentally some theorems and problems in plane trigonometry. The problems which are met with correspond to the following : Divide a given arc into two parts so that the chords of the doubles of those arcs shall have a given ratio ; the same problem for external sec- tion. Lastly, it may be mentioned that Ptolemy (Aim., vi. 7 ; vol. i. 8 30 p. 421, ed. Halma) takes SP 8' 30", i.e., 3 + -^ + ^^ =3'1416, as the value of the ratio of the circumference to the diameter of a circle, and adds that, as had been shown by Archimedes, it lies between 3f and 3f £. The foundation of spherical trigonometry is laid in chapter xi. on a few simple and useful lemmas. The starting-point is the well- known theorem of plane geometry concerning the segments of the sides of a triangle made by a transversal : The segments of any side are in a ratio compounded of the ratios of the segments of the other two sides. This theorem, as well as that concerning the inscribed quadrilateral, was called after Ptolemy — naturally, indeed, since no reference to its source occurs in the Almagest. This error was corrected by Mersenne, who showed that it was known to Menelaus, an astronomer and geometer who lived in the reign of the emperor Trajan. The theorem now bears the name of Menelaus, though most probably it came down from Hipparchus ; Chasles, indeed, thinks that Hipparchus deduced the property of the spheri- cal triangle from that of the plane triangle, but throws the origin of the latter further back and attributes it to Euclid, suggesting that it was given in his Porisms.2 Carnot made this theorem the basis of his theory of transversals in his essay on that subject. It should be noticed that the theorem is not given in the Almagest in the general manner stated above ; Ptolemy considers two cases only of the theorem, and Theon, in his commentary on the Almagest, has added two more cases. The proofs, however, are general. Ptolemy then lays down two lemmas : If the chord of an arc of a circle be cut in any ratio and a diameter be drawn through the point of section, the diameter will cut the arc into two parts the chords of whose doubles are in the same ratio as the segments of the chord ; and a similar theorem in the case when the chord is cut externally in any ratio. By means of these two lemmas Ptolemy deduces in an ingenious manner — easy to follow, but difficult to discover — from the theorem of Menelaus for a plane triangle the corresponding theorem for a spherical triangle : If the sides of a spherical triangle be cut by an arc of a great circle, the chords of the doubles of the segments of any one side will be to each other in a ratio compounded of the ratios of the chords of the doubles of the segments of the other two sides. Here, too, the theorem is not stated generally ; two cases only are considered, corresponding to the two cases given in piano. Theon has added two cases. The proofs are general. By means of this theorem four of Napier's for- mulae for the solution of right-angled spherical triangles can be easily i Ideler has examined the degree of accuracy of the numbers in these tables and finds that they are correct to five places of decimals. a On the theorem of Menelaus and the rule of six quantities, see Chasles, Aperyu Historique sur I'Origine et Developpement des Methods en Giometrie, note vi. p. 291. PTOLEMY 89 established. Ptolemy does not give them, hut in each case when required applies the theorem of Menelaus for spherics directly. This greatly increases the length of his demonstrations, which the modern reader finds still more cumbrous, inasmuch as in each case it was necessary to express the relation in terms of chords — the equivalents of sines — only, cosines and tangents being of later invention. Such, then, was the trigonometry of the Greeks. Mathe- matics, indeed, has ever been, as it were, the handmaid of astronomy, and many important methods of the former arose from the needs of the latter. Moreover, by the found- ation of trigonometry, astronomy attained its final general constitution, in which calculations took the place of dia- grams, as these latter had been at an earlier period sub- stituted for mechanical apparatus in solving the ordinary problems.1 Further, we find in the application of trigon- ometry to astronomy frequent examples and even a sys^ tematic use of the method of approximations, — the basis, in fact, of all application of mathematics to practical questions. There was a disinclination on the part of the Greek geometer to be satisfied with a mere approximation, were it ever so close ; and the unscientific agrimensor shirked the labour involved in acquiring the knowledge which was indispensable for learning trigonometrical cal- culations. Thus the development of the calculus of approximations fell to the lot of the astronomer, who was both scientific and practical.2 We now proceed to notice briefly the contents of the Almagest. It is divided into thirteen books. The first book, which may be regarded as introductory to the whole work, opens with a short preface, in which Ptolemy, after some observations on the distinc- tion between theory and practice, gives Aristotle's division of the sciences and remarks on the certainty of mathematical knowledge, " inasmuch as the demonstrations in it proceed by the incontrovert- ible ways of arithmetic and geometry." He concludes his preface with the statement that he will make use of the discoveries of his predecessors, and relate briefly all that has been sufficiently explained by the ancients, but that he will treat with more care and develop- ment whatever has not been well understood or fully treated. Ptolemy unfortunately does not always bear this in mind, and it is sometimes difficult to distinguish what is due to him from that which he has borrowed from his predecessors. Ptolemy then, in the first chapter, presupposing some preliminary notions on the part of the reader, announces that he will treat in order — what is the relation of the earth to the heavens, what is the position of the oblique circle (the ecliptic), and the situation of the inhabited parts of the earth ; that he will point out the differences of climates ; that he will then pass on to the consideration of the motion of the sun and moon, without which one cannot have a just theory of the stars ; lastly, that he will consider the sphere of the fixed stars and then the theory of the five stars called " planets." All these things — i.e., the phenomena of the heavenly bodies — he says he will endeavour to explain in taking for principle that which is evident, real, and certain, in resting everywhere on the surest observations and applying geometrical methods. He then enters on a summary exposition of the general principles on which his Syntaxis is based, and adduces arguments to show that the heaven is of a spherical form and that it moves after the manner of a sphere, that the earth also is of a form which is sensibly spherical, that the earth is in the centre of the heavens, that it is but a point in comparison with the distances of the stars, and that it has not any motion of translation. With respect to the revolution of the earth round its axis, which he says some have held, Ptolemy, while admitting that this supposition renders the explanation of the phenomena of the heavens much more simple, yet regards it as altogether ridiculous. Lastly, he lays down that there are two principal and different motions in the heavens — one by which all the stars are carried from east to west uniformly about the poles of the equator ; the other, which is peculiar to some of the stars, is in a contrary direction to the former motion and takes place round different poles. These preliminary notions, which are all older than Ptolemy, form the subjects of the second and following chapters. He next proceeds to the construction of his table of chords, of which we have given an account, and which is indispensable to practical astronomy. The employment of this table presupposes the evaluation of the obliquity of the ecliptic, the knowledge of which is indeed the foundation of all astronomical science. Ptolemy in the next chapter indicates two means of determining this angle by observation, describes the instruments he employed for that purpose, and finds the same value which had already been found 1 Comte, Systeme de Politique Positive, iii. 324. 2 Cantor, Vorlesungen iiber Geschichte der Mathematik, p. 356. by Eratosthenes and used by Hipparchus. This "is followed by spherical geometry and trigonometry enough for the determination of the connexion between the sun's right ascension, declination, and longitude, and for the formation of a table of declinations to each degree of longitude. Delambre says he found both this and the table of chords very exact."3 In book ii. , after some remarks on the situation of the habitable parts of the earth, Ptolemy proceeds to make deductions from the principles established in the preceding book, which he does by means of the theorem of Menelaus. The length of the longest day being given, he shows how to determine the arcs of the horizon intercepted between the equator and the ecliptic — the amplitude of the eastern point of the ecliptic at the solstice — for different degrees of obliquity of the sphere ; hence he finds the height of the pole and reciprocally. From the same data he shows how to find at what places and times the sun becomes vertical and how to calculate the ratios of gnomons to their equinoctial and solstitial shadows at noon and conversely, pointing out, however, that the latter method is wanting in precision. All these matters he con- siders fully and works out in detail for the parallel of Rhodes. Theon gives us three reasons for the selection of that parallel by Ptolemy : the first is that the height of the pole at Rhodes is 36°, a whole number, whereas at Alexandria he believed it to be 30° 58'; the second is that Hipparchus had made at Rhodes many observa- tions ; the third is that the climate of Rhodes holds the mean place of the seven climates subsequently described. Delambre suspects a fourth reason, which he thinks is the true one, that Ptolemy had taken his examples from the works of Hipparchus, who observed at Rhodes and had made these calculations for the place where he lived. In chapter vi. Ptolemy gives an exposition of the most important properties of each parallel, commencing with the equator, which he considers as the southern limit of the habitable quarter of the earth. For each parallel or climate, which is determined by the length of the longest day, he gives the latitude, a principal place on the parallel, and the lengths of the shadows of the gnomon at the solstices and equinox. In the next chapter he enters into par- ticulars and inquires what are the arcs of the equator which cross the horizon at the same time as given arcs of the ecliptic, or, which comes to the same thing, the time which a given arc of the ecliptic takes to cross the horizon of a given place. He arrives at a formula for calculating ascensional differences and gives tables of ascensions arranged by 10° of longitude for the different climates from the equator to that where the longest day is seventeen hours. He then shows the use of these tables in the investigation of the length of the day for a given climate, of the manner of reducing temporal 4 to equinoctial hours and vice versa, and of the nonagesimal point and the point of orientation of the ecliptic. In the following chapters of this book he determines the angles formed by the inter- sections of the ecliptic — first with the meridian, then with the horizon, and lastly with the vertical circle — and concludes by giving tables of the angles and arcs formed by the intersection of these circles, for the seven climates, from the parallel of Meroe (thirteen hours) to that of the mouth of the Borysthenes (sixteen hours). These tables, he adds, should be completed by the situation of the chief towns in all countries according to their latitudes and longi- tudes ; this he promises to do in a separate treatise and has in fact done in his Geography. Book iii. treats of the motion of the sun and of the length of the year. In order to understand the difficulties of this question Ptolemy says one should read the books of the ancients, and especi- ally those of Hipparchus, whom he praises "as a lover of labour and a lover of truth" (avopi re ofiov Kal i\a\-r)0ei). He begins by telling us how Hipparchus was led to discover the pre- cession of the equinoxes ; he relates the observations which led Hipparchus to his second great discovery, that of the eccentricity of the solar orbit, and gives the hypothesis of the eccentric by which he explained the inequality of the sun's motion. Ptolemy concludes this book by giving a clear exposition of the circum- stances on which the equation of time depends. All this the reader will find in the article ASTRONOMY (vol. ii. p. 750). Ptolemy, moreover, applies Apollonius's hypothesis of the epicycle to explain the inequality of the sun's motion, and shows that it leads to the same results as the hypothesis of the eccentric. He prefers the latter hypothesis as more simple, requiring only one and not two motions, and as equally fit to clear up the difficulties. In the second chapter there are some general remarks to which attention should be directed. We find the principle laid down that for the explanation of phenomena one should adopt the simplest hypothesis that it is possible to establish, provided that it is not contradicted by the observations in any important respect.5 This fine principle, 3 De Morgan, in Smith's Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography, s.v. "Ptolemacus, Claudius." 4 KaipiKal, temporal or variable. These hours varied in length with the seasons ; they were used in ancient times and arose from the division of the natural day (from sunrise to sunset) into twelve parts. 6 Aim., ed. Halma, i. 159. XX. — 12 90 P T 0 L E M Y •which is of universal application, may, we think — regard being paid to its place in the Almagest — be justly attributed to Hipparchus. It is the first law of the " philosophia prima " of Comte.1 We find in the same page another principle, or rather practical injunction, that in investigations founded on observations where great delicacy is required we should select those made at considerable intervals of time in order that the errors arising from the imperfection which is inherent in all observations, even in those made with the greatest care, may be lessened by being distributed over a large number of years. In the same chapter we find also the principle laid down that the object of mathematicians ought to be to represent all the celestial phenomena by uniform and circular motions. This prin- ciple is stated by Ptolemy in the manner which is unfortunately too common with him, — that is to say, he does not give the least indication whence he derived it. We know; however, from Sim- plicius, on the authority of Sosigenes,2 that Plato is said to have proposed the following problem to astronomers : " What regular and determined motions being assumed would fully account for the phenomena of the motions of the planetary bodies ?" We know, too, from the same source that Eudemus says in the second book of his History of Astronomy that " Eudoxus of Cnidus was the first of the Greeks to take in hand hypotheses of this kind,"3 that ho was in fact the first Greek astronomer who proposed a geometrical hypothesis for explaining the periodic motions of the planets — the famous system of concentric spheres. It thus appears that the principle laid down here by Ptolemy can be traced to Eudoxus and Plato ; and it is probable that they derived it from the same source, namely, Archytas and the Pythagoreans. We have indeed the direct testimony of Geminus of Rhodes that the Pythagoreans endeavoured to explain the phenomena of the heavens by uniform and circular motions.4 Books iv., v. are devoted to the motions of the moon, which are very complicated ; the moon in fact, though the nearest to us of all the heavenly bodies, has always been the one which has given the greatest trouble to astronomers.8 Book iv., in which Ptolemy follows Hipparchus, treats of the first and principal inequality of the moon, which quite corresponds to the inequality of the sun treated of in the third book. As to the observations which should be employed for the investigation of the motion of the moon, Ptolemy tells us that lunar eclipses should be preferred, inasmuch as they give the moon's place without any error on the score of parallax. The first thing to be determined is the time of the moon's revolution ; Hipparchus, by comparing the observations of the Chaldaeans with his own, discovered that the shortest period in which the lunar eclipses return in the same order was 126,007 days and 1 hour. In this period he finds 4267 lunations, 4573 restitutions of anomaly, and 4612 tropical revolutions of the moon less 7^° q.p. ; this quantity (7£°) is also wanting to complete the 345 revolutions which the sun makes in the same time with respect to the fixed stars. He concluded from this that the lunar month contains 29 days and 31' 50" 8'" 20"" of a day, very nearly, or 29 days 12 hours 44' 3" 20'". These results are of the highest import- ance. (See ASTRONOMY.) In order to explain this inequality, or the equation of the centre, Ptolemy makes use of the hypothesis of an epicycle, which he prefers to that of the eccentric. The fifth book commences with the descriptipn of the astrolabe of Hip- parchus, which Ptolemy made use of in following up the observa- tions of that astronomer, and by means of which he made his most important discovery, that of the second inequality in the moon's motion, now known by the name of the "evection." In order to explain this inequality he supposed the moon to move on an epicycle, which was carried by an eccentric whose centre turned about the earth in a direction contrary to that of the motion of the epicycle. This is the first instance in which we find the two hypotheses of eccentric and epicycle combined. The fifth book treats also of the parallaxes of the sun and moon, and gives a description of an instrument — called later by Theon the "parallactic rods " — devised by Ptolemy for observing meridian altitudes with greater accuracy. The subject of parallaxes is continued in the sixth book of the Almagest, and the method of calculating eclipses is there given. The author says nothing in it which was not known before his time. Books vii. , viii. treat of the fixed stars. Ptolemy verified the fixity of their relative positions and confirmed the observations of Hipparchus with regard to their motion in longitude, or the pre- cession of the equinoxes. (See ASTRONOMY. ) The seventh book concludes with the catalogue of the stars of the northern hemi- sphere, in which are entered their longitudes, latitudes, and magni- 1 Systkme de Politique Positive, iv. 173. 9 This Sosigenes, as Th. H. Martin has shown, was not the astronomer of that name who was a contemporary of Julius Caesar, but a Peripatetic philosopher who lived at the end of the 2d century A.D. I Brandis, Schol. in Ariftot. edidit Acad. Beg. Bomtssica (Berlin, 1836), p. 498. * Eiffayuyrj efc rd aii>6/j.fva, c. i. in Halma's edition of the works of Ptolemy, vol. iii. (" Introduction aux Phenomenes Celestes, traduite du Grec de Geminus," p. 9), Paris, 1819. * This has been noticed by Pliny, who says, " Multiform! hsec (luna) ambage torsit ingenia contemplantium, et proximum ignorari maxima sidus indignau- tium " (If. a., ii. 9). tudes, arranged according to their constellations ; and the eighth book commences with a similar catalogue of the stars in the con- stellations of the southern hemisphere. This catalogue has been the subject of keen controversy amongst modern astronomers. Some, as Flamsteed and Lalande, maintain that it was the same catalogue which Hipparchus had drawn up 265 years before Ptolemy, whereas others, of whom Laplace is one, think that it is the work of Ptolemy himself. The probability is that in the main the catalogue is really that of Hipparchus altered to suit Ptolemy's own time, but that in making the changes which were necessary a wrong precession was assumed. This is Delambre's opinion ; he says, "Whoever may have been the true author, the catalogue is unique, and does not suit the age when Ptolemy lived ; by sub- tracting 2° 40' from all the longitudes it would suit the age of Hipparchus; this is all that is certain."6 It has been remarked that Ptolemy, living at Alexandria, at which city the altitude of the pole is 5° less than at Rhodes, where Hipparchus observed, could have seen stars which are not visible at Rhodes ; none of these stars, however, are in Ptolemy's catalogue. The eighth book contains, moreover, a description of the milky way and the manner of constructing a celestial globe ; it also treats of the configura- tion of the stars, first with regard to the sun, moon, and planets, and then with regard to the horizon, and likewise of the different aspects of the stars and of their rising, culmination, and setting simultaneously with the sun. The remainder of the work is devoted to the planets. The ninth book commences with what concerns them all in general. The planets are much nearer to the earth than the fixed stars and more distant than the moon. Saturn is the most distant of all, then Jupiter and then Mars. These three planets are at a greater distance from the earth than the sun.7 So far all astronomers are agreed. This is not the case, he says, with respect to the two remaining planets, Mercury and Venus, which the old astronomers placed between the sun and earth, whereas more recent writers8 have placed them beyond the sun, because they were never seen on the sun.9 He shows that this reasoning is not sound, for they might be nearer to us than the sun and not in the same plane, and consequently never seen on the sun. He decides in favour of the former opinion, which was indeed that of most mathematicians. The ground of the arrangement of the planets in order of distance was the relative length of their periodic times ; the greater the circle, the greater, it was thought, would be the time required for its description. Hence we see the origin of the difficulty and the difference of opinion as to the arrangement of the sun, Mercury, and Venus, since the times in which, as seen from the earth, they appear to complete the circuit of the zodiac are nearly the same — a year.10 Delambre thinks it strange that Ptolemy did not see that these contrary opinions could be reconciled by supposing that the two planets moved in epicycles about the sun ; this would be stranger still, he adds, if it is true tlvat this idea, which is older than Ptolemy, since it is referred to by Cicero,11 had been that of tho Egyptians.12 It may be added, as strangest of all, that this doctrine was held by Theon of Smyrna,13 who was a contemporary of Ptolemy or somewhat senior to him. From this system to that of Tycho Brahe there is, as Delambre observes, only a single step. We have seen that the problem which presented itself to the astronomers of the Alexandrian epoch was the following : it was required to find such a system of equable circular motions as would represent the inequalities in the apparent motions of the sun, tho moon, and the planets. Ptolemy now takes up this question for the planets ; he says that ' ' this perfection is of the essence of celestial things, which admit of neither disorder nor inequality," that this planetary theory is one of extreme difficulty, and that no one had yet completely succeeded in it. He adds that it was owing to these difficulties that Hipparchus — who loved truth above all things, and who, moreover, had not received from his prede- cessors observations either so numerous or so precise as those that he has left — had succeeded, as far as possible, in representing tho motions of the sun and moon by circles, but had not even com- menced the theory of the five planets. He was content, Ptolemy 6 Delambre, Histoire de T Astrnnomie Ancienne, ii. 264. 7 This is true of their mean distances ; but we know that Mars at opposition is nearer to us than the sun. 8 Eratosthenes, for example, as we learn from Theon of Smyrna. 9 Transits of Mercury and Veuus'over the sun's disk, therefore, had not been observed. 1(1 This was known to Eudoxus. Sir George Cornewall Lewis (An Historical Surrey of the Astronomy of the Ancients, p. 155), confusing the geocentric revolu- tions assigned by Eudoxus to these two planets with the heliocentric revolu- tions in the Copernican system, which are of course quite different, says that " the error with respect to Mercury and Venus is considerable "; this, however, is an error not of Eudoxus but of Cornewall Lewis, as Scliiaparelli has remarked. 11 " Hunc [solem] ut comites consequuntur Veneris alter, alter Mercin ii cursus " (Somnium Scipionis, De Rep., vi. 17). This hypothesis is alluded to by Pliny, N. H., ii. 17, and is more explicitly stated by Vitruvius, Arch., ix. 4. 12 Macrobius, CommfnUirius ex Cicerone in Somnium Scipionis, i. 19. !3 Theon (Smyrnseus Platonicus), Liber de Astronomia, ed.Th. H. Martin (Paris, 1849), pp. 174, 294, 296. Martin thinks that Theon, the mathematician, four ot whose observations are used by Ptolemy (Aim., ii. 176, 193, 104, 195, 196, ed. Halma), is not the same as Theon of Smyrna, on the ground chiefly that the latter was not UH observer. PTOLEMY 91 continues, to arrange the observations which had been made on them in a methodic order and to show thence that the phenomena did not agree with the hypotheses of mathematicians at that time. He showed that in fact each planet had two inequalities, which are different for each, that the retrogradations are also different, whilst other astronomers admitted only a single inequality and the same retrogradation ; he showed further that their motions cannot be explained by eccentrics nor by epicycles carried along concentrics, but that it was necessary to combine both hypotheses. After these preliminary notions he gives from Hipparchus the periodic motions of the five planets, together with the shortest times of restitutions, in which, moreover, he has made some slight corrections. He then gives tables of the mean motions in longitude and of anomaly of each of the five planets,1 and shows how the motions in longitude of the planets can be represented in a general manner by means of the hypothesis of the eccentric combined with that of the epicycle. He next applies his theory to each planet and concludes the ninth book by the explanation of the various phenomena of the planet Mercury. In the tenth and eleventh books he treats, in like manner, of the various phenomena of the planets Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn. Book xii. treats of the stationary and retrograde appearances of each of the planets and of the greatest elongations of Mercury and Venus. The author tells us that some mathematicians, and amongst them Apollonius of Perga, employed the hypothesis of the epicycle to explain the stations and retrogradations of the planets. Ptolemy goes into this theory, but does not change in the least the theorems of Apollonius ; he only promises simpler and clearer demonstra- tions of them. Delambre remarks that those of Apollonius must have been very obscure, since, in order to make the demonstrations in the Almagest intelligible, he (Delambre) was obliged to recast them. This statement of Ptolemy is important, as it shows that the mathematical theory of the planetary motions was in a toler- ably forward state long before his time. Finally, book xiii. treats of the motions of the planets in latitude, also of the inclinations of their orbits and of the magnitude of these inclinations. Those who wish to go into details and learn the mathematical explanation of this celebrated system of "eccentrics" and "epicycles" are referred to the Almagest itself, which can be most conveniently studied in Halma's edition,2 to Delambre's Histoiredel'Astronomie Ancienne, the second volume of which is for the most part devoted to the Almagest,^ or to Narrien's History of Astronomy,* in which the subject is treated with great clearness. Ptolemy concludes his great work by saying that he has included in it every- thing of practical utility which in his judgment should find a place in a treatise on astronomy at the time it was written, with relation as well to dis- coveries as to methods. His work was justly called by him M.a0rj/naTiK7] 2 (Wafts, for it was in fact the mathematical form of the work which caused it to be preferred to all others which treated of the same science, but not by "the sure methods of geometry and calculation." Accordingly, it soon spread from Alexandria to all places where astronomy was cultivated ; numerous copies were made of it, and it became the object of serious study on the part of both teachers and pupils. Amongst its numerous commentators may be mentioned Pappus and Theon of Alexandria in the 4th century and Proclus in the 5th. It was translated into Latin by Boetius, but this translation has not come down to us. The Syntaxis was translated into Arabic at Baghdad by order of the enlightened caliph Al-Mamun, who was himself an astronomer, about 827 A.D., and the Arabic translation was revised in the following century by Thabit ibn Korra. The emperor Frederick II. caused the Almagest to be trans- lated from the Arabic into Latin at Naples about 1230. In the 15th century it was translated from a Greek manuscript in the Vatican by George of Trebizond. In the same century an epitome of the Almagest was commenced by Purbach (died 1461) and completed by his pupil and successor in the professorship of astronomy in the university of Vienna, Regiomontanus. The earliest edition of this epitome is that of Venice, 1496, and this was the first appearance of the Almagest in print. The first complete edition of the Almagest is that of P. Liechtenstein (Venice, 1515), — a Latin version from the Arabic. The Latin translation of George of Trebizond was first printed in 1528, at Venice. The Greek text, which was not known in Europe until the 15th century, was first published in the 16th by Simon Grynseus, who was also the first editor of the Greek text of Euclid, at Basel, 1538. This edition was from a manuscript in the library of Nuremberg— where it is no longer to be found — which had been presented by Regiomontanus, to whom it was given by Cardinal Bessarion. The last edition of the Almagest is that of Halma, Greek with French translation, in two vols., Paris, 1813-16. On the manuscripts of the Almagest and its biblio- graphical history, see Fabricius, Bibliotheca Graeca, ed. Harles, vol. v. p. 280, and Halma's preface. An excellent summary of the bibliographical history is given by De Morgan in his article on Ptolemy already quoted. Other works of Ptolemy, which we now proceed to notice very briefly, are as follows. (1) Qdfffis a.ir\a.vv oupaviuv KVK\UV /civTjcreis, On the Planetary Hypothesis. This is a summary of a portion of the Almagest, and con- tains a brief statement of the principal hypotheses for the explanation of the motions of the heavenly bodies. It was first published (Gr., Lat.)by Bainl.ridge, the Savilian professor of astronomy at Oxford, with the Sphere of Proclus and the Kavwv J3affi\tiwv, London, 1620, and afterwards by Halma, vol. iv., Paris, 1820. (3) K.avwv /3ct(7i\«uJ»' , A Table of Reigns. This is a chronological table of Assyrian, Persian, Greek, and Roman sovereigns, with the length of their reigns, from Nabonasar to Antoninus Pius. This table (comp. G. Syncellus, Chronogr., ed. Dind., i. 388 sq.) has been printed by Scaliger, Calvisius, Petavius, Bainbridge (as above noted), and by Halma, vol. iii., Paris, 1819. (4) 'Apfj.ovi- K&V |3i/3\ta y. This Treatise on Music was published in Greek and Latin by Wallis at Oxford, 1682. It was afterwards reprinted with Porphyry's com- mentary in the third volume of Wallis's works, Oxford, 1699. (5) Ter/xl/3i^3Xos criVrafts, Tetrabiblon or Quadripartitum. This work is astrological, as is also the small collection of aphorisms, called Ka/>7r<5s or Centiloquium, by which it is followed. It is doubtful whether these works are genuine, but the doubt merely arises from the feeling that they are unworthy of Ptolemy. They were both published in Greek and Latin by Camerarius, Nuremberg, 1535, and by Melanchthon, Basel, 1553. (6) De Analemmate. The original of this work of Ptolemy is lost. It was translated from the Arabic and published by Com- mandine, Rome, 1562. The Analemma is the description of the sphere on a plane. We find in it the sections of the different circles, as the diurnal parallels, and everything which can facilitate the intelligence ofgnomonics. This de- scription is made by perpendiculars let fall on the plane ; whence it has been called by the moderns "orthographic projection." (7) Planisphierium, The Planisphere. The Greek text of this work also is lost, and we have only a Latin translation of it from the Arabic. The "planisphere" is a projection of the sphere on the equator, the eye being at the pole,— in fact what is now called " stereographic " projection. The best edition of this work is that of Commandine, Venice, 1558. (8) Optics. This work is known to us only by imperfect manuscripts in Paris and Oxford, which are Latin translations from the Arabic ; some extracts from them have been recently published. The Optics consists of five books, of which the fifth presents most interest : it treats of the refraction of luminous rays in their passage through media of different densities, and also of astronomical refractions, on which subject the theory is more complete than that of any astronomer before the time of Cassini. De Morgan doubts whether this work is genuine on account of the absence of allusion to the Almagest or to the subject of refraction in the Almagest itself; but his chief reason for doubting its authenticity is that the author of the Optics was a poor geometer. (G. J. A.) Geography. Ptolemy is hardly less celebrated as a geographer than as an astronomer, and his great work on geography exer- cised as great an influence on the progress of that science as did his Almagest on that of astronomy. It became indeed the paramount authority on all geographical ques- tions for a period of many centuries, and was only gradu- ally superseded by the progress of maritime discovery in the 15th and 16th centuries. This exceptional position was due in a great measure to its scientific form, which rendered it very convenient and easy of reference ; but, apart from this consideration, it was really the first attempt ever made to place the study of geography on a truly scientific basis. The great astronomer Hipparchus had indeed pointed out, three centuries before the time of Ptolemy, that the only way to construct a really trust- worthy map of the Inhabited World would be by observa- tions of the latitude and longitude of all the principal points on its surface, and laying down a map in accordance with the positions thus determined. But the materials for such a course of proceeding were almost wholly wanting, and, though Hipparchus made some approach to a correct division of the known world into zones of latitude, or " climata," as he termed them, trustworthy observations even of this character were in his time very few in number, while the means of determining longitudes could hardly be said to exist. Hence probably it arose that no attempt was made by succeeding geographers to follow up the im- portant suggestion of Hipparchus. Marinus of Tyre, who lived shortly before the time of Ptolemy, and whose work is known to us only through that writer, appears to have been the first to resume the problem thus proposed, and lay down the map of the known world in accordance with the precepts of Hipparchus. His materials for the execu- tion of such a design were indeed miserably inadequate, and he was forced to content himself for the most part with determinations derived not from astronomical obser- vations but from the calculation of distances from itineraries and other rough methods, such as still continue to be em- ployed even by modern geographers where more accurate 92 PTOLEMY means of determination are not available. The greater part of the treatise of Marinus was occupied with the discussion of these authorities, and it is impossible for us, in the absence of the original work, to determine how far he had succeeded in giving a scientific form to the results of his labours ; but we are told by Ptolemy himself that he considered them, on the whole, so satisfactory that he had made the work of his predecessor the basis of his own in regard to all the countries bordering on the Mediterranean, a term which would comprise to the ancient geographer almost all those regions of which he had really any definite know- ledge. With respect to the more remote regions of the world, Ptolemy availed himself of the information imparted by Marinus, but not without reserve, and has himself ex- plained to us the reasons that induced him in some instances to depart from the conclusions of his predecessor. It is very unjust to term Ptolemy a plagiarist from Marinus, as has been done by some modern authors, as he himself acknowledges in the fullest manner his obligations to that writer, from whom he derived the whole mass of his materials, which he undertook to arrange and present to his readers in a scientific form. It is this form and ar- rangement that constitute the great merit of Ptolemy's work and that have stamped it with a character wholly distinct from all previous treatises on geography. But at the same time it possesses much interest, as showing the greatly increased knowledge of the more remote por- tions of Asia and Africa which had been acquired by geo- graphers since the time of Strabo and Pliny. It will be convenient to consider separately the two different branches of the subject, — (1) the mathematical portion, which constitutes his geographical system, properly so termed ; and (2) his contributions to the progress of positive knowledge with respect to the Inhabited World. See Plate 1. Mathematical Geography. — As a great astronomer, Ptolemy VII., vol. was of course infinitely better qualified to comprehend and explain xv. the mathematical conditions of the earth and its relations to the celestial bodies that surround it than any preceding writers on the special subject of geography. But his general views, except oil a few points, did not differ from those of his most eminent precursors Eratosthenes and Strabo. In common with them, he assumed that the earth was a globe, the surface of which was divided by certain great circles — the equator and the tropics — parallel to one another, and dividing the earth into five great zones, the relations of which with astronomical phenomena were of course clear to his mind as a matter of theory, though in regard to the regions bordering on the equator, as well as to those ad- joining the polar circle, he could have had no confirmation of his conclusions from actual observation. He adopted also from Hip- parchus the division of the equator and other great circles into 360 parts or " degrees " (as they were subsequently called, though the word does not occur in this sense in Ptolemy), and supposed other circles to be drawn through these, from the equator to the pole, to which he gave the name of "meridians." He thus conceived the whole surface of the earth (as is done by modern geographers) to be covered with a complete network of "parallels of latitude" and "meridians of longitude," terms which he himself was the first ex- tant writer to employ in this technical sense. Within the network thus constructed it was the task of the scientific geographer to place the outline of the world, so far as it was then known by experience and observation. Unfortunately at the very outset of his attempt to realize this conception he fell into an error which had the effect of vitiating all his subsequent conclusions. Eratosthenes was the first writer who had attempted in a scientific manner to determine the cir- cumference of the earth, and the result at which he arrived, that it amounted to 250,000 stadia or 25,000 geographical miles, was generally adopted by subsequent geographers, including Strabo. Posidonius, however, who wrote about a century after Eratosthenes, had made an independent calculation, by which he reduced the circumference of the globe to 180,000 stadia, or less than three- fourths of the result obtained by Eratosthenes, and this computa- tion, on what grounds we know not, was unfortunately adopted by Marinus Tyrius, and from him by Ptolemy. The consequence of this error was of course to make every degree of latitude or longi- tude (measured at the equator) equal to only 500 stadia (50 geo- graphical miles), instead of its true equivalent of 600 stadia. Its effects would indeed have been in some measure neutralized had there existed a sufficient number of points of which the position was determined by actual observation ; but we learn from Ptolemy himself that this was not the case, and that such observations for latitude were very few in number, while the means of determining longitudes were almost wholly wanting. l Hence the positions laid down by him were really, with very few exceptions, the result of computations of distances from itineraries and the statements of travellers, estimates which were liable to much greater error in ancient times than at the present day, from the want of any accurate mode of observing bearings, or portable instruments for the measure- ment of time, while they had no means at all of determining dis- tances at sea, except by the rough estimate of the time employed in sailing from point to point. The use of the log, simple as it appears to us, was unknown to the ancients. But, great as would naturally be the errors resulting from such imperfect means of cal- culation, they were in most cases increased by the permanent error arising from the erroneous system of graduation adopted by Ptolemy in laying them down upon his map. Thus, if he had arrived at the conclusion from itineraries that two places were 5000 stadia from one another, he would place them at a distance of 10° apart, and thus in fact separate them by an interval of 6000 stadia. Another source of permanent error (though one of much less im- portance) which affected all his longitudes arose from the errone- ous assumption of his prime meridian. In this respect also he followed Marinus, who, having arrived at the conclusion that the Fortunate Islands (the Canaries) were situated farther west than any part of the continent of Europe, had taken the meridian through the outermost of this group as his prime meridian, from whence he calculated all his longitudes eastwards to the Indian Ocean. But, as both Marinus and Ptolemy were very imperfectly acquainted with the position and arrangements of the islands in question, the line thus assumed was in reality a purely imaginary one, being drawn through the supposed position of the outer island, which they placed 2^° west of the Sacred Promontory (Cape St Vincent), which was regarded by Marinus and Ptolemy, as it had been by all previous geographers, as the westernmost point of the continent of Europe, — while the real difference between the two is not less than 9° 20'. Hence all Ptolemy's longitudes, reckoned east- wards from this assumed line, were in fact about 7° less than they would have been if really measured from the meridian of Ferro, which continued so long in use among geographers in modern, times. The error iu this instance was the more unfortunate as the longitude could not of course be really measured, or even calculated, from this imaginary line, but was in reality calculated in both directions from Alexandria, westwards as well as eastwards (as Ptolemy himself has done in his eighth book) and afterwards re- versed, so as to suit the supposed method of computation. It must be observed also that the equator was in like manner placed by Ptolemy at a considerable distance from its true geo- graphical position. The place of the equinoctial line on the sur- face of the globe was of course well known to him as a matter of theory, but as no observations could have been made in those remote regions he could only calculate its place from that of the tropic, which he supposed to pass through Syene. And as he here, as elsewhere, reckoned a degree of latitude as equivalent to 500 stadia, he inevitably made the interval between the tropic and the equator too small by one-sixth ; and the place of the former on the surface of the earth being fixed by observation he necessarily carried up the supposed place of the equator too high by more than 230 geographical miles. But as he had practically no geographical acquaintance with the equinoctial regions of the earth this error was of little importance. With Marinus and Ptolemy, as with all preceding Greek geo- graphers, the most important line on the surface of the globe for all practical purposes was the parallel of 36° of latitude, which passes through the Straits of Gibraltar at one end of the Mediter- ranean, and through the Island of Rhodes and the Gulf of Issus at the other. It was thus regarded by Dicsearchus and almost all his successors as dividing the regions around the inland sea into two portions, and as being continued in theory along the chain of Mount Taurus till it joined the great mountain range north of India ; and from thence to the Eastern Ocean it was regarded as constituting the dividing line of the Inhabited World, along which its length must be measured. But it sufficiently shows how inaccurate were the observations and how imperfect the materials at his command, even in regard to the best known portions of the earth, that Ptolemy, following Marinus, describes this parallel as passing through Caralis in Sardinia and Lilybseum in Sicily, the one being really in 39° 12' lat., the other in 37° 50'. It is still more strange that he places so important and well known a city as Carthage 1° 20' south of the dividing parallel, while it really lies nearly 1° to the north of it. 1 Hipparchus had indeed pointed out long before the mode of de- termining longitudes by observations of eclipses, but the instance to which he referred of the celebrated eclipse before the battle of Arbela, which was seen also at Carthage, was a mere matter of popular obser- vation, of no scientific value. Yet Ptolemy seems to have known of no other. - PTOLEMY 93 The great problem that had attracted the attention and exercised the ingenuity of all geographers from the time of Dicsearchus to that of Ptolemy was to determine the length and breadth of the Inhabited World, which they justly regarded as the chief subject of the geographer's consideration. This question had been very fully discussed by Marinus, who had arrived at conclusions widely dif- ferent from those of his predecessors. Towards the north indeed there was no great difference of opinion, the latitude of Thule being generally recognized as that of the highest northern land, and this was placed both by Marinus and Ptolemy in 63° lat, not very far beyond the true position of the Shetland Islands, which had come in their time to be generally identified with the mysterious Thule of Pytheas. The western extremity, as already mentioned, had been in like manner determined by the prime meridian drawn through the supposed position of the Fortunate Islands. But towards the south and east Marinus gave an enormous extension to the con- tinents of Africa and Asia, beyond what had been known to or suspected by the earlier geographers, and, though Ptolemy greatly reduced his calculations, he still retained a very exaggerated esti- mate of their results. The additions thus made to the estimated dimensions of the known world were indeed in both directions based upon a real exten- sion of knowledge, derived from recent information ; but unfortu- nately the original statements were so perverted by misinterpretation in applying them to the construction of a map as to give results differing widely from the truth. The southern limit of the world as known to Eratosthenes, and even to Strabo (who had in this respect no further knowledge than his predecessor more than two centuries before), had been fixed by them at the parallel which passed through the eastern extremity of Africa (Cape Guardafui), or the Land of Cinnamon as they termed it, and that of the Sembritse (corresponding to Sennaar) in the interior of the same continent. This parallel, which would correspond nearly to that of 10° of true latitude, they supposed to be situated at a distance of 3400 stadia (340 geographical miles) from that of Meroe (the position of which was accurately known), and 13,400 to the south of Alexandria ; while they conceived it as passing, when prolonged to the eastward, through the island of Taprobane (Ceylon), which was universally recognized as the southernmost land of Asia. Both these geo- graphers were wholly ignorant of the vast extension of Africa to the south of this line and even of the equator, and conceived it as trending away to the west from the Land of Cinnamon and then to the north-west to the Straits of Gibraltar. Marinus had, how- ever, learned from itineraries both by land and sea the fact of this great extension, of which he had indeed conceived so exaggerated an idea that even after Ptolemy had reduced it by more than a half it was still materially in excess of the truth. The eastern coast of Africa was indeed tolerably well known, being frequented by Greek and Roman traders, as far as a place called Rhapta, opposite to Zanzibar, and this is placed by Ptolemy not far from its true posi- tion in 7° S. lat. But he added to this a bay of great extent as far as a promontory called Prasum (perhaps Cape Delgado), which he placed in 15^° S. lat. At the same time he assumed the position in about the same parallel of a region called Agisymba, which was supposed to have been discovered by a Roman general, whose itinerary was employed by Marinus. Taking, therefore, this parallel as the limit of knowledge to the south, while he retained that of Thule to the north, he assigned to the inhabited world a breadth of nearly 80°, instead of less than 60°, which it had occupied on the maps of Eratosthenes and Strabo. It had been a fixed belief with all the Greek geographers from the earliest attempts at scientific geography not only that the length of the Inhabited World greatly exceeded its breadth, but that it was more than twice as great, — a wholly unfounded assump- tion, but to which their successors seem to have felt themselves bound to conform. Thus Marinus, while giving an undue extension to Africa towards the south, fell into a similar error, but to a far greater degree, in regard to the extension of Asia towards the east. Here also he really possessed a great advance in knowledge over all his predecessors, the increased trade with China for silk having led to an acquaintance, though of course of a very vague and general kind, with the vast regions in Central Asia that lay to the east of the Pamir range, which had formed the limit of the Asiatic nations previously known to the Greeks. But Marinus had learned that traders proceeding eastward from the Stone Tower — a station at the foot of this range — to Sera, the capital city of the Seres, occupied seven months on the journey, and from thence he arrived at the enormous result that the distance between the two points was not less than 36,200 stadia, or 3620 geographical miles. Ptolemy, while he justly points out the absurdity of this conclusion and the errone- ous mode of computation on which it was founded, had no means of correcting it by any real authority, and hence reduced it summarily by one half. The effect of this was to place Sera, the easternmost point on his map of Asia, at a distance of 45^° from the Stone Tower, which again he fixed, on the authority of itineraries cited by Marinus, at 24,000 stadia or 60° of longitude from the Euphrates, reckoning in both cases a degree of longitude as equivalent to 400 stadia, in accordance with his uniform system of allowing 500 stadia to 1° of latitude. Both distances were greatly in excess of the truth, independently of the error arising from this mistaken system of graduation. The distances west of the Euphrates were of course comparatively well known, nor did Ptolemy's calculation of the length of the Mediterranean differ very materially from those of previous Greek geographers, though still greatly exceeding the truth, after allowing for the permanent error of graduation. The effect of this last cause, it must be remembered, would unfortunately be cumulative, in consequence of the longitudes being computed from a fixed point in the west, instead of being reckoned east and west from Alexandria, which was undoubtedly the mode in which they were really calculated. The result of these combined causes of error was to lead him to assign no less than 180°, or 12 hours, of longitude to the interval between the meridian of the Fortunate Islands and that of Sera, which really amounts to about 130°. But in thus estimating the length and breadth of the known world Ptolemy attached a very different sense to these terms from that which they had generally borne with preceding writers. All former Greek geographers, with the single exception of Hipparchus, had agreed in supposing the Inhabited World to be surrounded on all sides by sea, and to form in fact a vast island in the midst of a circumfluous ocean. This notion, which was probably derived originally from the Homeric fiction of an ocean stream, and was certainly not based upon direct observation, was nevertheless of course in accordance with the truth, great as was the misconception it involved of the extent and magnitude of the continents included within this assumed boundary. Hence it was unfortunate that Ptolemy should in this respect have gone back to the views of Hipparchus, and have assumed that the land extended indefinitely to the north in the case of Europe and Scythia, to the east in that of Asia, and to the south in that of Africa. His boundary-line was in each of these cases an arbitrary limit, beyond which lay the Unknown Land, as he calls it. But in the last case he was not content with giving to Africa an indefinite extension to the south : he assumed the existence of a vast prolongation of the land to the east from its southernmost known point, so as to form a connexion with the south-eastern extremity of Asia, of the extent and position of which he had a wholly erroneous idea. In this last case Marinus had derived from the voyages of recent navigators in the Indian Seas a knowledge of the fact that there lay in that direction extensive lands which had been totally un- known to previous geographers, and Ptolemy had acquired still more extensive information in this quarter. But unfortunately he had formed a totally false conception of the bearings of the coasts thus made known, and consequently of the position of the lands to which they belonged, and, instead of carrying the line of coast northwards from the Golden Chersonese (the Malay Peninsula) to China or the land of the Sinse, he brought it down again towards the south after forming a great bay, so that he placed Cattigara — the principal emporium in this part of Asia, and the farthest point known to him — on a supposed line of coast, of unknown extent, but with a direction from north to south. The hypothesis that this land was continuous with the most southern part of Africa, so that the two enclosed one vast gulf, though a mere assumption, is stated by him as definitely as if it was based upon positive in- formation ; and it was long received by mediaeval geographers as an unquestioned fact. This circumstance undoubtedly contributed to perpetuate the error of supposing that Africa could not be cir- cumnavigated, in opposition to the more correct views of Strabo and other earlier geographers. On the other hand, there can be no doubt that the undue extension of Asia towards the east, so as to diminish by 50° of longitude the interval between that continent and the western coasts of Europe, had a material influence in foster- ing the belief of Columbus and others that it was possible to reach the Land of Spices (as the East Indian islands were then called) by direct navigation towards the west. It is not surprising that Ptolemy should have fallen into con- siderable errors respecting the more distant quarters of the world ; but even in regard to the Mediterranean and its dependencies, as well as the regions that surrounded them, with which he was in a certain sense well acquainted, the imperfection of his geographical knowledge is strikingly apparent. Here he had indeed some well-established data for his guidance, as far as latitudes were con- cerned. That of Massilia had been determined many years before by Pytheas within a few miles of its true position, and the latitude of Rome, as might be expected, was known with approximate accuracy. Those of Alexandria and Rhodes also were well known, having been the place of observation of distinguished astronomers, and the fortunate accident that the Island of Rhodes lay on the same parallel of latitude with the Straits of Gibraltar at the other end of the sea enabled him to connect the two by drawing the parallel direct from the one to the other. The importance attached to this line (36° N. lat.) by all preceding geographers has been already mentioned. Unfortunately Ptolemy, like his predecessors, supposed its course to lie almost uniformly through the open sea, wholly ignoring the great projection of the African coast towards 94 PTOLEMY the north from Carthage to the neighbourhood of the straits. The erroneous position assigned to the former city has been already adverted to, and, being supposed to rest upon astronomical observa- tion, doubtless determined that of all the north coast of Africa. The result was that he assigned to the width of the Mediterranean from Massilia to the opposite point of the African coast an extent of more than 11° of latitude, while it does not really exceed 6^°. At the same time he was still more at a loss in respect of longi- tudes, for which he had absolutely no trustworthy observations to guide him ; but he nevertheless managed to arrive at a result con- siderably nearer the truth than had been attained by previous geo- graphers, all of whom had greatly exaggerated the length of the Inland Sea. Their calculations, like those of Marinus and Ptolemy, could only be founded on the imperfect estimates of mariners ; but unfortunately Ptolemy, in translating the conclusions thus arrived at into a scientific form, vitiated all his results by his erroneous system of graduation, and, while the calculation of Marlnus gave a distance of 24, 800 stadia as the length of the Mediterranean from the straits to the Gulf of Issus, this was converted by Ptolemy in preparing his tables to an interval of 62°, or just about 20° beyond the truth. Even after correcting the error due to his erroneous computation of 500 stadia to a degree, there remains an excess of nearly 500 geographical miles, which was doubtless owing to the exaggerated estimates of distances almost always made by navi- gators who had no real means of measuring them. Another unfortunate error which disfigured the eastern portion of his map of the Mediterranean was the position assigned to By- zantium, which Ptolemy (misled in this instance by the authority of Hipparchus) placed in the same latitude with Massilia (43° 5'), thus carrying it up more than 2° above its true position. This had the inevitable effect of transferring the whole of the Euxine Sea — with the general form and dimensions of which he was fairly well acquainted — too far to the north by the same amount ; but in addi- tion to this he enormously exaggerated the extent of the Palus Mseotis (the Sea of Azof!), which he at the same time represented as having its direction from south to north, so that by the com- bined effect of these two errors he carried up its northern extremity (with the mouth of the Tanais and the city of that name) as high as 54° 30', or on the true parallel of the south shore of the Baltic. Yet, while he fell into this strange misconception with regard to the great river which was universally considered by the ancients as the boundary between Europe and Asia, he was the first writer of antiquity who showed a clear conception of the true relations be- tween the Tanais and the Rha or Volga, which he correctly described as flowing into the Caspian Sea. With respect to this last also he was the first geographer after the time of Alexander to return to the correct view (already found in Herodotus) that it was an inland sea, without any communication with the Northern Ocean. With regard to the north of Europe his views were still very vague and imperfect. He had indeed considerably more acquaint- ance with the British Islands than any previous geographer, and even showed a tolerably accurate knowledge of some portions of their shores. But his map was, in this instance, disfigured by two unfortunate errors, — the one, that he placed Ireland (which he calls Ivernia) altogether too far to the north, so that its southernmost portion was brought actually to a latitude beyond that of North Wales ; the other, which was probably connected with it, that the whole of Scotland is twisted round, so as to bring its general exten- sion into a direction from west to east, instead of from south to north, and place the northern extremity of the island on the same parallel with the promontory of Galloway. He appears to have been embarrassed in this part of his map by his having adopted the conclusion of Marinus — based upon what arguments we know not — that Thule was situated in 63°, while at the same time he regarded it, in conformity with the received view of all earlier geographers, as the most northern of all known lands. In accord- ance with this same assumption Ptolemy supposed the northern coast of Germany, which he believed to be the southern shore of the Great Ocean, to have a general direction from west to east, while he placed it not very far from the true position of that of the Baltic, of the existence of which as an inland sea he was wholly ignorant, as well as of the vast peninsula of Scandinavia beyond it, and only inserted the name of Scandia as that of an island of inconsiderable dimensions. At the same time he supposed the coast of Sarmatia from the Vistula eastwards to trend away to the north as far as the parallel of Thule ; nor did he conceive this as an actual limit, but believed the Unknown Land to extend indefinitely in this direction, as also to the north of Asiatic Scythia. The enormous extent assigned by him to the latter region has been already adverted to ; but vague and erroneous as were his views concerning it, it is certain that they show a much greater approximation to the troth than those of earlier geographers, who possessed hardly a suspicion of the vast tracts in question, which stretch across Central Asia from the borders of Sarmatia to those of China. Ptolemy was also the first who had anything like a clear idea of the chain to which he gave the name of Imaus, and correctly regarded as having a direction across Scythia from south to north, so as to divide that great region into two distinct portions which he termed Scythia intra Imaum and Scythia extra Imaum, corresponding in some degree with those recognized in modern maps as Independent and Chinese Tartary. The Imaus of Ptolemy corresponds clearly to the range known in modern days as the Bolor or Pamir, which has only been fully explored in quite recent times. It was, however, enormously misplaced, being transferred to 140" E. long., or 80° east of Alexandria, the real interval between the two being little more than 40°. It is in respect of the southern shores of Asia that Ptolemy's geography is especially faulty, and his errors are here the more unfortunate as they were associated with greatly increased know- ledge in a general way of the regions in question. For more than a century before his time, indeed, the commercial relations between Alexandria, as the great emporium of the Roman empire, and India had assumed a far more important character than at any former period, and the natural consequence was a greatly increased geographical knowledge of the Indian peninsula. The little tract called the Periplus of the Erythraean Sea, about 80 A.D., contains sailing directions for merchants to the western ports of that country, from the mouth of the Indus to the coast of Malabar, and correctly indicates that the coast from Barygaza southwards had a general direction from north to south as far as the extremity of the peninsula (Cape Comorin). We are utterly ignorant of the reasons which induced Marinus, followed in this instance as in so many others by Ptolemy, to depart from this correct view, and, while giving to the coast of India, from the mouths of the Indus to those of the Ganges, an undue extension in longitude, to curtail its extension towards the south to such an amount as to place Cape Cory (the southernmost point of the peninsula) only 4° of latitude south of Barygaza, the real intervals being more than 800 geo- graphical miles, or, according to Ptolemy's system of graduation, 16° of latitude ! This enormous error, which lias the effect of dis- torting the whole appearance of the south coast of Asia, is associated with another equally extraordinary, but of an opposite tendency, in regard to the neighbouring island of Taprobane or Ceylon, the dimensions of which had been exaggerated by most of the earlier Greek geographers ; but to such an extent was this carried by Ptolemy as to extend it through not less than 15° of latitude and 12° of longitude, so as to make it about fourteen times as large as the reality, and bring down its southern extremity more than 2° to the south of the equator. We have much less reason to be surprised at finding similar distortions in respect to the regions beyond the Ganges, concern- ing which he is our only ancient authority. During the interval which elapsed between the date of the Periplus and that of Marinus it is certain that some adventurous Greek mariners had not only crossed the great Gangetic Gulf and visited the land on the opposite side, to which they gave the name of the Golden Chersonese, but they had pushed their explorations considerably farther to the east, as far as Cattigara. It was not to bo expected that these commercial ventures should have brought back any accurate geographical information, and accordingly we find the con- ception entertained by Ptolemy of these newly discovered regions to be very different from the reality. Not only had the distances, as was usually the case with ancient navigators in remote quarters, been greatly exaggerated, but the want of accurate observations of bearings was peculiarly unfortunate in a case where the real features of the coast and the adjoining islands were so intricate and exceptional. A glance at the map appended to the article MAP (vol. xv. Plate VII.) will at once show the entire discrepancy between the configuration of this part of Asia as conceived by Ptolemy and its true formation. Yet with the materials at his command we can hardly wonder at his not having arrived at a nearer approximation to the truth. The most unfortunate error was his idea that after passing the Great Gulf, which lay beyond the Golden Chersonese, the coast trended away to the south, instead of towards the north, and he thus placed Cattigara (which was probably one of the ports in the south of China) not less than 8^° south of the equator. It is probable that in this instance he was misled by his own theoretical conclusions, and carried this remotest part of the Asiatic continent so far to the south with the view of connecting it with his assumed eastward pro- longation of that of Africa. Notwithstanding this last theoretical assumption Ptolemy's map of Africa presents a marked improvement upon those of Erato- sthenes and Strabo. But his knowledge of the west coast, which he conceived as having its direction nearly on a meridional line from north to south, was very imperfect, and his latitudes utterly erroneous. Even in regard to the Fortunate Islands, the position of which was so important to his system in connexion with his prime meridian, he was entirely misinformed as to their character and arrangement, and extended the group through a space of more than 5° of latitude, so as to bring down the most southerly of them to the real parallel of the Cape de Verd Islands. In regard to the mathematical construction, or, to use the modern phrase, the projection of his maps, not only was Ptolemy PTOLEMY 95 greatly in advance of all his predecessors, but his theoretical skill was altogether beyond the nature of the materials to which he applied it. The methods by which he obviated the difficulty of transferring the delineation of different countries from the spherical surface of the globe to the plane surface of an ordinary map differed indeed but little from those in use at the present day, and the errors arising from this cause (apart from those produced by his fundamental error of graduation) were really of little consequence compared with the defective character of his information arid the want of anything approaching to a survey of the countries deline- ated. He himself was well aware of his deficiencies in this respect, and, while giving full directions for the scientific construction of a general map, he contents himself for the special maps of different countries with the simple method employed by Marinus of drawing the parallels of latitude and meridians of longitude as straight lines, assuming in each case the. proportion between the two, as it really stood with respect to some one parallel towards the middle of the map, and neglecting the inclination of the meridians to one another. Such a course, as he himself repeatedly affirms, will not make any material difference within the limits of each special map. Ptolemy's geographical work was devoted almost exclusively to the mathematical branch of his subject, and its peculiar arrange- ment, in which his results are presented in a tabular form, instead of being at once embodied in a map, was undoubtedly designed to enable the geographical student to construct his maps for himself, instead of depending upon those constructed ready to his hand. This purpose it has abundantly served, and there is little doubt that we owe to the peculiar form thus given to his results their transmission in a comparatively perfect condition to the present day. Unfortunately the specious appearance of the results thus presented to us has led to a very erroneous estimate of their accu- racy, and it has been too often supposed that what was stated in so scientific a form must necessarily be based upon scientific observa- tions. Though Ptolemy himself has distinctly pointed out in his first book the defective nature of his materials and the true char- acter of the data furnished by his tables, few readers studied this portion of his work, and his statements were generally received with the same undoubting faith as was justly attached to his astronomical observations. It is only in quite recent times that his conclusions have been estimated at their just value, and the apparently scientific character of his work shown to be in most cases a specious edifice resting upon no adequate foundations. There can be no doubt that the work of Ptolemy was from the time of its first publication accompanied with maps, which are regularly referred to in the eighth book. But how far those which are now extant represent the original series is a disputed point. In two of the most ancient MSS. it is expressly stated that the maps which accompany them are the work of one Agathodfemon of Alexandria, who " drew them according to the eight books of Claudius Ptolemy. " This expression might equally apply to the work of a contemporary draughtsman under the eyes of Ptolemy himself, or to that of a skilful geographer at a later period, and nothing is known from any other source concerning this Agatho- daemon. The attempt to identify him with a grammarian of the same name who lived in the 5th century is wholly without founda- tion. But it appears, on the whole, most probable that the maps appended to the MSS. still extant have been transmitted by unin- terrupted tradition from the time of Ptolemy. 2. Progress of Geographical Knowledge. — The above examination of the methods pursued by Ptolemy in framing hio general map of the world, or according to the phrase universally employed by the ancients, the Inhabited World (^ OIKOI^P??), has already drawn attention to the principal extensions of geographical knowledge since. the time of Strabo. While anything like an accurate acquaintance was still confined to the limits of the Roman empire and the regions that immediately adjoined it, with the addition of the portions of Asia that had been long known to the Greeks, the geographical horizon had been greatly widened towards the east by commercial enterprise, and towards the south by the same cause, combined with expeditions of a military character, but which would appear to have been dictated by a spirit of discovery. Two expeditions of this kind had been carried out by Roman generals before the time of Marinus, which, starting from Fezzan, had penetrated the heart of the African continent due south as far as a tract called Agisymba, "which was inhabited by Ethiopians and swarmed with rhinoceroses." These statements point clearly to the expeditions having traversed the great desert and arrived at the Soudan or Negroland. But the actual position of Agisymba cannot be determined except by mere conjecture. The absurdly exaggerated view taken by Marinus has been already noticed ; but, even after his estimate had been reduced by Ptolemy by more than one-half, the position assigned by that author to Agisymba was doubtless far in excess towards the south. But, while this name was the only result that we know to have been derived from these memorable expeditions, Ptolemy found himself in possession of a considerable amount of information con- cerning the interior of northern Africa (from whence derived we know not), to which nothing similar is found in any earlier writer. Unfortunately this new information was of so crude and vague a character, and is presented to us in so embarrassing a form, as to perplex rather than assist the geographical student, and the state- ments of Ptolemy concerning the rivers Gir and Nigir, and the lakes and mountains with which they were connected, have exer- cised the ingenuity and bafiied the sagacity of successive generations of geographers in modern times to interpret or explain them. It may safely be said that they present no resemblance to the real features of the country as known to us by modern explorations, and cannot be reconciled with them except by the most arbitrary conjectures. It is otherwise in the case of the Nile. To discover the source of that river had been long an object of curiosity both among the Greeks and Romans, and an expedition sent out for that purpose by the emperor Nero had undoubtedly penetrated as far as the marshes of the White Nile ; but we are wholly ignorant of the sources from whence Ptolemy derived his information. But his statement that the mighty river derived its waters from the confluence of two streams, which took their rise in two lakes a little to the south of the equator, was undoubtedly a nearer approach to the truth than any of the theories concocted in modern times before the discovery in our own days of the two great lakes now known as the Victoria and Albert Nyanza. He at the same time notices the other arm of the river (the Blue Nile) under the name of the Astapus, which he correctly describes as rising in another lake. In connexion with this subject he introduces a range of mountains running from east to west, which he calls the Mountains of the Moon, and which have proved a sad stumbling-block to geographers in modern times, but may now be safely affirmed to represent the real fact of the exist- ence of snow-covered mountains (Kilimanjaro and Keuia) in these equatorial regions. Much the same remarks apply to Ptolemy's geography of Asia as to that of Africa. In this case also he had obtained, as we have already seen, a vague knowledge of extensive regions, wholly un- known to the earlier geographers, and resting to a certain extent on authentic information, though much exaggerated and misunder- stood. But, while these informants had really brought home some definite statements concerning Serica or the Land of Silk, and its capital of Sera, there lay a vast region towards the north of the line of route leading to this far eastern land (supposed by Ptolemy to be nearly coincident with the parallel of 40°) of which appa- rently he knew nothing, but which he vaguely assumed to extend indefinitely northwards as far as the limits of the Unknown Land. The Jaxartes, which ever since the time of Alexander had been the boundary of Greek geography in this direction, still con- tinued in that of Ptolemy to be the northern limit of all that was really known of Central Asia. Beyond that he places a mass of names of tribes, to which he could assign no definite locality, and mountain ranges which he could only place at haphazard. The character of his information concerning the south-east of Asia has been already adverted to. But, strangely as he misplaced Catti- gara and the metropolis of Sinse connected with it, there can be no doubt that we recognize in this name (variously written Thinae and Sinse) the now familiar name of China ; and it is important to observe that he places the land of the Sinse immediately south of that of the Seres, showing that he was aware of the connexion be- tween the two, though the one was known only by land explora- tions and the other by maritime voyages. In regard to the better known regions of the world, and especially those bordering on the Mediterranean, Ptolemy according to his own account followed for the most part the guidance of Marinus. The latter seems to have relied to a great extent on the work of Timosthenes (who flourished more than two centuries before) in respect to the coasts and maritime distances. Ptolemy, however, introduced many changes, some of which he has pointed out to us, though there are doubtless many others which we have no means of detecting. For the interior of the different countries the Roman roads and itineraries must have furnished him with a mass of valuable materials which had not been available to earlier geo- graphers. But neither Marinus nor Ptolemy seems to have taken advantage of this last resource to the extent that we should have expected, and the tables of the Alexandrian geographer abound with mistakes — even in countries so well known as Gaul and Spain — which might easily have been obviated by a more judicious use of such Roman authorities. Great as are undoubtedly the merits of Ptolemy's geographical work, it cannot be regarded as having any claim to be a complete or satisfactory treatise upon this vast subject. It was the work of an astronomer rather than a geographer, in the highest sense of the term. Not only did its plan exclude all description of the countries with which it dealt, their climate, natural productions, inhabitants, and peculiar features, all of which are included in the domain of the modern geographer, but even its physical geography strictly so called is treated in the most irregular and perfunctory manner. While Strabo was fully alive to the importance of the great rivers and mountain chains which (to use his own expressive 96 P U B — P U B phrase) "geographize " a country, Ptolemy deals with this part of his subject in so careless a manner as to be often worse than useless. Even in the case of a country so well known as Gaul the few notices that he gives of the great rivers that play so important a part in its geography are disfigured by some astounding errors ; while he does not notice any of the great tributaries of the Rhine, though mentioning an obscure streamlet, otherwise unknown, because it happened to be the boundary between two Roman provinces. The revival of the study of Ptolemy's work after the Middle Ages and the influence it exercised upon the progress of geography have been described in the article MAP (vol. xv. p. 520). His Geographia was printed for the first time in a Latin translation, accompanied with maps, in 1478, and numerous other editions followed in the latter part of the 15th and earlier half of the 16th century, but the Greek text did not make its appearance till 1533, when it was published at Basel in 4to, edited by the celebrated Erasmus. All these early editions, however, swarm with textual errors, ^nd are wholly worthless for critical purposes. The same may be said of the edition of Bertius (Gr. and Lat., Leyden, 1618, typ. Elzevir), which was long the standard library edition of the work. It contains a new set of maps drawn by Mercator, as well as a fresh series (not intended to illustrate Ptolemy) by Ortelius, the Roman Itiner- aries, including the Tabula Peutingeriana, and much other miscellaneous matter. The first attempt at a really critical edition was made by Wilberg and Grashof (4to, Essen, 1842), but this unfortunately was never completed. The edition of Nobbe (3 vols. 18mo, Leipsic, 1843) presents the best Greek text of the whole work as yet available and has a useful index. But by far the best edition, so far as completed, is that published in Didot's Bibliotheca Classicorum Grsecorum (Paris, 1883), edited by Dr C. Miiller, with a Latin trans- lation and a copious commentary, geographical as well as critical. The first part, which is all that has yet appeared, contains only the first three books, without the Prolegomena, which will be anxiously expected by all students of Ptolemy. (E. H. B.) PUBLIC HEALTH. State medicine as an organized department of administration is entirely of modern growth. By the common law of England the only remedy for any act or omission dangerous to health was an action for damages or an indictment for nuisance. (See NUISANCE.) At the same time the jurisdiction of the commissioners of sewers acted to a certain extent as a preventive means. Commissions of sewers were granted by the crown, at first in virtue of the general prerogative, afterwards under the provisions of numerous statutes, the earliest dating from 1427 (6 Hen. VI. c. 5). The powers of the com- missioners included the removal of obstructions in rivers, the making of fosses and drains,