utterly benumbed by the Greek literature—has not yet passed away. American writers are just beginning to get rid of their absolute subserviency to foreign models in all things, and in this partial independence they are still subservient to the fundamental philosophic and ethical ideas of the past. The change that is taking place is only in minor matters.

Even so graceful and able a writer as Longfellow illustrates fully the truth of these suggestions. Mr. Charles F. Johnson, in a well-written essay on Longfellow, Emerson, and Hawthorne, says:

“Most people feel that national temper is of slow evolution; that many heterogeneous elements must be fused and blended here; that we too must have a past, and that the spirit of our past must be taken up and transmitted before a new type is realized in a new art and a new literature. We can see that Longfellow was essentially a scholar—a receiver of impressions from books; that he was like an Æolian harp, blown upon by many winds, so that his music was in many regards necessarily a melodious echo of what was ‘whispered by world-wandering winds.’ And we can see, too, that he came into American literary life just as it was passing from the germ to the plant, and that every year he became more distinctive.”

There is nothing profound in this view, but it expresses well the average thought of the period,—that Americanism in literature must be the very gradual growth of new circumstances, experience, and associations, which may superficially modify the unbroken mass of thought which has been transplanted from Europe, just as vines and flowers take on their modifications in a new soil and climate.

Far different from this is the view that anthropology gives us. The foreign plant, it is true, will gradually change, but a native plant will ultimately take its place by the law of the “survival of the fittest.” The exotic must die out, for it was but a hothouse plant, reared in universities and cathedrals.

The thought, the science, the philosophy, and even the forms of literary expression, for this continent, will be those which spring from the bosom of nature, fresh and strong, imbued with the spiritual element of immortality, the element of luminous originality.

How and whence is this to come? It will come by the complete emancipation of the American mind from the thraldom of the false philosophies, the false theologies, and the debasingly narrow conceptions of science which have been transplanted into American colleges. When the strong American intellect shall realize that in the science of man and in the cultivation of psychometry there is more of enlightenment, of wisdom, and of actual knowledge than in all that colleges cherish to-day, we shall have such a flood of original thought and immensely valuable knowledge as would seem impossible to the literati who now have the public ear.

Even the narrowest dogmatists of science are beginning to have a glimpse of the nobler knowledge of the future. Prof. Huxley, the most dogmatic of British sceptics, has recently said:

“The growth of science, not merely of physical science, but of all science, means the demonstration of order and natural causation among phenomena which had not previously been brought under those conceptions. Nobody who is acquainted with the progress of scientific thinking in every department of human knowledge, in the course of the last two centuries, will be disposed to deny that immense provinces have been added to the realm of science, or to doubt that the next two centuries will be witnesses of a vastly greater annexation. More particularly in the region of the physiology of the nervous system is it justifiable to conclude from the progress that has been made in analyzing the relations between material and psychical phenomena that vast further advances will be made, and that sooner or later all the so-called spontaneous operations of the mind will have, not only their relations to one another, but their relations to physical phenomena, connected in natural series of causes and effects, strictly defined. In other words, while at present we know only the nearer moiety of the chain of causes and effects by which the phenomena we call material give rise to those which we call mental, hereafter we shall get to the further end of the series.”

The “further end of the series,” however, is vastly different from anything within the mental range of the distinguished professor, whose ultra materialism led him to revamp the old Cartesian doctrine that animals were only machines, like clocks or mills, running automatically, and destitute of sensation, and intelligence.

The science and philosophy of the future will be distinguished by their mastery of the realm of mind, and the closer approximation of the human to the Divine, not only in intelligence, but in ethics.

The Journal of Man, as the first periodical organ of the new philosophy, will attempt gradually to initiate the archetypal forms of thought of the coming period, in which the disappearance of old philosophy and ethics shall leave room for growth.

Not that all ethics shall be changed among the civilized races, for there are simple primary and true conceptions which are universally recognized, and are embalmed in all religions. Yet these few universal ideas are but the rudiments of ethics, and no more constitute an ethical system worthy of the name, than the four primary processes of arithmetic constitute a system of mathematical science. The future is to evolve the true ethics, and therewith the educational system that will bring the true ethics into all spheres of human life.

In all past time there has been no ethical system competent to establish a perfectly harmonious social state, and no system of education competent to lift society to a higher life. Education as it has been brightens life with literature and art, but does not elevate it. The same old element of poverty, misery, disease, crime, and insanity marches on, hand in hand with the college and the church, as it formerly went hand in hand with the hunting and warring barbarians of the forest. And the dull, blunted conscience of the time, lulled by the softly solemn platitudes of the pulpit and the soulless system of education, rebels not against the old social order. In full view of the past twenty-five centuries, may we not exclaim with Shakespeare’s Macbeth:

But not to the end of time shall it be. The nineteenth century has seen the glimmering dawn of the true civilization. How it came, what it is, and what it is destined to realize, the Journal of Man will attempt to show.