The present number of the Review marks the close of a task which was confided to me no less than fifteen years ago ­grande mortalis cevi spatium, a long span of one’s mortal days.  Fifteen years are enough to bring a man from youth to middle age, to test the working value of convictions, to measure the advance of principles and beliefs, and, alas! to cut off many early associates and to extinguish many lights.  It is hardly possible that a Review should have been conducted for so considerable a time without the commission of some mistakes; articles admitted which might as well have been left out, opinions expressed which have a crudish look in the mellow light of years, phrases dropped in the heat or hurry of the moment which one would fain obliterate.  Many a regret must rise in men’s minds on any occasion that compels them to look back over a long reach of years.  The disparity between aim and performance, the unfulfilled promise, the wrong turnings taken at critical points ­as an accident of the hour draws us to take stock of a complete period of our lives, all these things rise up in private and internal judgment against anybody who is not either too stupid or too fatuously complacent to recognise facts when he sees them.  But the mood passes.  Time, happily, is merciful, and men’s memories are benignly short.

More painful is the recollection of those earlier contributors of ours who have vanished from the world.  Periodical literature is like the manna in the wilderness; it quickly loses its freshness, and to turn over thirty volumes of old Reviews can hardly be exhilarating at the best:  least of all so, when it recalls friends and coadjutors who can give their help no more.  George Henry Lewes, the founder of the Review, and always cordially interested in its fortunes, has not survived to see the end of the reign of his successor, His vivacious intelligence had probably done as much as he was competent to do for his generation, but there were other important contributors, now gone, of whom this could not be said.  In the region of political theory, the loss of J.E.  Cairnes was truly lamentable and untimely.  He had, as Mill said of him, “that rare qualification among writers on political and social subjects ­a genuine scientific intellect.”  Not a month passes in which one does not feel how great an advantage it would have been to be able to go down to Blackheath, and discuss the perplexities of the time in that genial and manly companionship, where facts were weighed with so much care, where conclusions were measured with such breadth and comprehension, and where even the great stolid idols of the Cave and the Market Place were never too rudely buffeted.  Of a very different order of mind from Cairnes, but not less to be permanently regretted by all of us who knew him, was Mr. Bagehot, whose books on the English Constitution, on Physics and Politics, and the fragment on the Postulates of Political Economy, were all published in these pages.  He wrote, in fact, the first article in the first number.  Though himself extremely cool and sceptical about political improvement of every sort, he took abundant interest in more ardent friends.  Perhaps it was that they amused him; in return his good-natured ironies put them wholesomely on their mettle.  As has been well said of him, he had a unique power of animation without combat; it was all stimulus and yet no contest; his talk was full of youth, yet had all the wisdom of mature judgment (R.H.  Hutton).  Those who were least willing to assent to Bagehot’s practical maxims in judging current affairs, yet were well aware how much they profited by his Socratic objections, and knew, too, what real acquaintance with men and business, what honest sympathy and friendliness, and what serious judgment and interest all lay under his playful and racy humour.

More untimely, in one sense, than any other was the death of Professor Clifford, whose articles in this Review attracted so much attention, and I fear that I may add, gave for a season so much offence six or seven years ago.  Cairnes was scarcely fifty when he died, and Bagehot was fifty-one, but Clifford was only four-and-thirty.  Yet in this brief space he had not merely won a reputation as a mathematician of the first order, but had made a real mark on his time, both by the substance of his speculations in science, religion, and ethics, and by the curious audacity with which he proclaimed at the pitch of his voice on the housetops religious opinions that had hitherto been kept among the family secrets of the domus Socratica.  It is melancholy to think that exciting work, done under pressure of time of his own imposing, should have been the chief cause of his premature decline.  How intense that pressure was the reader may measure by the fact that a paper of his on The Unseen Universe, which filled eighteen pages of the Review, was composed at a single sitting that lasted from a quarter to ten in the evening till nine o’clock the following morning.  As one revolves these and other names of eminent men who actively helped to make the Review what it has been, it would be impossible to omit the most eminent of them all.  Time has done something to impair the philosophical reputation and the political celebrity of J.S.  Mill; but it cannot alter the affectionate memory in which some of us must always hold his wisdom and goodness, his rare union of moral ardour with a calm and settled mind.  He took the warmest interest In this Review from the moment when I took it up, partly from the friendship with which he honoured me, but much more because he wished to encourage what was then ­though it is now happily no longer ­the only attempt to conduct a periodical on the principles of free discussion and personal responsibility.  While recalling these and others who are no more, it was naturally impossible for me to forget the constant and valuable help that has been so freely given to me, often at much sacrifice of their own convenience, by those friends and contributors who are still with us.  No conductor ever laid down his baton with a more cordial and sincere sense of gratitude to those who took their several parts in his performance.

One chief experiment which the Review was established to try was that of signed articles.  When Mr. Lewes wrote his Farewell Causerie, as I am doing now, he said:  “That we have been enabled to bring together men so various in opinion and so distinguished in power has been mainly owing to the principle adopted of allowing each writer perfect freedom; which could only have been allowed under the condition of personal responsibility.  The question of signing articles had long been debated; it has now been tested.  The arguments in favour of it were mainly of a moral order; the arguments against it, while admitting the morality, mainly asserted its inexpediency.  The question of expediency has, I venture to say, been materially enlightened by the success of the Review.”  The success of other periodicals, conducted still more rigorously on the principle that every article ought to bear its writer’s signature, leaves no further doubt on the subject; so that it is now almost impossible to realise that only fifteen or sixteen years ago scarcely anybody of the class called practical could believe that the sacred principle of the Anonymous was doomed.  One of the shrewdest publishers in Edinburgh, and also himself the editor of a famous magazine, once said to me while Mr. Lewes was still editor of this Review, that he had always thought highly of our friend’s judgment “until he had taken up the senseless notion of a magazine with signed articles and open to both sides of every question.”  Nobody will call the notion senseless any longer.  The question is rather how long the exclusively anonymous periodicals will resist the innovation.

Personally I have attached less stern importance to signature as an unvarying rule than did my predecessor; though, even he was compelled by obvious considerations of convenience to make his chronique of current affairs anonymous.  Our practice has been signature as the standing rule, occasionally suspended in favour of anonymity when there seemed to be sufficient reason.  On the whole it may be said that the change from anonymous to signed articles has followed the course of most changes.  It has not led to one-half either of the evils or of the advantages that its advocates and its opponents foretold.  That it has produced some charlatanry, can hardly be denied.  Readers are tempted to postpone serious and persistent interest in subjects, to a semi-personal curiosity about the casual and unconnected deliverances of the literary or social star of the hour.  That this conception has been worked out with signal ability in more cases than one; that it has made periodical literature full of actuality; that it has tickled and delighted the palate ­is all most true.  The obvious danger is lest we should be tempted to think more of the man who speaks than of the precise value of what he says.

One indirect effect that is not unworthy of notice in the new system is its tendency to narrow the openings for the writer by profession.  If an article is to be signed, the editor will naturally seek the name of an expert of special weight and competence on the matter in hand.  A reviewer on the staff of a famous journal once received for his week’s task, General Hamley on the Art of War, a three-volume novel, a work on dainty dishes, and a translation of Pindar.  This was perhaps taxing versatility and omniscience over-much, and it may be taken for granted that the writer made no serious contribution to tactics, cookery, or scholarship.  But being a man of a certain intelligence, passably honest, and reasonably painstaking, probably he produced reviews sufficiently useful and just to answer their purpose.  On the new system we should have an article on General Hamley’s work by Sir Garnet Wolseley, and one on the cookery-book from M. Trompette.  It is not certain that this is all pure gain.  There is a something to be said for the writer by profession, who, without being an expert, will take trouble to work up his subject, to learn what is said and thought about it, to penetrate to the real points, to get the same mastery over it as an advocate or a judge does over a patent case or a suit about rubrics and vestments.  He is at least as likely as the expert to tell the reader all that he wants to know, and at least as likely to be free from bias and injurious prepossession.

Nor does experience, so far as it has yet gone, quite bear out Mr. Lewes’s train of argument that the “first condition of all writing is sincerity, and that one means of securing sincerity is to insist on personal responsibility,” and that this personal responsibility can only be secured by signing articles.  The old talk of “literary bravoes,” “men in masks,” “anonymous assassins,” and so forth, is out of date.  Longer experience has only confirmed the present writer’s opinion, expressed here from the very beginning:  “Everybody who knows the composition of any respectable journal in London knows very well that the articles which those of our own way of thinking dislike most intensely are written by men whom to call bravoes in any sense whatever would be simply monstrous.  Let us say, as loudly as we choose, if we see good reason, that they are half informed about some of the things which they so authoritatively discuss; that they are under strong class feeling; that they have not mastered the doctrines which they are opposing; that they have not sufficiently meditated their subject; that they have not given themselves time to do justice even to their scanty knowledge.  Journalists are open to charges of this kind; but to think of them as a shameless body, thirsting for the blood of better men than themselves, or ready to act as an editor’s instrument for money, involves a thoroughly unjust misconception.”

As to the comparative effects of the two systems on literary quality, no prudent observer with adequate experience will lay down an unalterable rule.  Habit no doubt counts for a great deal, but apart from habit there are differences of temperament and peculiar sensibilities.  Some men write best when they sign what they write; they find impersonality a mystification and an incumbrance; anonymity makes them stiff, pompous, and over-magisterial.  With others, however, the effect is just the reverse.  If they sign, they become self-conscious, stilted, and even pretentious; it is only when they are anonymous that they recover simplicity and ease.  It is as if an actor who is the soul of what is natural under the disguises of his part, should become extremely artificial if he were compelled to come upon the stage in his own proper clothes and speaking only in his ordinary voice.

The newspaper press has not yet followed the example of the new Reviews, but we are probably not far from the time when here, too, the practice of signature will make its way.  There was a silly cry at one time for making the disuse of anonymity compulsory by law.  But we shall no more see this than we shall see legal penalties imposed for publishing a book without an index, though that also has been suggested.  The same end will be reached by other ways.  Within the last few years a truly surprising shock has been given to the idea of a newspaper, “as a sort of impersonal thing, coming from nobody knows where, the readers never thinking of the writer, nor caring whether he thinks what he writes, so long as they think what he writes.”  Of course it is still true, and will most likely always remain true, that, like the Athenian Sophist, great newspapers will teach the conventional prejudices of those who pay for it.  A writer will long be able to say that, like the Sophist, the newspaper reflects the morality, the intelligence, the tone of sentiment, of its public, and if the latter is vicious, so is the former.  But there is infinitely less of this than there used to be.  The press is more and more taking the tone of a man speaking to a man.  The childish imposture of the editorial We is already thoroughly exploded.  The names of all important journalists are now coming to be as publicly known as the names of important members of parliament.  There is even something over and above this.  More than one editor has boldly aspired to create and educate a public of his own, and he has succeeded.  The press is growing to be much more personal, in the sense that its most important directors are taking to themselves the right of pursuing an individual line of their own, with far less respect than of old to the supposed exigencies of party or the communiques of political leaders.  The editor of a Review of great eminence said to the present writer (who, for his own part, took a slightly more modest view) that he regarded himself as equal in importance to seventy-five Members of Parliament.  It is not altogether easy to weigh and measure with this degree of precision.  But what is certain is that there are journalists on both sides in politics to whom the public looks for original suggestion, and from whom leading politicians seek not merely such mechanical support as they expect from their adherents in the House of Commons, nor merely the uses of the vane to show which way the wind blows, but ideas, guidance, and counsel, as from persons of co-equal authority with themselves.  England is still a long way from the point at which French journalism has arrived in this matter.  We cannot count an effective host of Girardins, Lemoinnes, Abouts, or even Cassagnacs and Rocheforts, each recognised as the exponent of his own opinions, and each read because the opinions written are known to be his own.  But there is a distinctly nearer approach to this as the general state of English journalism than there was twenty years ago.

Of course nobody of sense supposes that any journalist, however independent and however possessed by the spirit of his personal responsibility, tries to form his opinions out of his own head, without reference to the view of the men practically engaged in public affairs, the temper of Parliament and the feeling of constituencies, and so forth.  All these are part of the elements that go to the formation of his own judgment, and he will certainly not neglect to find out as much about them as he possibly can.  Nor, again, does the increase of the personal sentiment about our public prints lessen the general working fidelity of their conductors to a party.  It is their duty, no doubt, to discuss the merits of measures as they arise.  In this respect any one can see how radically they differ from the Member of Parliament, whose business is not only to discuss but to act.  The Member of Parliament must look at the effect of his vote in more lights than one.  Besides the merits of the given measure, it is his duty to think of the wishes of those who chose him to represent them; and if, moreover, the effect of voting against a measure of which he disapproves would be to overthrow a whole Ministry of which he strongly approves, then, unless some very vital principle indeed were involved, to give such a vote would be to prefer a small object to a great one, and would indicate a very queasy monkish sort of conscience.  The journalist is not in the same position.  He is an observer and a critic, and can afford, and is bound, to speak the truth.  But even in his case, the disagreement, as Burke said, “will be only enough to indulge freedom, without violating concord or disturbing arrangement.”  There is a certain “partiality which becomes a well-chosen friendship.”  “Men thinking freely will, in particular instances, think differently.  But still as the greater part of the measures which arise in the course of public business are related to, or dependent on, some great leading general principles in government, a man must be peculiarly unfortunate in the choice of his political company if he does not agree with them at least nine times in ten.”  The doctrine that was good enough for Burke in this matter may be counted good enough for most of us.  Some of the current talk about political independence is mere hypocrisy; some of it is mere vanity.  For the new priest of Literature is quite as liable to the defects of spiritual pride and ambition as the old priest of the Church, and it is quite as well for him that he should be on his guard against these scarlet and high-crested sins.

The success of Reviews, of which our own was the first English type, marks a very considerable revolution in the intellectual habits of the time.  They have brought abstract discussion from the library down to the parlour, and from the serious student down to the first man in the street.  We have passed through a perfect cyclone of religious polemics.  The popularity of such Reviews means that really large audiences, lé gros public, are eagerly interested In the radical discussion of propositions which twenty years ago were only publicly maintained, and then in their crudest, least true, and most repulsive form, in obscure debating societies and little secularist clubs.  Everybody, male or female, who reads anything serious at all, now reads a dozen essays a year to show, with infinite varieties of approach and of demonstration, that we can never know whether there be a Supreme Being or not, whether the soul survives the body, or whether mind is more and other than a mere function of matter.  No article that has appeared in any periodical for a generation back excited so profound a sensation as Mr. Huxley’s memorable paper On the Physical Basis of Life, published in this Review in February 1869.  It created just the same kind of stir that, in a political epoch, was made by such a pamphlet as the Conduct of the Allies or the Reflections on the French Revolution.  This excitement was a sign that controversies which had hitherto been confined to books and treatises were now to be admitted to popular periodicals, and that the common man of the world would now listen and have an opinion of his own on the bases of belief, just as he listens and judges in politics or art, or letters.  The clergy no longer have the pulpit to themselves, for the new Reviews became more powerful pulpits, in which heretics were at least as welcome as orthodox.  Speculation has become entirely democratised.  This is a tremendous change to have come about in little more than a dozen years.  How far it goes, let us not be too sure.  It is no new discovery that what looks like complete tolerance may be in reality only complete indifference.  Intellectual fairness is often only another name for indolence and inconclusiveness of mind, just as love of truth is sometimes a fine phrase for temper.  To be piquant counts for much, and the interest of seeing on the drawing-room tables of devout Catholics and high-flying Anglicans article after article, sending divinities, creeds, and Churches all headlong into limbo, was indeed piquant.  Much of all this elegant dabbling in infidelity has been a caprice of fashion.  The Agnostic has had his day with the fine ladies, like the black footboy of other times, or the spirit-rapper and table-turner of our own.  What we have been watching, after all, was perhaps a tournament, not a battle.

It would not be very easy for us now, and perhaps it would not be particularly becoming at any time, to analyse the position that has been assigned to this Review in common esteem.  Those who have watched it from without can judge better than those who have worked within.  Though it has been open, so far as editorial goodwill was concerned, to opinions from many sides, the Review has unquestionably gathered round it some of the associations of sect.  What that sect is, people have found it difficult to describe with anything like precision.  For a long time it was the fashion to label the Review as Comtist, and it would be singularly ungrateful to deny that it has had no more effective contributors than some of the best-known disciples of Comte.  By-and-by it was felt that this was too narrow.  It was nearer the truth to call it the organ of Positivists in the wider sense of that designation.  But even this would not cover many directly political articles that have appeared in our pages, and made a mark in their time.  The memorable programme of Free Labour, Free Land, Free Schools, Free Church had nothing at all Positivist about it.  Nor could that programme and many besides from the same pen and others be compressed under the nickname of Academic Liberalism.  There was too strong a flavour of action for the academic and the philosophic.  This passion for a label, after all, is an infirmity.  Yet people justly perceived that there seemed to be a certain undefinable concurrence among writers coming from different schools and handling very different subjects.  Perhaps the instinct was right which fancied that it discerned some common drift, a certain pervading atmosphere, and scented a subtle connection between speculations on the Physical Basis of Life and the Unseen Universe, and articles on Trades Unions and National Education.

So far as the Review has been more specially identified with one set of opinions than another, it has been due to the fact that a certain dissent from received theologies has been found in company with new ideas of social and political reform.  This suspicious combination at one time aroused considerable anger.  The notion of anything like an intervention of the literary and scientific class in political affairs touched a certain jealousy which is always to be looked for in the positive and practical man.  They think as Napoleon thought of men of letters and savans: ­“Ce sont des coquettes avec lesquelles il faut entretenir un commerce de galanterie, et dont il ne faut jamais songer a faire ni sa femme ni son ministre.”  Men will listen to your views about the Unknowable with a composure that instantly disappears if your argument comes too near to the Rates and Taxes.  It is amusing, as we read the newspapers to-day, to think that Mr. Harrison’s powerful defence of Trades Unions fifteen years ago caused the Review to be regarded as an incendiary publication.  Some papers that appeared here on National Education were thought to indicate a deliberate plot for suppressing the Holy Scriptures in the land.  Extravagant misjudgment of this kind has passed away.  But it was far from being a mistake to suppose that the line taken here by many writers did mean that there was a new Radicalism in the air, which went a good deal deeper than fidgeting about an estimate or the amount of the Queen’s contribution to her own taxes.  Time has verified what was serious in those early apprehensions.  Principles and aims are coming into prominence in the social activity of to-day which would hardly have found a hearing twenty years ago, and it would be sufficient justification for the past of our Review if some writers in it have been instrumental in the process of showing how such principles and aims meet the requirements of the new time.  Reformers must always be open to the taunt that they find nothing in the world good enough for them.  “You write,” said a popular novelist to one of this unthanked tribe, “as if you believed that everything is bad.”  “Nay,” said the other, “but I do believe that everything might be better.”  Such a belief naturally breeds a spirit which the easy-goers of the world resent as a spirit of ceaseless complaint and scolding.  Hence our Liberalism here has often been taxed with being ungenial, discontented, and even querulous.  But such Liberals will wrap themselves in their own virtue, remembering the cheering apophthegm that “those who are dissatisfied are the sole benefactors of the world.”

This will not be found, I think, too lofty, or too thrasonical an estimate of what has been attempted.  A certain number of people have been persuaded to share opinions that fifteen years ago were more unpopular than they are now.  A certain resistance has been offered to the stubborn influence of prejudice and use and wont.  The original scheme of the Review, even if there had been no other obstacle, prevented it from being the organ of a systematic and constructive policy.  There is not, in fact, a body of systematic political thought at work in our own day.  The Liberals of the Benthamite school surveyed society and institutions as a whole; they connected their advocacy of political and legal changes with carefully formed theories of human nature; they considered the great art of Government in connection with the character of man, his proper education, his potential capacities.  Yet, as we then said, it cannot be pretended that we are less in need of systematic politics than our fathers were sixty years since, or that general principles are now more generally settled even among members of the same party than they were then.  The perplexities of to-day are as embarrassing as any in our history, and they may prove even more dangerous.  The renovation of Parliamentary government; the transformation of the conditions of the ownership and occupation of land; the relations between the Government at home and our adventurers abroad in contact with inferior races; the limitations on free contract and the rights of majorities to restrict the private acts of minorities; these are only some of the questions that time and circumstances are pressing upon us.  These are in the political and legislative sphere alone.  In Education, in Economics, the problems are as many.  Yet ideas are hardly ripe for realisation.  We shall need to see great schools before we can make sure of powerful parties.  Meanwhile, whatever gives freedom and variety to thought, and earnestness to men’s interest in the world, must contribute to a good end.