Part 21

Similar arguments have been used by the opponents of the germ theory of epidemic disease, and both parties have triumphantly challenged an appeal to the microscope and the chemist’s balance to decide the question. Without committing myself in the least to De la Rive’s notion, without offering any objection here to the doctrine of spontaneous generation, without expressing any adherence to the germ theory of disease, I would simply draw attention to the fact that in the atmosphere we have particles which defy both the microscope and the balance, which do not darken the air, and which exist, nevertheless, in multitudes sufficient to reduce to insignificance the Israelitish hyperbole regarding the sands upon the seashore.

The varying judgments of men on these and other questions may perhaps be, to some extent, accounted for by that doctrine of relativity which plays so important a part in philosophy. This doctrine affirms that the impressions made upon us by any circumstance, or combination of circumstances, depends upon our previous state. Two travelers upon the same peak, the one having ascended to it from the plain, the other having descended to it from a higher elevation, will be differently affected by the scene around them. To the one nature is expanding, to the other it is contracting, and feelings are sure to differ which have two such different antecedent states.

In our scientific judgments the law of relativity may also play an important part. To two men, one educated in the school of the senses, who has mainly occupied himself with observation, and the other educated in the school of imagination as well, and exercised in the conception of atoms and molecules to which we have so frequently referred, a bit of matter, say 1/50000 of an inch in diameter, will present itself differently. The one descends to it from his molar hights, the other climbs to it from his molecular lowlands. To the one it appears small, to the other large. So also as regards the appreciation of the most minute forms of life revealed by the microscope. To one of these men they naturally appear conterminous with the ultimate particles of matter, and he readily figures the molecules from which they directly spring; with him there is but a step from the atom to the organism. The other discerns numberless organic gradations between both. Compared with his atoms, the smallest vibrios and bacteria of the microscopic field are as behemoth and leviathan.

The law of relativity may to some extent explain the different attitudes of these two men with regard to the question of spontaneous generation. An amount of evidence which satisfies the one entirely fails to satisfy the other; and while to the one the last bold defense and startling expansion of the doctrine will appear perfectly conclusive, to the other it will present itself as imposing a profitless labor of demolition on subsequent investigators. The proper and possible attitude of these two men is that each of them should work as if it were his aim and object to establish the view entertained by the other.

I trust, Mr. President, that you—whom untoward circumstances have made a biologist, but who still keep alive your sympathy with that class of inquiries which nature intended you to pursue and adorn—will excuse me to your brethren if I say that some of them seem to form an inadequate estimate of the distance which separates the microscopic from the molecular limit, and that, as a consequence, they sometimes employ a phraseology which is calculated to mislead.

When, for example, the contents of a cell are described as perfectly homogeneous, as absolutely structureless, because the microscope fails to distinguish any structure, then I think the microscope begins to play a mischievous part. A little consideration will make it plain to all of you that the microscope can have no voice in the real question of germ structure. Distilled water is more perfectly homogeneous than the contents of any possible organic germ. What causes the liquid to cease contracting at 39° F., and to grow bigger until it freezes? It is a structural process of which the microscope can take no note, nor is it likely to do so by any conceivable extension of its powers. Place this distilled water in the field of an electro-magnet, and bring a microscope to bear upon it. Will any change be observed when the magnet is excited? Absolutely none; and still profound and complex changes have occurred.

First of all, the particles of water are rendered diamagnetically polar; and secondly, in virtue of the structure impressed upon it by the magnetic strain of its molecules, the liquid twists a ray of light in a fashion perfectly determinate both as to quantity and direction. It would be immensely interesting to both you and me if one here present, who has brought his brilliant imagination to bear upon this subject, could make us see as he sees the entangled molecular processes involved in the rotation of the plane of polarization by magnetic force. While dealing with this question he lived in a world of matter and of motion to which the microscope has no passport, and in which it can offer no aid. The cases in which similar conditions hold are simply numberless. Have the diamond, the amethyst, and the countless other crystals formed in the laboratories of nature and of man, no structure? Assuredly they have, but what can the microscope make of it? Nothing. It cannot be too distinctly borne in mind that between the microscopic limit and the true molecular limit there is room for infinite permutations and combinations. It is in this region that the poles of the atoms are arranged, that tendency is given to their powers, so that when these poles and powers have free action and proper stimulus in a suitable environment, they determine first the germ and afterwards the complete organism. This first marshaling of the atoms on which all subsequent action depends baffles a keener power than that of the microscope. Through pure excess of complexity, and long before observation can have any voice in the matter, the most highly trained intellect, the most refined and disciplined imagination, retires in bewilderment from the contemplation of the problem. We are struck dumb by an astonishment which no microscope can relieve, doubting not only the power of our instrument, but even whether we ourselves possess the intellectual elements which will ever enable us to grapple with the ultimate structural energies of nature.

But the speculative faculty, of which imagination forms so large a part, will nevertheless wander into regions where the hope of certainty would seem to be entirely shut out. We think that though the detailed analysis may be, and may ever remain, beyond us, general notions may be attainable. At all events, it is plain that beyond the present outposts of microscopic inquiry lies an immense field for the exercise of the imagination. It is only, however, the privileged spirits who know how to use their liberty without abusing it, who are able to surround imagination by the firm frontiers of reason, that are likely to work with any profit here. But freedom to them is of such paramount importance that, for the sake of securing it, a good deal of wildness on the part of weaker brethren may be overlooked. In more senses than one Mr. Darwin has drawn heavily upon the scientific tolerance of his age. He has drawn heavily upon _time_ in his development of species, and he has drawn adventurously upon _matter_ in his theory of pan-genesis. According to this theory, a germ already microscopic is a world of minor germs. Not only is the organism as a whole wrapped up in the germ, but every organ of the organism has there its special seed.

This, I say, is an adventurous draft on the power of matter to divide itself and distribute its forces. But, unless we are perfectly sure that he is overstepping the bounds of reason, that he is unwittingly sinning against observed fact or demonstrated law—for a mind like that of Darwin can never sin wittingly against either fact or law—we ought, I think, to be cautious in limiting his intellectual horizon. If there be the least doubt in the matter, it ought to be given in favor of the freedom of such a mind. To it a vast possibility is in itself a dynamic power, though the possibility may never be drawn upon.

It gives me pleasure to think that the facts and reasonings of this discourse tend rather towards the justification of Mr. Darwin than towards his condemnation, that they tend rather to augment than to diminish the cubic space demanded by this soaring speculator; for they seem to show the perfect competence of matter and force, as regards divisibility and distribution, to bear the heaviest strain that he has hitherto imposed upon them.

In the case of Mr. Darwin, observation, imagination, and reason combined have run back with wonderful sagacity and success over a certain length of the line of biological succession. Guided by analogy, in his “Origin of Species” he placed as the root of life a primordial germ, from which he conceived the amazing richness and variety of the life that now is upon the earth’s surface, might be deduced. If this were true it would not be final. The human imagination would infallibly look behind the germ, and inquire into the history of its genesis.

Certainty is here hopeless, but the materials for an opinion may be attainable. In this dim twilight of speculation the inquirer welcomes every gleam, and seeks to augment his light by indirect incidences. He studies the methods of nature in the ages and the worlds within his reach, in order to shape the course of imagination in the antecedent ages and worlds. And though the certainty possessed by experimental inquiry is here shut out, the imagination is not left entirely without guidance. From the examination of the solar system, Kant and Laplace came to the conclusion that its various bodies once formed parts of the same undislocated mass; that matter in a nebulous form preceded matter in a dense form; that as the ages rolled away heat was wasted, condensation followed, planets were detached, and that finally the chief portion of the fiery cloud reached, by self-compression, the magnitude and density of our sun. The earth itself offers evidence of a fiery origin; and in our day the hypothesis of Kant and Laplace receives the independent countenance of spectrum analysis, which proves the same substances to be common to the earth and sun. Accepting some such view of the construction of our system as probable, a desire immediately arises to connect the present life of our planet with the past. We wish to know something of our remotest ancestry.

On its first detachment from the central mass, life, as we understand it, could hardly have been present on the earth. How then did it come there? The thing to be encouraged here is a reverent freedom—a freedom preceded by the hard discipline which checks licentiousness in speculation—while the thing to be repressed, both in science and out of it, is dogmatism. And here I am in the hands of the meeting—willing to end, but ready to go on. I have no right to intrude upon you, unasked, the unformed notions which are floating like clouds or gathering to more solid consistency in the modern speculative scientific mind. But if you wish me to speak plainly, honestly, and undisputatiously, I am willing to do so. On the present occasion

You are ordained to call, and I to come.

Two views, then, offer themselves to us. Life was present potentially in matter when in the nebulous form, and was unfolded from it by the way of natural development, or it is a principle inserted into matter at a later date. With regard to the question of time, the views of men have changed remarkably in our day and generation; and I must say as regards courage also, and a manful willingness to engage in open contest, with fair weapons, a great change has also occurred.

The clergy of England—at all events the clergy of London—have nerve enough to listen to the strongest views which any one amongst us would care to utter; and they invite, if they do not challenge, men of the most decided opinions to state and stand by those opinions in open court. No theory upsets them. Let the most destructive hypothesis be stated only in the language current among gentlemen, and they look it in the face. They forego alike the thunders of heaven and the terrors of the other place, smiting the theory, if they do not like it, with honest secular strength. In fact, the greatest cowards of the present day are not to be found among the clergy, but within the pale of science itself.

Two or three years ago in an ancient London college—a clerical institution—I heard a very remarkable lecture by a very remarkable man. Three or four hundred clergymen were present at the lecture. The orator began with the civilization of Egypt in the time of Joseph; pointing out that the very perfect organization of the kingdom, and the possession of chariots, in one of which Joseph rode, indicated a long antecedent period of civilization. He then passed on to the mud of the Nile, its rate of augmentation, its present thickness, and the remains of human handiwork found therein; thence to the rocks which bound the Nile valley, and which team with organic remains. Thus, in his own clear and admirable way, he caused the idea of the world’s age to expand itself indefinitely before the mind of his audience, and he contrasted this with the age usually assigned to the world.

During his discourse he seemed to be swimming against a stream; he manifestly thought that he was opposing a general conviction. He expected resistance; so did I. But it was all a mistake; there was no adverse current, no opposing conviction, no resistance, merely here and there a half humorous but unsuccessful attempt to entangle him in his talk. The meeting agreed with all that had been said regarding the antiquity of the earth and of its life. They had, indeed, known it all long ago, and they good-humoredly rallied the lecturer for coming amongst them with so stale a story. It was quite plain that this large body of clergymen, who were, I should say, the finest samples of their class, had entirely given up the ancient landmarks, and transported the conception of life’s origin to an indefinitely distant past.

In fact, clergymen, if I might be allowed a parenthesis to say so, have as strong a leaning towards scientific truth as other men, only the resistance to this bent—a resistance due to education—is generally stronger in their case than in others. They do not lack the positive element, namely, the love of truth, but the negative element, the fear of error, preponderates.

The strength of an electric current is determined by two things—the electro-motive force, and the resistance that force has to overcome. A fraction, with the former as numerator and the latter as denominator, expresses the current-strength. The “current-strength” of the clergy towards science may also be expressed by making the positive element just referred to the numerator, and the negative one the denominator of a fraction. The numerator is not zero nor is it even small, but the denominator is large; and hence the current strength is such as we find it to be. Slowness of conception, even open hostility, may be thus accounted for. They are for the most part errors of judgment, and not sins against truth. To most of us it may appear very simple, but to a few of us it appears transcendently wonderful, that in all classes of society truth should have this power and fascination. From the countless modifications that life has undergone through natural selection and the integration of infinitesimal steps, emerges finally the grand result that the strength of truth is greater than the strength of error, and that we have only to make the truth clear to the world to gain the world to our side. Probably no one wonders more at this result than the propounder of the law of natural selection himself. Reverting to an old acquaintance of ours, it would seem, on purely scientific grounds, as if a Veracity were at the heart of things; as if, after ages of latent working, it had finally unfolded itself in the life of man; as if it were still destined to unfold itself, growing in girth, throwing out stronger branches and thicker leaves, and tending more and more by its overshadowing presence to starve the weeds of error from the intellectual soil.

But this is parenthetical; and the gist of our present inquiry regarding the introduction of life is this: Does it belong to what we call matter, or is it an independent principle inserted into matter at some suitable epoch—say when the physical conditions become such as to permit of the development of life? Let us put the question with all the reverence due to a faith and culture in which we all were cradled—a faith and culture, moreover, which are the undeniable historic antecedents of our present enlightenment. I say, let us put the question reverently, but let us also put it clearly and definitely.

There are the strongest grounds for believing that during a certain period of its history the earth was not, nor was it fit to be, the theater of life. Whether this was ever a nebulous period, or merely a molten period, does not much matter; and if we revert to the nebulous condition, it is because the probabilities are really on its side. Our question is this: Did creative energy pause until the nebulous matter had condensed, until the earth had been detached, until the solar fire had so far withdrawn from the earth’s vicinity as to permit a crust to gather round a planet? Did it wait until the air was isolated, until the seas were formed, until evaporation, condensation, and the descent of rain had begun, until the eroding forces of the atmosphere had weathered and decomposed the molten rocks so as to form soils, until the sun’s rays had become so tempered by distance and by waste as to be chemically fit for the decompositions necessary to vegetable life? Having waited through those æons until the proper conditions had set in, did it send the fiat forth, “Let life be!”? These questions define a hypothesis not without its difficulties, but the dignity of which was demonstrated by the nobleness of the men whom it sustained.

Modern scientific thought is called upon to decide between this hypothesis and another; and public thought generally will afterwards be called upon to do the same. You may, however, rest secure in the belief that the hypothesis just sketched can never be stormed, and that it is sure, if it yield at all, to yield to a prolonged siege. To gain new territory, modern argument requires more time than modern arms, though both of them move with greater rapidity than of yore.

But however the convictions of individuals here and there may be influenced, the process must be slow and secular which commends the rival hypothesis of natural evolution to the public mind. For what are the core and essence of this hypothesis? Strip it naked and you stand face to face with the notion that not alone the more ignoble forms of animalcular or animal life, not alone the nobler forms of the horse and lion, not alone the exquisite and wonderful mechanism of the human body, but that the human mind itself—emotion, intellect, will, and all their phenomena—were once latent in a fiery cloud. Surely the mere statement of such a motion is more than a refutation. But the hypothesis would probably go even further than this. Many who hold it would probably assent to the position that at the present moment all our philosophy, all our poetry, all our science, and all our art—Plato, Shakespeare, Newton, and Raphael—are potential in the fires of the sun.

We long to learn something of our origin. If the evolution hypothesis be correct, even this unsatisfied yearning must have come to us across the ages which separate the unconscious primeval mist from the consciousness of to-day. I do not think that any holder of the evolution hypothesis would say that I overstate it or overstrain it in any way. I merely strip it of all vagueness, and bring before you, unclothed and unvarnished, the notions by which it must stand or fall.

Surely these notions represent an absurdity too monstrous to be entertained by any sane mind. Let us, however, give them fair play. Let us steady ourselves in front of the hypothesis, and, dismissing all terror and excitement from our minds, let us look firmly into it with the hard, sharp eye of intellect alone. Why are these notions absurd, and why should sanity reject them? The law of relativity, of which we have previously spoken, may find its application here. These evolution notions are absurd, monstrous, and fit only for the intellectual gibbet in relation to the ideas concerning matter which were drilled into us when young. Spirit and matter have ever been presented to us in the rudest contrast, the one as all noble, the other as all vile. But is this correct? Does it represent what our mightiest spiritual teacher would call the eternal fact of the universe? Upon the answer to this question all depends.

Supposing, instead of having the foregoing antithesis of spirit and matter presented to our youthful minds, we had been taught to regard them as equally worthy and equally wonderful; to consider them, in fact, as two opposite faces of the self-same mystery. Supposing that in youth we had been impregnated with the notion of the poet Goethe, instead of the notion of the poet Young, looking at matter, not as brute matter, but as “the living garment of God;” do you not think that under these altered circumstances the law of relativity might have had an outcome different from its present one? Is it not probable that our repugnance to the idea of primeval union between spirit and matter might be considerably abated? Without this total revolution of the notions now prevalent the evolution hypothesis must stand condemned; but in many profoundly thoughtful minds such a revolution has already taken place. They degrade neither member of the mysterious duality referred to; but they exalt one of them from its abasement, and repeal the divorce hitherto existing between both. In substance, if not in words, their position as regards spirit and matter is: “What God hath joined together let not man put asunder.”