Part 32

As we pass from the older rocks into the newer, we not only find that the animals of each successive formation become gradually more and more like existing species upon the globe, but we also find that there has been a gradual progression and development in the types of animal life which characterize the geological ages. Taking the earliest-known and oldest examples of any given group, it can sometimes be shown that these primitive forms, even though they are highly organized themselves, possessed certain characters such as are now only to be met with in the young of their existing representatives. Such characters, which are technically called embryonic characters, do not prevent the frequent attainment by their possessors of sizes much more gigantic than those of their nearest living relatives. Moreover, these ancient forms of life represent what are called comprehensive types, or types that possess characters in combination such as are nowadays found separately developed in different groups of animals. Such permanent retention of embryonic characters and comprehensiveness of structural type are signs of what zoölogists consider to be comparatively low grades of organization, and their prevalence in the earlier forms of animals is a very astonishing phenomenon, though they are none the less perfectly organized so far as their peculiar type is concerned. As we ascend the geological scale, these features will be found to gradually disappear, higher and even higher forms will be introduced, and specialization of type take the place of the former comprehensiveness. That there has been in the past a general progression of organic types, and that the appearance of the lower forms of life has in the main preceded that of the higher forms in point of time, is a widely-accepted generalization of palæontology.

Now that it has been seen that there has been a gradual progression and development of animal types all through the ages up to the era of man, the question naturally occurs whether or not the changes are still going on which will result in a higher development. Man coexisted in Western Europe with several remarkable mammals in the later portion of the Post-Pliocene Period. While we do not know the causes which led to the extinction of the mammoth, woolly rhinoceros, cave-lion and others, yet we do know that scarcely any mammalian species have become extinct during the historical period. The species with which man coexisted are such that presumably required a very different climate to that now prevailing in Western Europe. Some of the deposits in which man’s remains have been found in association with the bones of extinct mammals incontestably show that great changes in the physiography and surface-configuration of the country had taken place since the period of their accumulation, the human implements themselves bearing evidence of an exceedingly barbarous condition of the human species. Post-Pliocene, or Palæolithic man, was clearly unacquainted with the use of the metals. Not only was this the case, but the workmanship of these ancient races was much inferior to that of the later tribes, who were also ignorant of the metals, and who also used nothing but weapons and tools of stone, bone, etc., in war, chase and domestic affairs. When first man spread over the earth, he had no domestic animals, perhaps not even the dog, and had no knowledge of agriculture. His weapons were of the rudest character, and his houses scarcely worthy of the name. No doubt can exist that his food, habits and entire manner of living have varied as he has passed from country to country, for he must then have been far more subject to the influence of external circumstances, and in all probability more susceptible of change. Moreover, his form, which is now stereotyped by long ages of repetition, may reasonably be presumed to have been more plastic than is now the case. As long as man led a mere animal existence, he would be subject to the same laws, and would vary in the same manner as the rest of his fellow-creatures. But when at last he had acquired the capacity of clothing himself, and of making weapons or tools, he has taken away from nature, in a great measure, that power of changing the external form and structure which she exercises over all other animals. From the time, then, when his social and sympathetic feelings came into active operation, and his intellectual and moral faculties became fairly developed, man’s physical form and structure would not be so much influenced by natural laws, and, therefore, as an animal, he would become almost stationary, his environment ceasing to have upon him that powerful modifying effect which it exercises over other parts of the organic world. But from the moment that his body became less subject to the changes of the surrounding universe, his mind would become acted upon by the influences which the body had escaped. Every slight variation in his mental and moral nature, which would consequently be brought about, and which would enable him better to guard against adverse circumstances, and league together for mutual comfort and protection, would be preserved and accumulated. The better and higher specimens of our race would therefore increase and diffuse themselves, while the lower and more brutal would succumb and successively die out, and that rapid advancement of mental organization would occur, which has raised the very lowest races of men, whose mentality was scarcely superior to the animal, to that high position which it has attained in the Germanic races. It would be too bold an assertion to say that man’s body has become stationary. Slow and gradual changes still take place, although his mere bodily structure long ago became of less importance to him than that subtle energy, which is termed mind. No one can doubt that _this_ gave his naked and unprotected body clothing against the varying inclemencies of the seasons and enabled him to compete with the deer in swiftness and the wild bull in strength by giving him weapons wherewith to capture or subdue them both. Though less capable than most other animals of subsisting on the herbs and the fruits of unaided nature, it was this wonderful faculty that taught him to govern and direct nature to his own benefit, and compel her to produce food for him when and where he pleased. From the moment, then, when the first skin was used as a covering, the first rude spear fashioned to aid in the chase, and the first seed sown or shoot planted, a grand revolution was effected in nature, a revolution which had had no parallel in all the previous cycles of the world’s history, for a being had arisen who was no longer necessarily subject to a changing universe, a being who was in some degree superior to nature, inasmuch as he knew how to control and regulate her action, and could maintain himself in unison with her, not by a change brought about in the body, but by a growth and advance in mind. Therein are shadowed forth the true grandeur and dignity of man. Not only has he achieved for himself a great victory in this rising by the power of mind superior to nature in a sense, but he has also gained a directing influence over other existences, in that he has been able to grasp from nature some of that power which, before his appearance, she universally exercised. From all that man has accomplished in the past, it is easy to anticipate the time when only cultivated plants and domestic animals will be produced by the earth, and when the ocean, which, for countless cycles of ages ruled supreme over the globe, will be the only domain in which that power can be exercised.

That man has improved under civilization there can be no question. Statistics show that, since the introduction of civilization, the population of the earth in general has increased. No one can fail to observe that under its influence the means of subsistence have increased even more rapidly than the population. Far from suffering for lack of food, the most densely peopled countries are those in which it is, not only absolutely but even relatively most abundant. A thousand men live to-day in plenty upon an area of ground that would scarcely afford a scanty and precarious subsistence to a single savage. There is no denying the fact that happiness is increased by civilization. To talk of the free and noble savage is folly. The true savage is neither free nor noble. He is a slave to his own wants, his own passions. Imperfectly protected as he is from the weather, he suffers at night from the cold and by day from the heat of the sun. Ignorant of agriculture, living by the chase, and improvident in success, hunger ever stares him in the face, and often drives him to the dreadful alternative of cannibalism or death. The life of all beasts in their wild state is certainly an exceedingly anxious one. So it is with the savage. He is always suspicious, always in danger, always on the watch. He can depend on no one, and no one can depend upon him, for he expects nothing from his neighbor, and does unto others as he believes that they would do unto him. His life is one prolonged scene of selfishness and fear. Even in his religion, if he has any, he creates for himself a new source of terror, and peoples the world with invisible enemies. More wretched is the position of the female savage than that of her master, for she not only shares his sufferings, but has also to bear his ill-humor and ill-usage, being little better than his dog, little dearer than his horse. Few of them, it is believed, are so fortunate as to die a natural death, being despatched ere they become old and emaciated, that so much good food shall not be lost. Indeed, so little importance is attached to women, either before or after death, that it may be doubted whether the man does not esteem his dog, when alive, quite as much as he does his woman, and think of both quite as often and as lovingly after he has made a meal of them. Not content, moreover, with the pleasures incident to their mode of life, savages appear to take a melancholy delight in self-inflicted sufferings. They not only tattoo their bodies, but practise the most extraordinary methods of disfigurement and self-torture, some amputating the little finger, while others drill immense holes in the under-lip, or pierce the cartilage of the nose. These and many other curious practices, none the less painful because they are voluntary, are in vogue among savage people. Turning now to the bright side of the question, we cannot but conclude that the pleasures of civilized man are greater than those of the savage. While man will never be able to improve the organization of the eye or the ear, yet, on the other hand, the invention of the telescope and the microscope is equivalent in its results to an immense improvement of the eyes, thus opening up to us new worlds, fresh sources of interest and happiness, while the training of the ear will enable us to invent new musical instruments and compose new melodies. The savage, like a child, sees and hears only that which is brought directly before him, but the civilized man questions nature, and by the various processes of chemistry, electricity and magnetism, and a thousand ingenious contrivances, forces nature to reveal herself, thereby discovering hidden uses and unsuspected beauties, quite as marvellously as though he were endowed with some entirely new organ of sense. Through the discovery of printing, we are brought into communion with the greatest minds, and thus the thoughts of a Shakespeare or a Tennyson, or the discoveries of a Newton or a Darwin, become the common property of mankind. Already the results of this all-important, though simple, process have vastly improved our mental faculties, and day by day, as books become cheaper, schools are established and education more general, a greater and greater effect will be produced.

Nor are all these new sources of happiness accompanied by any new liability to suffering. On the contrary, while our pleasures are increased, our pains are lessened. In a thousand ways we can avoid or diminish evils which to our ancestors were great and unavoidable. No one can estimate the misery which, for instance, the simple discovery of chloroform has spared the human race. The capacity for pain, so far as it can serve as a warning, remains all the same, but the necessity for endurance has been greatly diminished. With increased knowledge of the laws of health, and attention thereto, disease will become less and less frequent, and those tendencies to disease which we have inherited from our ancestors will gradually die out, and, if fresh seeds are not sown, the race will one day enjoy the inestimable advantages of a more vigorous and healthy existence. Thus, then, with the increasing influence of science we may confidently look forward to a great improvement in the condition of man. But it may be alleged that our present sufferings and sorrows arise chiefly from sin, and that any moral improvement must come from religion and not from science. This separation of the two mighty agents of improvement, the great misfortune of humanity, has done more than anything else to retard the progress of civilization. But even if we admit for the nonce that science will not render us more virtuous, it must certainly make us more innocent, for in fact the most of our criminal population are mere savages, persons who can rarely read and write, and whose crimes are but injudicious and desperate attempts to live a savage life in the midst, and at the expense, of a civilized community. Men do wrong either from ignorance or in the hope, unexpressed perhaps even to themselves, that they may enjoy the pleasure and yet avoid the penalty of sin. All that they have to do they think, when they have committed sin, is to repent. The religious teaching of the day has much to do with this misapprehension. Repentance is too frequently regarded as a substitute for punishment. Sin it is thought is followed either by the one or the other. So far, therefore, as this world is concerned, this is not the case; repentance may enable a man to avoid sin in future, but has no effect on the consequences of the past. The laws of nature are not only just and salutary, but they are also inexorable. While all men admit that “the wages of sin is death,” yet they seem to think that this is a general rule to which there may be many exceptions, that some sins may possibly tend to happiness. That suffering is the inevitable consequence of sin, as surely as an effect follows a cause, is the stern yet salutary teaching of science. And certainly if this lesson were thoroughly impressed upon our minds, that punishment and not happiness is the consequence of sin, then temptation, which is the very root of crime, would be cut away, and mankind must therefore necessarily become more innocent. May we not go still further and say that science will also render us more virtuous? He who studies philosophy can only obtain a just idea of the great things for which Providence has fitted his understanding. Such a study not only makes our lives more agreeable, but it also makes them better, and every motive of interest and duty should constrain a rational being to direct his mind towards pursuits which all experience has shown to be the sure path of virtue and happiness.

Man is in reality but on the threshold of civilization. Far from showing any indication of having reached the end, the tendency to improvement seems laterally to have proceeded with augmented impetus and accelerated rapidity. There is no reason to suppose that it must now cease. Man has not attained the limits of intellectual development, nor exhausted the infinite capabilities of nature. There are many things not yet dreamt of in our philosophy which science must reveal, many discoveries yet to be made which will confer upon the human race advantages which as yet, perhaps, we are not in a condition to grasp and appreciate. We seem, when we compare our present knowledge with the great ocean of truth that lies all undiscovered before us, like little children playing on the sea-shore, and picking up a smoother pebble and prettier shell than any they had met with before. Thus, it is obvious, that our most sanguine hopes for the future are justified by the entire experience of the past. It is surely unreasonable to presume that a process which has been going on for so many thousand years should have now suddenly ceased; and he must indeed be blind who thinks that our civilization is unsusceptible of improvement, or that we ourselves are in the highest state possible for man to attain. Theory, as well as experience, forces the same conclusion upon us. That principle of Natural Selection, which in animals affects the body and seems to have little influence on the mind, in man affects the mind and has little influence on the body. In the former it leads mainly to the preservation of life, and in the latter to the improvement of the mind, and consequently to the increase of happiness. It ensures, in the words of Spencer, “a constant progress towards a higher skill, intelligence, and self-regulation--a better coördination of actions--a more complete life.” Nearly all the evils under which we suffer, it will be conceded, may be attributed either to ignorance or sin. That ignorance will be diminished by the progress of science is, of course, self-evident; and that the same will be the case with sin, seems little less so. Thus, then, do both science and theory point to the same conclusion. That which poets hardly dared to hope for, the future happiness of our race, science boldly predicts. Even in our own time we trust to see some wonderful improvement. But the unselfish mind, however, will find its highest gratification in the belief that, whatever may be the case with ourselves, our descendants will understand many things which are mysterious to us now, will better appreciate the beautiful world in which we live, avoid much of the suffering to which we are subject, enjoy many blessings of which we are not yet worthy, and escape many of those temptations which we deplore but cannot wholly resist.

We have thus seen that all life has been progressive. There has been through the ages a steadily growing upward tendency to higher life. But the changes have mainly been in the line of physical form and structure. And such, too, had been the case with man, until his social, intellectual and moral faculties had begun to assert themselves, when his body ceased in a great measure to be acted upon by physical laws, and development began to manifest itself in a higher type of mental organization. From the low, simple, childlike mind of palæolithic man has come that wonderful intellect which now characterizes the Germanic races, and which is destined to make itself felt in its contact with all the earth. Those peoples that are able to embrace the new civilization brought to their doors, so to speak, will survive, while the others, unable to adapt themselves thereto, like the Tasmanian, will succumb in the struggle with a superior being and go to the wall. Animals and plants will be brought into new relations and new conditions, and such as can meet the new requirements will, as certain species have done before, endure. They will, in other words, have partaken of an enlightened civilization. Thus things will go on until all life, vegetal and animal, will be brought under the controlling and elevating influence of man, and then will be inaugurated on earth that condition when the lion and the kid shall lie down together, and a little child shall be found in their midst. Nothing harmful will anywhere exist. Heaven will then have been brought down to earth, and peace and harmony will universally prevail. Then will have come the complete triumph of mind over body. All growth and development of the reformed and regenerated earth-man will be in the direction of mind, and his accomplishments will he share with the inferior subjects of his peaceful and happy domain. Progression, however, will not cease, but will go on steadily advancing as the years increase. And if there is a life beyond the earth-life, then the intellect or mind, or soul if you please, shall, in some form or other, exist therein, and reach up into higher and yet higher growth and development.

SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST.

Among organic beings in a state of nature there is some individual variability. This is an admission about which there can be no dispute. But the mere existence of individual variability and of a few well-marked varieties, though necessary as the foundation for the work, assists us but little in understanding how species originate in nature. Those exquisite adaptations of one part of the organization to another part, and to the conditions of life, and of one organic being to another being, which we know to exist, seem as mysteries. We see them in the humblest parasite that clings to the hairs of a quadruped or the feathers of a bird, in the structure of the beetle that dives through the water, and in the plumed seed that is wafted by the gentlest breeze. In short, we see beautiful adaptations everywhere and in every part of the organic world. And yet, how few have paused while admiring these beautiful and wonderful co-adaptations to ask themselves the question: How have these been perfected?

If the existence of any well-marked varieties be admitted, how is it that these varieties, which may be denominated incipient species, become ultimately converted into good and distinct species, which in the generality of cases obviously differ from each in a greater degree than do the varieties of the same species? How do these groups of species, which constitute what are authoritatively called genera, and which differ from each other more than do the species of the same genus, arise? All these results, as will presently be seen, follow from the Struggle for Existence. Owing to this struggle, all variations, no matter how slight they may be, or from what cause soever they may proceed, will, if they be in any degree profitable to the individuals of a species in their infinitely complex relations to other organic beings and their physical conditions of life, unavoidably conduce to the preservation of such individuals, and generally be inherited by the offspring. The offspring, too, will thus have a better chance of surviving, for, of the many individuals of a species that are periodically born, but a very small number can survive. That principle, by which each slight variation, if useful to the individual, is preserved, has been termed Natural Selection by Darwin, in order to distinguish it from the selection which is exercised by man over the plants and animals which he has brought under subjection for his own wants. But the expression--Survival of the Fittest--so frequently used by Spencer, is more accurate, and sometimes equally convenient. Man can certainly produce great results by this power, and can adapt, through the accumulation of slight but useful variations given to him by the hand of nature, organic beings to his own uses. But Natural Selection, as is well known, is a power incessantly ready for action, and is as infinitely superior to man’s feeble efforts as the works of nature are to those of art.