O abbondante grazia, ond' io presunsi
Ficcar lo viso per la luce eterna
Tanto, che la veduta vi consunsi!
Nel suo profondo vidi che s' interna,
Legato con amore in un volume,
CiÒ che per l' universo si squaderna.
Dante, Paradiso, xxxiii. 82.
I
The Summer Field, and what it tells us
TThere are few sights in Nature more restful to the soul than a daisied field in June. Whether it be at the dewy hour of sunrise, with blithe matin songs still echoing among the treetops, or while the luxuriant splendour of noontide fills the delicate tints of the early foliage with a pure glory of light, or in that more pensive time when long shadows are thrown eastward and the fresh breath of the sea is felt, or even under the solemn mantle of darkness, when all forms have faded from sight and the night air is musical with the murmurs of innumerable insects, amid all the varying moods through which the daily cycle runs, the abiding sense is of unalloyed happiness, the profound tranquillity of mind and heart that nothing ever brings save the contemplation of perfect beauty. One's thought is carried back for the moment to that morning of the world when God looked upon his work and saw that it was good. If in the infinite and eternal Creative Energy one might imagine some inherent impulse perpetually urging toward fresh creation, what could it be more likely to be than the divine contentment in giving objective existence to the boundless and subtle harmonies whereof our world is made? That it is a world of perfect harmony and unsullied beauty, who can doubt as he strolls through this summer field? As our thought plays lightly with its sights and sounds, there is nothing but gladness in the laugh of the bobolink; the thrush's tender note tells only of the sweet domestic companionship of the nest; creeping and winged things emerging from their grubs fill us with the sense of abounding life; and the myriad buttercups, hallowed with vague memories of June days in childhood, lose none of their charm in reminding us of the profound sympathy and mutual dependence in which the worlds of flowers and insects have grown up. The blades of waving grass, the fluttering leaves upon the lilac bush, appeal to us with rare fascination; for the green stuff that fills their cellular tissues, and the tissues of all green things that grow, is the world's great inimitable worker of wonders; its marvellous alchemy takes dead matter and breathes into it the breath of life. But for that magician chlorophyll, conjuring with sunbeams, such things as animal life and conscious intelligence would be impossible; there would be no problems of creation, nor philosopher to speculate upon them. Thus the delight that sense impression gives, as we wander among buttercups and daisies, becomes deepened into gratitude and veneration, till we quite understand how the rejuvenescence of Nature should in all ages have aroused men to acts of worship, and should call forth from modern masters of music, the most religious of the arts of expression, outbursts of sublimest song.
And yet we need but come a little closer to the facts to find them apparently telling us a very different story. The moment we penetrate below the superficial aspect of things the scene is changed. In the folklore of Ireland there is a widespread belief in a fairyland of eternal hope and brightness and youth situated a little way below the roots of the grass. From that land of Tir nan Og, as the peasants call it, the secret springs of life shoot forth their scions in this visible world, and thither a few favoured mortals have now and then found their way. It is into no blest country of Tir nan Og that our stern science leads us, but into a scene of ugliness and hatred, strife and massacre. Macaulay tells of the battlefield of Neerwinden, that the next summer after that frightful slaughter the whole countryside was densely covered with scarlet poppies, which people beheld with awe as a token of wrath in heaven over the deeds wrought on earth by human passions. Any summer field, though mantled in softest green, is the scene of butchery as wholesale as that of Neerwinden and far more ruthless. The life of its countless tiny denizens is one of unceasing toil, of crowding and jostling, where the weaker fall unpitied by the way, of starvation from hunger and cold, of robbery utterly shameless and murder utterly cruel. That green sward in taking possession of its territory has exterminated scores of flowering plants of the sort that human economics and Æsthetics stigmatize as weeds; nor do the blades of the victorious army dwell side by side in amity, but in their eagerness to dally with the sunbeams thrust aside and supplant one another without the smallest compunction. Of the crawling insects and those that hum through the air, with the quaint snail, the burrowing worm, the bloated toad, scarce one in a hundred but succumbs to the buffets of adverse fortune before it has achieved maturity and left offspring to replace it. The early bird, who went forth in quest of the worm, was lucky if at the close of a day as full of strife and peril as ever knight-errant encountered, he did not himself serve as a meal for some giant foe in the gloaming. When we think of the hawk's talons buried in the breast of the wren, while the relentless beak tears the little wings from the quivering, bleeding body, our mood toward Nature is changed, and we feel like recoiling from a world in which such black injustice, such savage disregard for others, is part of the general scheme.
II
Seeming Wastefulness of the Cosmic Process
BBut as we look still further into the matter, our mood is changed once more. We find that this hideous hatred and strife, this wholesale famine and death, furnish the indispensable conditions for the evolution of higher and higher types of life. Nay more, but for the pitiless destruction of all individuals that fall short of a certain degree of fitness to the circumstances of life into which they are born, the type would inevitably degenerate, the life would become lower and meaner in kind. Increase in richness, variety, complexity of life is gained only by the selection of variations above or beyond a certain mean, and the prompt execution of a death sentence upon all the rest. The principle of natural selection is in one respect intensely Calvinistic; it elects the one and damns the ninety and nine. In these processes of Nature there is nothing that savours of communistic equality; but "to him that hath shall be given, and from him that hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath." Through this selection of a favoured few, a higher type of life—or at all events a type in which there is more life—is attained in many cases, but not always. Evolution and progress are not synonymous terms. The survival of the fittest is not always a survival of the best or of the most highly organized. The environment is sometimes such that increase of fitness means degeneration of type, and the animal and vegetable worlds show many instances of degeneration. One brilliant instance is that which has preserved the clue to the remote ancestry of the vertebrate type. The molluscoid ascidian, rooted polyp-like on the sea beach in shallow water, has an embryonic history which shows that its ancestors had once seen better days, when they darted to and fro, fishlike, through the waves, with the prophecy of a vertebrate skeleton within them. This is a case of marked degeneration. More often survival of the fittest simply preserves the type unchanged through long periods of time. But now and then under favourable circumstances it raises the type. At all events, whenever the type is raised, it is through survival of the fittest, implying destruction of all save the fittest.
This last statement is probably true of all plants and of all animals except that as applied to the human race it needs some transcendently important qualifications which students of evolution are very apt to neglect. I shall by and by point out these qualifications. At present we may note that the development of civilization, on its political side, has been a stupendous struggle for life, wherein the possession of certain physical and mental attributes has enabled some tribes or nations to prevail over others, and to subject or exterminate them. On its industrial side the struggle has been no less fierce; the evolution of higher efficiency through merciless competition is a matter of common knowledge. Alike in the occupations of war and in those of peace, superior capacity has thriven upon victories in which small heed has been paid to the wishes or the welfare of the vanquished. In human history perhaps no relation has been more persistently repeated than that of the hawk and the wren. The aggression has usually been defended as in the interests of higher civilization, and in the majority of cases the defence has been sustained by the facts. It has indeed very commonly been true that the survival of the strongest is the survival of the fittest.
Such considerations affect our mood toward Nature in a way that is somewhat bewildering. On the one hand, as we recognize in the universal strife and slaughter a stern discipline through which the standard of animate existence is raised and the life of creatures variously enriched, we become to some extent reconciled to the facts. Assuming, as we all do, that the attainment of higher life is in itself desirable, our minds cannot remain utterly inhospitable towards things, however odious in themselves, that help toward the desirable end. Since we cannot rid the world of them, we acquiesce in their existence as part of the machinery of God's providence, the intricacies of which our finite minds cannot hope to unravel. On the other hand, a thought is likely to arise which in days gone by we should have striven to suppress as too impious for utterance; but it is wiser to let such thoughts find full expression, for only thus can we be sure of understanding the kind of problem we are trying to solve. Is not, then, this method of Nature, which achieves progress only through misery and death, an exceedingly brutal and clumsy method? Life, one would think, must be dear to the everlasting Giver of life, yet how cheap it seems to be held in the general scheme of things! In order that some race of moths may attain a certain fantastic contour and marking of their wings, untold thousands of moths are doomed to perish prematurely. Instead of making the desirable object once for all, the method of Nature is to make something else and reject it, and so on through countless ages, till by slow approximations the creative thought is realized. Nature is often called thrifty, yet could anything be more prodigal or more cynical than the waste of individual lives? Does it not remind one of Charles Lamb's famous story of the Chinaman whose house accidentally burned down and roasted a pig, whereupon the dainty meat was tasted and its fame spread abroad until epicures all over China were to be seen carrying home pigs and forthwith setting fire to their houses? We need but add that the custom thus established lasted for centuries, during which every dinner of pig involved the sacrifice of a homestead, and we seem to have a close parody upon the wastefulness of Nature, or of what is otherwise called in these days the Cosmic Process. Upon such a view as this the Cosmic Process appears in a high degree unintelligent, not to say immoral.
III
Caliban's Philosophy
PPolytheism easily found a place for such views as these, inasmuch as it could explain the unseemly aspects of Nature offhand by a reference to malevolent deities. With Browning's Caliban, in his meditations upon Setebos, that god whom he conceived in his own image, the recklessness of Nature is mockery engendered half in spite, half in mere wantonness. Setebos, he says,
"is strong and Lord,
Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs
That march now from the mountain to the sea;
Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.
Say, the first straggler that boasts purple spots
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off;
Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm,
And two worms he whose nippers end in red;
As it likes me each time, I do: So He."
Such is the kind of philosophy that commends itself to the beastly Caliban, as he sprawls in the mire with small eft things creeping down his back. His half-fledged mind can conceive no higher principle of action—nothing more artistic, nothing more masterful—than wanton mockery, and naturally he attributes it to his God; it is for him a sufficient explanation of that little fragment of the Cosmic Process with which he comes into contact.
IV
Can it be that the Cosmic Process has no Relation to Moral Ends?
BBut as long as we confine our attention to the universal struggle for life and the survival of the fittest, without certain qualifications presently to be mentioned, it is difficult for the most profound intelligence to arrive at conclusions much more satisfactory than Caliban's. If the spirit shown in Nature's works as thus contemplated is not one of wanton mockery, it seems at any rate to be a spirit of stolid indifference. It indicates a Blind Force rather than a Beneficent Wisdom at the source of things. It is in some such mood as this that Huxley tells us, in his famous address delivered at Oxford, in 1893, that there is no sanction for morality in the Cosmic Process. "Men in society," he says, "are undoubtedly subject to the cosmic process. As among other animals, multiplication goes on without cessation and involves severe competition for the means of support. The struggle for existence tends to eliminate those less fitted to adapt themselves to the circumstances of their existence. The strongest, the most self-assertive, tend to tread down the weaker.... Social progress means a checking of the cosmic process at every step and the substitution for it of another, which may be called the ethical process; the end of which is not the survival of those who may happen to be the fittest, in respect of the whole of the conditions which exist, but of those who are ethically the best." Again, says Huxley, "let us understand, once for all, that the ethical progress of society depends, not on imitating the cosmic process, still less in running away from it, but in combating it." And again he tells us that while the moral sentiments have undoubtedly been evolved, yet since "the immoral sentiments have no less been evolved, there is so far as much natural sanction for the one as for the other." And yet again, "the cosmic process has no sort of relation to moral ends."
When these statements were first made they were received with surprise, and they have since called forth much comment, for they sound like a retreat from the position which an evolutionist is expected to hold. They distinctly assert a breach of continuity between evolution in general and the evolution of Man in particular; and thus they have carried joy to the hearts of sundry theologians, of the sort that like to regard Man as an infringer upon Nature. If there is no natural sanction for morality, then the sanction must be supernatural, and forthwith such theologians greet Huxley as an ally!
They are mistaken, however. Huxley does not really mean to assert any such breach of continuity as is here suggested. In a footnote to his printed address he makes a qualification which really cancels the group of statements I have quoted. "Of course," says Huxley, "strictly speaking, social life and the ethical process, in virtue of which it advances toward perfection, are part and parcel of the general process of evolution." Of course they are; and of course the general process of evolution is the cosmic process, it is Nature's way of doing things. But when my dear Huxley a moment ago was saying that the "cosmic process has no sort of relation to moral ends," he was using the phrase in a more restricted sense; he was using it as equivalent to what Darwin called "natural selection," what Spencer called "survival of the fittest," which is only one part of the cosmic process. Now most assuredly survival of the fittest, as such, has no sort of relation to moral ends. Beauty and ugliness, virtue and vice, are all alike to it. Side by side with the exquisite rose flourishes the hideous tarantula, and in too many cases the villain's chances of livelihood are better than the saints. As I said a while ago, if we confine our attention to the survival of the fittest in the struggle for existence, we are not likely to arrive at conclusions much more satisfactory than Caliban's
"As it likes me each time, I do: So He."
In such a universe we may look in vain for any sanction for morality, any justification for love and self-sacrifice; we find no hope in it, no consolation; there is not even dignity in it, nothing whatever but resistless all-producing and all-consuming energy.
Such a universe, however, is not the one in which we live. In the cosmic process of evolution, whereof our individual lives are part and parcel, there are other agencies at work besides natural selection, and the story of the struggle for existence is far from being the whole story. I have thus far been merely stating difficulties; it is now time to point out the direction in which we are to look for a solution of them. I think it can be shown that the principles of morality have their roots in the deepest foundations of the universe, that the cosmic process is ethical in the profoundest sense, that in that far-off morning of the world, when the stars sang together and the sons of God shouted for joy, the beauty of self-sacrifice and disinterested love formed the chief burden of the mighty theme.
V
First Stages in the Genesis of Man
LLet us begin by drawing a correct though slight outline sketch of what the cosmic process of evolution has been. It is not strange that when biologists speak of evolution they should often or usually have in mind simply the modifications wrought in plants and animals by means of natural selection. For it was by calling attention to such modifications that Darwin discovered a true cause of the origin of species by physiological descent from allied species. Thus was demonstrated the fact of evolution in its most important province; men of science were convinced that the higher forms of life are derived from lower forms, and the old notion of special creations was exploded once and forever. This was a great scientific achievement, one of the greatest known to history, and it is therefore not strange that language should often be employed as if Evolutionism and Darwinism were synonymous. Yet not only are there extensive regions in the doctrine of evolution about which Darwin knew very little, but even as regards the genesis of species his theory was never developed in his own hands so far as to account satisfactorily for the genesis of man.
It must be borne in mind that while the natural selection of physical variations will go far toward explaining the characteristics of all the plants and all the beasts in the world, it remains powerless to account for the existence of man. Natural selection of physical variations might go on for a dozen eternities without any other visible result than new forms of plant and beast in endless and meaningless succession. The physical variations by which man is distinguished from apes are not great. His physical relationship with the ape is closer than that between cat and dog, which belong to different families of the same order; it is more like that between cat and leopard, or between dog and fox, different genera in the same family. But the moment we consider the minds of man and ape, the gap between the two is immeasurable. Mr. Mivart has truly said that, with regard to their total value in nature, the difference between man and ape transcends the difference between ape and blade of grass. I should be disposed to go further and say, that while for zoÖlogical man you can hardly erect a distinct family from that of the chimpanzee and orang, on the other hand, for psychological man you must erect a distinct kingdom; nay, you must even dichotomize the universe, putting Man on one side and all things else on the other. How can this overwhelming contrast between psychical and physical difference be accounted for? The clue was furnished by Alfred Russel Wallace, the illustrious co-discoverer of natural selection. Wallace saw that along with the general development of mammalian intelligence a point must have been reached in the history of one of the primates, when variations of intelligence were more profitable to him than variations in body. From that time forth that primate's intelligence went on by slow increments acquiring new capacity, while his body changed but little. When once he could strike fire, and chip a flint, and use a club, and strip off the bear's hide to cover himself, there was clearly no further use in thickening his own hide, or lengthening and sharpening his claws. Natural selection is the keenest capitalist in the universe; she never loses an instant in seizing the most profitable place for investment, and her judgment is never at fault. Forthwith, for a million years or more she invested all her capital in the psychical variations of this favoured primate, making little change in his body except so far as to aid in the general result, until by and by something like human intelligence of a low grade, like that of the Australian or the Andaman islander, was achieved. The genesis of humanity was by no means yet completed, but an enormous gulf had been crossed.
After throwing out this luminous suggestion Mr. Wallace never followed it up as it admitted and deserved. It is too much to expect one man to do everything, and his splendid studies in the geographical distribution of organisms may well have left him little time for work in this direction. Who can fail to see that the selection of psychical variations, to the comparative neglect of physical variations, was the opening of a new and greater act in the drama of creation? Since that new departure the Creator's highest work has consisted not in bringing forth new types of body, but in expanding and perfecting the psychical attributes of the one creature in whose life those attributes have begun to acquire predominance. Along this human line of ascent there is no occasion for any further genesis of species, all future progress must continue to be not zoÖlogical, but psychological, organic evolution gives place to civilization. Thus in the long series of organic beings Man is the last; the cosmic process, having once evolved this masterpiece, could thenceforth do nothing better than to perfect him.
TThis conclusion, which follows irresistibly from Wallace's theorem, that in the genesis of Humanity natural selection began to follow a new path, already throws a light of promise over our whole subject, like the rosy dawn of a June morning. But the explanation of the genesis of Humanity is still far from complete. If we compare man with any of the higher mammals, such as dogs and horses and apes, we are struck with several points of difference: first, the greater progressiveness of man, the widening of the interval by which one generation may vary from its predecessor; secondly, the definite grouping in societies based on more or less permanent family relationships, instead of the indefinite grouping in miscellaneous herds or packs; thirdly, the possession of articulate speech; fourthly, the enormous increase in the duration of infancy, or the period when parental care is needed. Twenty-four years ago, in a course of lectures given yonder in Holden Chapel, I showed that the circumstance last named is the fundamental one, and the others are derivative. It is the prolonged infancy that has caused the progressiveness and the grouping into definite societies, while the development of language was a consequence of the increasing intelligence and sociality thus caused. In the genesis of Humanity the central fact has been the increased duration of infancy. Now, can we assign for that increased duration an adequate cause? I think we can. The increase of intelligence is itself such a cause. A glance at the animal kingdom shows us no such thing as infancy among the lower orders. It is with warm-blooded birds and mammals that the phenomena of infancy and the correlative parental care really begin.
VII
The Chief Cause of Man's lengthened Infancy
tThe reason for this is that any creature's ability to perceive and to act depends upon the registration of experiences in his nerve-centres. It is either individual or ancestral experience that is thus registered; or, strictly speaking, it is both. It is of the first importance that this point should be clearly understood, and therefore a few words of elementary explanation will not be superfluous.
When you learn to play the piano, you gradually establish innumerable associations between printed groups of notes and the corresponding keys on the key-board, and you also train the fingers to execute a vast number of rapid and complicated motions. The process is full of difficulty, and involves endless repetition. After some years perhaps you can play at sight and with almost automatic ease a polonaise of Liszt or a ballad of Chopin. Now this result is possible only because of a bodily change which has taken place in you. Countless molecular alterations have been wrought in the structure of sundry nerves and muscles, especially in the gray matter of sundry ganglia, or nerve-centres. Every ganglion concerned in the needful adjustments of eyes and fingers and wrists, or in the perception of musical sounds, has undergone a change more or less profound. The nature of the change is largely a matter of speculation; but that point need not in any way concern us. It is enough for us to know that there is such a change, and that it is a registration of experiences. The pianist has registered in the intimate structure of his nervous system a world of experiences entirely foreign to persons unfamiliar with the piano; and upon this registration his capacity depends.
Now the same explanation applies to all bodily movements whatever, whether complicated or simple. In writing, in walking, in talking, we are making use of nervous registrations that have been brought about by an accumulation of experiences. To pick up a pencil from the table may seem a very simple act, yet a baby cannot do it. It has been made possible only by the education of the eyes, of the muscles that move the eyes, of the arm and hand, and of the nerve-centres that coordinate one group of movements with another. All this multiform education has consisted in a gradual registration of experiences. In like manner all the actions of man upon the world about him are made up of movements, and every such movement becomes possible only when a registration is effected in sundry nerve-centres.
But this is not the whole story. The case is undoubtedly the same with those visceral movements, involuntary and in great part unconscious, which sustain life; the beating of the heart, the expansion and contraction of the lungs, the slight changes of calibre in the blood-vessels, even the movements of secretion that take place in glands. All these actions are governed by nerves, and these nerves have had to be educated to their work. This education has been a registration of experiences chiefly ancestral, throughout an enormous past, practically since the beginnings of vertebrate life.
With the earlier and simpler forms of animal existence these visceral movements are the only ones, or almost the only ones, that have to be made. Presently the movements of limbs and sense organs come to be added, and as we rise in the animal scale, these movements come to be endlessly various and complex, and by and by implicate the nervous system more and more deeply in complex acts of perception, memory, reasoning, and volition. Obviously, therefore, in the development of the individual organism the demands of the nervous system upon the vital energies concerned in growth must come to be of paramount importance, and in providing for them the entire embryonic life must be most profoundly and variously affected. Though we may be unable to follow the processes in detail, the truth of this general statement is plain and undeniable.
I say, then, that when a creature's intelligence is low, and its experience very meagre, consisting of a few simple perceptions and acts that occur throughout life with monotonous regularity, all the registration of this experience gets effected in the nerve-centres of its offspring before birth, and they come into the world fully equipped for the battle of life, like the snapping turtle, which snaps with decisive vigour as soon as it emerges from the egg. Nothing is left plastic to be finished after birth, and so the life of each generation is almost an exact repetition of its predecessor. But when a creature's intelligence is high, and its experience varied and complicated, the registration of all this experience in the nerve-centres of its offspring does not get accomplished before birth. There is not time enough. The most important registrations, such as those needed for breathing and swallowing and other indispensable acts, are fully effected; others, such as those needed for handling and walking, are but partially effected; others, such as those involved in the recognition of creatures not important as enemies or prey, are left still further from completion. Much is left to be done by individual experience after birth. The animal, when first born, is a baby dependent upon its mother's care. At the same time its intelligence is far more plastic, and it remains far more teachable, than the lower animal that has no babyhood. Dogs and horses, lions and elephants, often increase in sagacity until late in life; and so do apes, which, along with a higher intelligence than any other dumb animals, have a much longer babyhood.
We are now prepared to appreciate the marvellous beauty of Nature's work in bringing Man upon the scene. Nowhere is there any breach of continuity in the cosmic process. First we have natural selection at work throughout the organic world, bringing forth millions of species of plant and animal, seizing upon every advantage, physical or mental, that enables any species to survive in the universal struggle. So far as any outward observer, back in the Cretaceous or early Eocene periods, could surmise, this sort of confusion might go on forever. But all at once, perhaps somewhere in the upper Eocene or lower Miocene, it appears that among the primates, a newly developing family already distinguished for prehensile capabilities, one genus is beginning to sustain itself more by mental craft and shiftiness than by any physical characteristic. Forthwith does natural selection seize upon any and every advantageous variation in this craft and shiftiness, until this favoured genus of primates, this Homo Alalus, or speechless man, as we may call him, becomes preËminent for sagacity, as the mammoth is preËminent for bulk, or the giraffe for length of neck.
VIII
Some of its Effects
IIn doing this, natural selection has unlocked a door and let in a new set of causal agencies. As Homo Alalus grows in intelligence and variety of experience, his helpless babyhood becomes gradually prolonged, and passes not into sudden maturity, but into a more or less plastic intermediate period of youth. Individual experience, as contrasted with ancestral experience, counts for much more than ever before in shaping his actions, and thus he begins to become progressive. He can learn many more new ways of doing things in a hundred thousand years than any other creature could have done in a much longer time. Thus the rate of progress is enhanced, the increasing intelligence of Homo Alalus further lengthens his plastic period of life, and this in turn further increases his intelligence and emphasizes his individuality. The evidence is abundant that Homo Alalus, like his simian cousins, was a gregarious creature, and it is not difficult to see how, with increasing intelligence, the gestures and grunts used in the horde for signalling must come to be clothed with added associations of meaning, must gradually become generalized as signs of conceptions. This invention of spoken language, the first invention of nascent humanity, remains to this day its most fruitful invention. Henceforth ancestral experience could not simply be transmitted through its inheritable impress upon the nervous system, but its facts and lessons could become external materials and instruments of education. Then the children of Homo Alalus, no longer speechless, began to accumulate a fund of tradition, which in the fulness of time was to bloom forth in history and poetry, in science and theology. From the outset the acquisition of speech must greatly have increased the rate of progress, and enhanced the rudimentary sociality.
With the lengthening of infancy the period of maternal help and watchfulness must have lengthened in correspondence. Natural selection must keep those two things nicely balanced, or the species would soon become extinct. But Homo Alalus had not only a mother, but brethren and sisters; and when the period of infancy became sufficiently long, there were a series of Homunculi Alali, the eldest of whom still needed more or less care while the third and the fourth were arriving upon the scene. In this way the sentiment of maternity became abiding. The cow has strong feelings of maternal affection for periods of a few weeks at a time, but lapses into indifference and probably cannot distinguish her grown-up calves as sustaining any nearer relation to herself than other members of the herd. But Femina Alala, with her vastly enlarged intelligence, is called upon for the exercise of maternal affection until it becomes a permanent part of her nature. In the same group of circumstances begins the permanency of the marital relation. The warrior-hunter grows accustomed to defending the same wife and children and to helping them in securing food. Cases of what we may term wedlock, arising in this way, occur sporadically among apes; its thorough establishment, however, was not achieved until after the genesis of Humanity had been completed in most other respects. The elaborate researches of Westermarck have proved that permanent marriage exists even among savages; it did not prevail, however, until the advanced stage of culture represented by the Aztecs in aboriginal America and the Neolithic peoples of ancient Europe. As for strict monogamy, it is a comparatively late achievement of civilization. What the increased and multiplied duration of infancy at first accomplished was the transformation of miscellaneous hordes of Homines Alali into organized clans recognizing kinship through the mother, as exemplified among nearly all American Indians when observed by Europeans.
Thus by gradual stages we have passed from four-footed existence into Human Society, and once more I would emphasize the fact that nowhere do we find any breach of continuity, but one factor sets another in operation, which in turn reacts upon the first, and so on in a marvellously harmonious consensus. Surely if there is anywhere in the universe a story matchless for its romantic interest, it is the story of the genesis of Man, now that we are at length beginning to be able to decipher it. We see that there is a good deal more in it than mere natural selection. At bottom, indeed, it is all a process of survival of the fittest, but the secondary agencies we have been considering have brought us to a point where our conception of the Struggle for Life must be enlarged. Out of the manifold compounding and recompounding of primordial clans have come the nations of mankind in various degrees of civilization, but already in the clan we find the ethical process at work. The clan has a code of morals well adapted to the conditions amid which it exists. There is an ethical sentiment in the clan; its members have duties toward it; it punishes sundry acts even with death, and rewards or extols sundry other acts. We are, in short, in an ethical atmosphere, crude and stifling, doubtless, as compared with that of a modern Christian homestead, but still unquestionably ethical.
IX
Origin of Moral Ideas and Sentiments
NNow, here at last, in encountering the ethical process at work, have we detected a breach of continuity? Has the moral sentiment been flung in from outside, or is it a natural result of the cosmic process we have been sketching? Clearly it is the latter. There has been no breach of continuity. When the prolongation of infancy produced the clan, there naturally arose reciprocal necessities of behaviour among the members of the clan, its mothers and children, its hunters and warriors. If such reciprocal necessities were to be disregarded the clan would dissolve, and dissolution would be general destruction. For, bear in mind, the clan, when once evolved, becomes the unit whose preservation is henceforth the permanent necessity. It is infancy that has made it so. A miscellaneous horde, with brief infancies for its younger members, may survive a very extensive slaughter; but in a clan, where the proportion of helpless children is much greater, and a considerable division of labour between nurses and warriors has become established, the case is different. An amount or degree of calamity sufficient to break up its organization will usually mean total ruin. Hence, when Nature's travail has at length brought forth the clan, its requirements forthwith become paramount, and each member's conduct from babyhood must conform to them. Natural selection henceforth invests her chief capital in the enterprise of preserving the clan. In that primitive social unit lie all the potentiality and promise of Human Society through untold future ages. So for age after age those clans in which the conduct of the individuals is best subordinated to the general welfare are sure to prevail over clans in which the subordination is less perfect. As the maternal instinct had been cultivated for thousands of generations before clanship came into existence, so for many succeeding ages of turbulence the patriotic instinct, which prompts to the defence of home, was cultivated under penalty of death. Clans defended by weakly loyal or cowardly warriors were sure to perish. Unflinching bravery and devoted patriotism were virtues necessary to the survival of the community, and were thus preserved until at the dawn of historic times, in the most grandly militant of clan societies, we find the word virtus connoting just these qualities, and no sooner does the fateful gulf yawn open in the forum than a Curtius joyfully leaps into it, that the commonwealth may be preserved from harm.
Now the moment a man's voluntary actions are determined by conscious or unconscious reference to a standard outside of himself and his selfish motives, he has entered the world of ethics, he has begun to live in a moral atmosphere. Egoism has ceased to be all in all, and altruism—it is an ugly-sounding word, but seems to be the only one available—altruism has begun to assert its claim to sovereignty. In the earlier and purely animal stages of existence it was right enough for each individual to pursue pleasure and avoid pain; it did not endanger the welfare of the species, but on the contrary it favoured that welfare; in its origin avoidance of pain was the surest safeguard for the perpetuation of life, and with due qualifications that is still the case. But as soon as sociality became established, and Nature's supreme end became the maintenance of the clan organization, the standard for the individual's conduct became shifted, permanently and forever shifted. Limits were interposed at which pleasure must be resigned and pain endured, even certain death encountered, for the sake of the clan; perhaps the individual did not always understand it in that way, but at all events it was for the sake of some rule recognized in the clan, some rule which, as his mother and all his kin had from his earliest childhood inculcated upon him, ought to be obeyed. This conception of ought, of obligation, of duty, of debt to something outside of self, resulted from the shifting of the standard of conduct outside of the individual's self. Once thus externalized, objectivized, the ethical standard demanded homage from the individual. It furnished the rule for a higher life than one dictated by mere selfishness. Speaking after the manner of naturalists, I here use the phrase "higher life" advisedly. It was the kind of life that was conducive to the preservation and further development of the highest form of animate existence that had been attained. It appears to me that we begin to find for ethics the most tremendous kind of sanction in the nature of the cosmic process.
A word of caution may be needed. It is not for a moment to be supposed that when primitive men began crudely shaping their conduct with reference to a standard outside of self, they did so as the result of meditation, or with any realizing sense of what they were doing. That has never been the method of evolution. Its results steal upon the world noiselessly and unobserved, and only after they have long been with us does reason employ itself upon them. The wolf does not eat the lamb because he regards a flesh diet as necessary to his health and activity, but because he is hungry, and, like Mr. Harold Skimpole, he likes lamb. It was no intellectual perception of needs and consequences that lengthened the maternal instinct with primeval mothers as the period of infancy lengthened. Nor was it any such intellectual perception that began to enthrone "I ought" in the place of "I wish." If in the world's recurrent crises Nature had waited to be served by the flickering lamp of reason, the story would not have been what it is. Her method has been, with the advent of a new situation, to modify the existing group of instincts; and this work she will not let be slighted; in her train follows the lictor with the symbols of death, and there is neither pity nor relenting. In the primeval warfare between clans, those in which the instincts were not so modified as to shift the standard of conduct outside of the individual's self must inevitably have succumbed and perished under the pressure of those in which the instincts had begun to experience such modification. The moral law grew up in the world not because anybody asked for it, but because it was needed for the world's work. If it is not a product of the cosmic process, it would be hard to find anything that could be so called.
X
The Cosmic Process exists purely for the Sake of Moral Ends
IIhave not undertaken to make my outline sketch of the genesis of Humanity approach to completeness, but only to present enough salient points to make a closely connected argument in showing how morality is evolved in the cosmic process and sanctioned by it. In a more complete sketch it would be necessary to say something about the genesis of Religion. One of the most interesting, and in my opinion one of the most profoundly significant, facts in the whole process of evolution is the first appearance of religious sentiment at very nearly the same stage at which the moral law began to grow up. To the differential attributes of Humanity already considered there needs to be added the possession of religious sentiment and religious ideas. We may safely say that this is the most important of all the distinctions between Man and other animals; for to say so is simply to epitomize the whole of human experience as recorded in history, art, and literature. Along with the rise from gregariousness to incipient sociality, along with the first stammerings of articulate speech, along with the dawning discrimination between right and wrong, came the earliest feeble groping toward a world beyond that which greets the senses, the first dim recognition of the Spiritual Power that is revealed in and through the visible and palpable realm of nature. And universally since that time the notion of Ethics has been inseparably associated with the notion of Religion, and the sanction for Ethics has been held to be closely related with the world beyond phenomena. There are philosophers who maintain that with the further progress of enlightenment this close relation will cease to be asserted, that Ethics will be divorced from Religion, and that the groping of the Human Soul after its God will be condemned as a mere survival from the errors of primitive savagery, a vain and idle reaching out toward a world of mere phantoms. I mention this opinion merely to express unqualified and total dissent from it. I believe it can be shown that one of the strongest implications of the doctrine of evolution is the Everlasting Reality of Religion.
But we have not time at present for entering upon so vast a subject. Let this reference suffice to show that it has not been passed over or forgotten in my theory of the genesis of Humanity. In an account of the evolution of the religious sentiment, its first appearance as coeval, or nearly so, with the beginnings of the ethical process would assume great importance. We have here been concerned purely with the ethical process itself, which we have found to be—as Huxley truly says in his footnote—part and parcel of the general process of evolution. Our historical survey of the genesis of Humanity seems to show very forcibly that a society of Human Souls living in conformity to a perfect Moral Law is the end toward which, ever since the time when our solar system was a patch of nebulous vapour, the cosmic process has been aiming. After our cooling planet had become the seat of organic life, the process of natural selection went on for long ages seemingly, but not really at random; for our retrospect shows that its ultimate tendency was towards singling out one creature and exalting his intelligence.
Now we have seen that this increase of intelligence itself, by entailing upon Man the helplessness of infancy, led directly to the production of those social conditions that called the ethical process into play and set it actively to work. Thus we may see the absurdity of trying to separate the moral nature of Man from the rest of his nature, and to assign for it a separate and independent history. The essential solidarity in the cosmic process will admit of no such fanciful detachment of one part from another. All parts are involved one in another. Again, the ethical process is not only part and parcel of the cosmic process, but it is its crown and consummation. Toward the spiritual perfection of Humanity the stupendous momentum of the cosmic process has all along been tending. That spiritual perfection is the true goal of evolution, the divine end that was involved in the beginning. When Huxley asks us to believe that "the cosmic process has no sort of relation to moral ends," I feel like replying with the question, "Does not the cosmic process exist purely for the sake of moral ends?" Subtract from the universe its ethical meaning, and nothing remains but an unreal phantom, the figment of false metaphysics.
We have now arrived at a position from which a glimmer of light is thrown upon some of the dark problems connected with the moral government of the world. We can begin to see why misery and wrongdoing are permitted to exist, and why the creative energy advances by such slow and tortuous methods toward the fulfilment of its divine purpose. In order to understand these things, we must ask, What is the ultimate goal of the ethical process? According to the utilitarian philosophy that goal is the completion of human happiness. But this interpretation soon refutes itself. A world of completed happiness might well be a world of quiescence, of stagnation, of automatism, of blankness; the dynamics of evolution would have no place in it. But suppose we say that the ultimate goal of the ethical process is the perfecting of human character? This form of statement contains far more than the other. Consummation of happiness is a natural outcome of the perfecting of character, but that perfecting can be achieved only through struggle, through discipline, through resistance. It is for him that overcometh that the crown of life is reserved. The consummate product of a world of evolution is the character that creates happiness, that is replete with dynamic possibilities of fresh life and activity in directions forever new. Such a character is the reflected image of God, and in it are contained the promise and potency of life everlasting.
No such character could be produced by any act of special creation in a garden of Eden. It must be the consummate efflorescence of long ages of evolution, and a world of evolution is necessarily characterized by slow processes, many of which to a looker-on seem like tentative experiments, with an enormous sacrifice of ephemeral forms of life. Thus while the Earth Spirit goes on, unhasting, yet unresting, weaving in the loom of Time the visible garment of God, we begin to see that even what look like failures and blemishes have been from the outset involved in the accomplishment of the all-wise and all-holy purpose, the perfecting of the spiritual Man in the likeness of his Heavenly Father.
These points will receive further indirect illustration as we complete our outline sketch of the cosmic process in the past. It is self-evident that in the production of an ethical character, altruistic feelings and impulses must coÖperate. Let us look, then, for some of the beginnings of altruism in the course of the evolution of life.
XI
Maternity and the Evolution of Altruism
FFrom an early period of the life-history of our planet, the preservation of the species had obviously become quite as imperative an end as the preservation of individuals; one is at first inclined to say more imperative, but if we pause long enough to remember that total failure to preserve individuals would be equivalent to immediate extinction of the species, we see that the one requirement is as indispensable as the other. Individuals must be preserved, and the struggle for life is between them; species must be preserved, and in the rivalry those have the best chance in which the offspring are either most redundant in numbers or are best cared for. In plants and animals of all but the higher types, the offspring are spores or seeds, larvÆ or spawn, or self-maturing eggs. In the absence of parental care the persistence of the species is ensured by the enormous number of such offspring. A single codfish, in a single season, will lay six million eggs, nearly all of which perish, of course, or else in a few years the ocean could not hold all the codfishes. But the princess in the Arabian tale, who fought with the malignant Jinni, could not for her life pick up all the scattered seeds of the pomegranate; and in like manner of the codfish eggs, one in a million or so escapes and the species is maintained. But in the highest types of animal life in birds and mammals—with their four-chambered hearts, completely arterialized blood, and enhanced consciousness—parental care becomes effective in protecting the offspring, and the excessive production diminishes. With birds, the necessity of maintaining a high temperature for the eggs leads to the building of nests, to a division of labour in the securing of food, to the development of a temporary maternal instinct, and to conjugal alliances which in some birds last for a lifetime. As the eggs become effectively guarded the number diminishes, till instead of millions there are half a dozen. When it comes to her more valuable products, Nature is not such a reckless squanderer after all. So with mammals, for the most part the young are in litters of half a dozen or so; but in Man, with his prolonged and costly infancy parental care reaches its highest development and concentration in rearing children one by one.
From the dawn of life, I need hardly say, all the instincts that have contributed to the preservation of offspring must have been favoured and cultivated by natural selection, and in many cases even in types of life very remote from Humanity, such instincts have prompted to very different actions from such as would flow from the mere instinct of self-preservation. If you thrust your walking-stick into an ant-heap, and watch the wild hurry and confusion that ensues when part of the interior is laid bare, you will see that all the workers are busy in moving the larvÆ into places of safety. It is not exactly a maternal instinct, for the workers are not mothers, but it is an altruistic instinct involving acts of self-devotion. So in the case of fish that ascend rivers or bays at spawning time, the actions of the whole shoal are determined by a temporarily predominant instinct that tends towards an altruistic result. In these and lower grades of life there is already something at work besides the mere struggle for life between individuals; there is something more than mere contention and slaughter; there is the effort towards cherishing another life than one's own. In these regions of animate existence we catch glimpses of the cosmic roots of love and self-sacrifice. For the simplest and rudest productions of Nature mere egoism might suffice, but to the achievement of any higher aim some adumbration of altruism was indispensable.
Before such divine things as love and self-sacrifice could spring up from their cosmic roots and put forth their efflorescence, it was necessary that conscious personal relations should become established between mother and infant. We have already observed the critical importance of these relations in the earliest stages of the evolution of human society. We may now add that the relation between mother and child must have furnished the first occasion for the sustained and regular development of the altruistic feelings. The capacity for unselfish devotion called forth in that relation could afterward be utilized in the conduct of individuals not thus related to one another.
Of all kinds of altruism the mother's was no doubt the earliest; it was the derivative source from which all other kinds were by slow degrees developed. In the evolution of these altruistic feelings, therefore,—feelings which are an absolutely indispensable constituent in the process of ethical development,—the first appearance of real maternity was an epoch of most profound interest and importance in the history of life upon the earth.
Now maternity, in the true and full sense of the word, is something which was not realized until a comparatively recent stage of the earth's history. God's highest work is never perfected save in the fulness of time. For countless ages there were parents and offspring before the slow but never aimless or wanton cosmic process had brought into existence the conscious personal relationship between mother and child. Protection of eggs and larvÆ scarcely suffices for the evolution of true maternity; the relation of moth to caterpillar is certainly very far from being a prototype of it. What spectacle could be more dreary than that of the Jurassic period, with its lords of creation, the oviparous dinosaurs, crawling or bounding over the land, splashing amid the mighty waters, whizzing bat-like through the air, horrible brutes innumerable, with bulky bodies and tiny brains, clumsy, coarse in fibre, and cold-blooded.
"Dragons of the prime,
That tare each other in their slime."
The remnants of that far-off dismal age have been left behind in great abundance, and from them we can easily reconstruct the loathsome picture of a world of dominating egoism, whose redemption through the evolution of true maternity had not yet effectively begun. For such a world might Caliban's theology indeed seem fitted. Nearly nine tenths of our planet's past life-history, measured in duration, had passed away without achieving any higher result than this,—a fact which for impatient reformers may have in it some crumbs of consolation.
For, though the mills of God grind slowly, the cosmic process was aiming at something better than egoism and dinosaurs, and at some time during the long period of the Chalk deposits there began the tremendous world-wide rivalry between these dragons and the rising class of warm-blooded viviparous mammals which had hitherto played an insignificant part in the world. The very name of this class of animals is taken from the function of motherhood. The offspring of these "mammas" come into the world as recognizable personalities, so far developed that the relation between mother and child begins as a relation of personal affection. The new-born mammal is not an egg nor a caterpillar, but a baby, and the baby's dawning consciousness opens up a narrow horizon of sympathy and tenderness, a horizon of which the expansion shall in due course of ages reveal a new heaven and a new earth. At first the nascent altruism was crude enough, but it must have sufficed to make mutual understanding and cooperation more possible than before; it thus contributed to the advancement of mammalian intelligence, and prepared the way for gregariousness, by and by to culminate in sociality, as already described. In the history of creation the mammals were moderns, equipped with more effective means of ensuring survival than their oviparous antagonists. The development of complete mammality was no sudden thing. Some of the dinosaurs may have been ovoviviparous, like some modern serpents. The Australian duck-bill, a relic of the most ancient incipient mammality, is still oviparous; the opossum and kangaroo preserve the record of a stage when viviparousness was but partially achieved; but with the advent of the placental mammals the break with the old order of things was complete.
The results of the struggle are registered in the Eocene rocks. The ancient world had found its Waterloo. Gone were the dragons who so long had lorded it over both hemispheres,—brontosaurs, iguanodons, plesiosaurs, lÆlaps, pterodactyls,—all gone; their uncouth brood quite vanished from the earth, and nothing left alive as a reminder, save a few degenerate collateral kin, such as snakes and crocodiles, objects of dread and loathing to higher creatures. Never in the history of our planet has there been a more sweeping victory than that of the mammals, nor has Nature had any further occasion for victories of that sort. The mammal remains the highest type of animal existence, and subsequent progress has been shown in the perfecting of that type where most perfectible.
XII
The Omnipresent Ethical Trend
WWith the evolution of true maternity Nature was ready to proceed to her highest grades of work. Intelligence was next to be lifted to higher levels, and the order of mammals with greatest prehensile capacities, the primates with their incipient hands, were the most favourable subjects in which to carry on this process. The later stages of the marvellous story we have already passed in review. We have seen the accumulating intelligence lengthen the period of infancy, and thus prolong the relations of loving sympathy between mother and child; we have seen the human family and human society thus brought into existence; and along therewith we have recognized the necessity laid upon each individual for conforming his conduct to a standard external to himself. At this point, without encountering any breach of continuity in the cosmic process, we crossed the threshold of the ethical world, and entered a region where civilization, or the gradual perfecting of the spiritual qualities, is henceforth Nature's paramount aim. To penetrate further into this region would be to follow the progress of civilization, while the primitive canoe develops into the Cunard steamship, the hieroglyphic battle-sketch into epics and dramas, sun-catcher myths into the Newtonian astronomy, wandering tribes into mighty nations, the ethics of the clan into the moral law for all men. The story shows us Man becoming more and more clearly the image of God, exercising creative attributes, transforming his physical environment, incarnating his thoughts in visible and tangible shapes all over the world, and extorting from the abysses of space the secrets of vanished ages. From lowly beginnings, without breach of continuity, and through the cumulative action of minute and inconspicuous causes, the resistless momentum of cosmic events has tended toward such kind of consummation; and part and parcel of the whole process, inseparably wrapped up with every other part, has been the evolution of the sentiments which tend to subordinate mere egoism to unselfish and moral ends.
A narrow or partial survey might fail to make clear the solidarity of the cosmic process. But the history of creation, when broadly and patiently considered, brings home to us with fresh emphasis the profound truth of what Emerson once said, that "the lesson of life ... is to believe what the years and the centuries say against the hours; to resist the usurpation of particulars; to penetrate to their catholic sense." When we have learned this lesson, our misgivings vanish, and we breathe a clear atmosphere of faith. Though in many ways God's work is above our comprehension, yet those parts of the world's story that we can decipher well warrant the belief that while in Nature there may be divine irony, there can be no such thing as wanton mockery, for profoundly underlying the surface entanglement of her actions we may discern the omnipresent ethical trend. The moral sentiments, the moral law, devotion to unselfish ends, disinterested love, nobility of soul,—these are Nature's most highly wrought products, latest in coming to maturity; they are the consummation, toward which all earlier prophecy has pointed. We are right, then, in greeting the rejuvenescent summer with devout faith and hope. Below the surface din and clashing of the struggle for life we hear the undertone of the deep ethical purpose, as it rolls in solemn music through the ages, its volume swelled by every victory, great or small, of right over wrong, till in the fulness of time, in God's own time, it shall burst forth in the triumphant chorus of Humanity purified and redeemed.
