Definition of life—Comparison with a flame—Organism and organization—Machine theory of life—Organisms without organs: monera—Organization and life of the chromacea—Stages of organization—Complex organisms—Symbolic organisms—Organic compounds—Organisms and inorganic bodies compared in regard to matter, form, and function—Crystalloid and colloid substances—Life of crystals—Growth of crystals—Waves of growth—Metabolism—Catalysis—Fermentation—Biogenesis—Vital force—Old and new vitalism—Palavitalism—Antivitalism—Neovitalism.

As the object of this work is the critical study of the wonders of life, and a knowledge of the truth concerning them, we must first of all form a clear idea of the meaning of "life" and "wonder," or miracle. For thousands of years men have appreciated the difference between life and death, between living and lifeless bodies; the former are called organisms, and the latter known as inorganic bodies. Biology—in the widest sense—is the name of the science which treats of organisms; we might call the science which deals with the inorganic "abiology," abiotik, or anorgik. The chief difference between the two provinces is that organisms accomplish peculiar, periodically repeated, and apparently spontaneous movements, which we do not find in inorganic matter. Hence life may be conceived as a special process of movement. Recent study has shown that this is always connected with a particular chemical substance, plasm, and consists essentially in a circulation of matter, or metabolism. At the same time modern science has shown that the sharp distinction formerly drawn between the organic and the inorganic cannot be sustained, but that the two kingdoms are profoundly and inseparably united.

Of all the phenomena of inorganic nature with which the life-process may be compared, none is so much like it externally and internally as the flame. This important comparison was made two thousand four hundred years ago by one of the greatest philosophers of the Ionic school, Heraclitus of Ephesus—the same thinker who first broached the idea of evolution in the two words, Panta rei—all things are in a state of flux. Heraclitus shrewdly conceived life as a fire, a real process of combustion, and so compared the organism to a torch.

Max Verworn has lately employed this metaphor with great effect in his admirable work on general physiology, and has especially dealt with the comparison of the individual life-form with the familiar butterfly shape of the gas-flame. He says:

The comparison of life to a flame is particularly suitable for helping us to realize the relation between form and metabolism. The butterfly-shape of a gas-flame has a very characteristic outline. At the base, immediately above the burner, there is still complete darkness; over this is a blue and faintly luminous zone; and over this again the bright flame expands on either side like the wings of a butterfly. This peculiar form of the flame, with its characteristic features, which are permanent, as long as we do not interfere with the gas or the environment, is solely due to the fact that the grouping of the molecules of the gas and the oxygen at various parts of the flame is constant, though the molecules themselves change every moment. At the base of the flame the molecules of the gas are so thickly pressed that the oxygen necessary for their combustion cannot penetrate; hence the darkness we find here. In the bluish zone a few molecules of oxygen have combined with the molecules of the gas: we have a faint light as the result. But in the body of the flame the molecules of the gas are so freely combined with the oxygen of the atmosphere that we have a lively combustion. However, the exchange of matter (metabolism) between the outpouring gas and the surrounding air is so regulated that we always find the same molecules in the same quantity at the same spot. Thus we get the permanent flame, with all its characteristics. But if we alter the circulation by lessening the stream of gas, the shape of the flame changes, because now the disposition of the molecules on both sides is different. Thus the study of the gas-jet gives us, even in detail, the features we find in the structure of the cell.

The scientific soundness of this metaphor is all the more notable as the phrase, "the flame of life," has long been familiar both in poetry and popular parlance.

In the sense in which science usually employs the word "organism," and in which we employ it here, it is equivalent to "living thing" or "living body." The opposite to it, in the broad sense, is the anorganic or inorganic body. Hence the word "organism" belongs to physiology, and connotes essentially the visible life-activity of the body, its metabolism, nutrition, and reproduction.

However, in most organisms we find, when we examine their structure closely, that this consists of various parts, and that these parts are put together for the evident purpose of accomplishing the vital functions. We call them organs, and the manner in which they are combined, apparently on a definite plan, is their organization. In this respect, we compare the organism to a machine in which some one has similarly combined a number of (lifeless) parts for a definite purpose, but according to a preconceived and rationally initiated design.

The familiar comparison of an organism to a machine has given rise to very serious errors in regard to the former, and has, of late, been made the base of false dualistic principles. The modern "machine-theory of life" which is raised thereon demands an intelligent design and a deliberate constructing engineer for the origin of the organism, just as we find in the case of the machine. The organism is then very freely compared to a watch or a locomotive. In order to secure the regular working of such a complicated mechanism, it is necessary to arrange for a perfect co-operation of all its parts, and the slightest accident to a single wheel suffices to throw it out of gear. This figure was particularly employed by Louis Agassiz (1858), who saw "an incarnate thought of the Creator" in every species of animal and plant. Of late years it has been much used by Reinke in the support of his theosophic dualism. He described God, or "the world-soul," as the "cosmic intelligence," but ascribes to this mystic immaterial being the same attributes that the catechism and the preacher give to the Creator of heaven and earth. He compares the human intelligence which the watch-maker has put into the elaborate structure of the watch with the "cosmic intelligence" which the Creator has put in the organism, and insists that it is impossible to deduce its purposive organization from its material constituents. In this he entirely overlooks the immense difference between the "raw material" in the two cases. The "organs" of the watch are metallic parts, which fulfil their purpose in virtue only of their physical properties (hardness, elasticity, etc.). The organs of the living organism, on the other hand, perform their functions chiefly in virtue of their chemical composition. Their soft plasma-body is a chemical laboratory, the highly elaborate molecular structure of which is the historical product of countless complicated processes of heredity and adaptation. This invisible and hypothetical molecular structure must not (as is often done) be confused with the real and microscopically discoverable structure of the plasm, which is of great importance in the question of organization. If one is disposed to assume for this molecular structure a simple chemical substance, a deliberate design, and an "intelligent natural force" for cause, one is bound to do the same for powder, and say that the molecules of charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre have been purposively combined to produce an explosion. It is well known that powder was not made according to a theory, but accidentally discovered in the course of experiment. The whole of this favorite machine-theory of life, and the far-reaching dualistic conclusions drawn from it, tumble to pieces when we study the simplest organisms known to us, the monera; for these are really organisms without organs—and without organization!

I endeavored in my Generelle Morphologie(1866) to draw the attention of biologists to these simplest and lowest organisms which have no visible organization or composition from different organs. I therefore proposed to give them the general title of monera. The more I have studied these structureless beings—cells without nuclei!—since that time, the more I have felt their importance in solving the greatest questions of biology—the problem of the origin of life, the nature of life, and so on. Unfortunately, these primitive little beings are ignored or neglected by most biologists to-day. O. Hertwig devotes one page of his three-hundred-page book on cells and tissues to them; he doubts the existence of cells without nuclei. Reinke, who has himself shown the existence of unnucleated cells among the bacteria (beggiatoa), does not say a word about their general significance. BÜtschli, who shares my monistic conception of life, and has given it considerable support by his own thorough study of plasma-structures and the artificial production of them in oil and soap-suds, believes, like many other writers, that the "composition of even the simplest elementary organism from cell-nucleus and protoplasm" (the primitive organs of the cell) is indispensable. These and other writers suppose that the nucleus has been overlooked in the protoplasm of the monera I have described. This may be true for one section of them; but they say nothing about the other section, in which the nucleus is certainly lacking. To this class belong the remarkable chromacea (phycochromacea or cyanophycea), and especially the simplest forms of these, the chroococcacea (chroococcus, aphanocapsa, gloeocapsa, etc.). These plasmodomous (plasma-forming) monera, which live at the very frontier of the organic and inorganic worlds, are by no means uncommon or particularly difficult to find; on the contrary, they are found everywhere, and are easy to observe. Yet they are generally ignored because they do not square with the prevailing dogma of the cell.

I ascribe this special significance to the chromacea among all the monera I have instanced because I take them to be the oldest phyletically, and the most primitive of all living organisms known to us. In particular their very simple forms correspond exactly to all the theoretic claims which monistic biology can make as to the transition from the inorganic to the organic. Of the chroococcacea, the chroococcus, gloeocapsa, etc., are found throughout the world; they form thin, usually bluish-green coats or jelly-like deposits on damp rocks, stones, bark of trees, etc. When a small piece of this jelly is examined carefully under a powerful microscope, nothing is seen but thousands of tiny blue-green globules of plasma, distributed irregularly in the common structureless mass. In some species we can detect a thin structureless membrane enclosing the homogeneous particle of plasm; its origin can be explained on purely physical principles by "superficial energy"—like the firmer surface-layer of a drop of rain, or of a globule of oil swimming in water. Other species secrete homogeneous jelly-like envelopes—a purely chemical process. In some of the chromacea the blue-green coloring matter (phyocyan) is stored in the surface-layer of the particle of plasm, while the inner part is colorless—a sort of "central body." However, the latter is by no means a real, chemically and morphologically distinct, nucleus. Such a thing is completely lacking. The whole life of these simple, motionless globules of plasm is confined to their metabolism (or plasmodomism, chapter x.) and the resulting growth. When the latter passes a certain stage, the homogeneous globule splits into two halves (like a drop of quicksilver when it falls). This simplest form of reproduction is shared by the chromacea (and the cognate bacteria) with the chromatella or chromatophora, the green particles of chlorophyll inside ordinary plant-cells; but these are only parts of a cell. Hence no unprejudiced observer can compare these unnucleated and independent granules of plasm with real (nucleated) cells, but must conceive them rather as cytodes. These anatomic and physiological facts may easily be observed in the chromacea, which are found everywhere. The organism of the simplest chromacea is really nothing more than a structureless globular particle of plasm; we cannot discover in them any composition of different organs (or organella) for definite vital functions. Such a composition or organization would have no meaning in this case, since the sole vital purpose of these plasma-particles is self-maintenance. This is attained in the simplest fashion for the individual by metabolism; for the species it is effected by self-cleavage, the simplest conceivable form of reproduction.

Modern histologists have discovered a very intricate and delicate structure in many of the higher unicellular protists and in many of the tissue-cells of the higher animals and plants (such as the nerve-cells). They wrongly conclude that this is universal. In my opinion, this complication of the structure of the elementary organism is always a secondary phenomenon, the slow and gradual result of countless phylogenetic processes of differentiation, initiated by adaptation and transmitted to posterity by heredity. The earliest ancestors of all these elaborate nucleated cells were at first simple, unnucleated cytodes, such as we find to-day in the ubiquitous monera. We shall see more about them in the ninth and fifteenth chapters.

Naturally, this lack of a visible histological structure in the plasma-globule of the monera does not exclude the possession of an invisible molecular structure. On the contrary, we are bound to assume that there is such a structure, as in all albuminoid compounds, and especially all plasmic bodies. But we also find this elaborate chemical structure in many lifeless bodies; some of these, in fact, show a metabolism similar to that of the simplest organisms. We will return subsequently to this subject of catalysis. Briefly, the only difference between the simplest chromacea and inorganic bodies that have catalysis is in the special form of their metabolism, which we call plasmodomism (formation of plasm), or "carbon-assimilation." The mere fact that the chromacea assume a globular form is no sign whatever of a morphological vital process; drops of quicksilver and other inorganic fluids take the same shape when the individual body is formed under certain conditions. When a drop of oil falls into a fluid of the same specific gravity with which it cannot mix (such as a mixture of water and spirits of wine), it immediately assumes a globular shape. Inorganic solids usually take the form of crystals instead. Hence the distinctive feature of the simplest organism, the plasma-particles of the monera, is neither anatomic structure nor a certain shape, but solely the physiological function of plasmodomism—a process of chemical synthesis.

The difference between the monera I have described and any higher organism is, I think, greater in every respect than the difference between the organic monera and the inorganic crystals. Nay, even the difference between the unnucleated monera (as cytodes) and the real nucleated cells may fairly be regarded as greater still. Even in the simplest real cell we find the distinction between two different organella, or "cell-organs," the internal nucleus and the outer cell-body. The caryoplasm of the nucleus discharges the functions of reproduction and heredity; the cytoplasm of the cell-body accomplishes the metabolism, nutrition, and adaptation. Here we have, therefore, the first, oldest, and most important process of division of labor in the elementary organism. In the unicellular protists the organization rises in proportion to the differentiation of the various parts of the cell; in the tissue-forming histona it rises again in proportion to the distribution of work (or ergonomy) among the various organs. Darwin has given us in his theory of selection a mechanical explanation of the apparent design and purposiveness in this.

In order to have a correct monistic conception of organization, it is important to distinguish the individuality of the organism in its various stages of composition. We shall treat this important question, about which there is a good deal of obscurity and contradiction, in a special chapter (vii.). It suffices for the moment to point out that the unicellular beings (protists) are simple organisms both in regard to morphology and physiology. On the other hand, this is only true in the physiological sense of the histona, the tissue-forming animals and plants. From the morphological point of view they are made up of innumerable cells, which form the various tissues. These histonal individuals are called sprouts in the plant world and persons in the animal world. At a still higher stage of organization we have the trunk or stem (cormus), which is made up of a number of sprouts or persons, like the tree or the coral-stem. In the fixed animal stems the associated individuals have a direct bodily connection, and take their food in common; but in the social aggregations of the higher animals it is the ideal link of common interest that unites the individuals, as in swarms of bees, colonies of ants, herds of mammals, etc. These communities are sometimes called "animal-states." Like human polities, they are organisms of a higher type.

However, in order to avoid misunderstanding, we must take the word "organism" in the sense in which most biologists use it—namely, to designate an individual living thing, the material substratum of which is plasm or "living substance"—a nitrogenous carbon-compound in a semi-fluid condition. It leads to a good deal of misunderstanding when separate functions are called organisms, as is done sometimes in speaking of the soul or of speech. It would be just as correct to call seeing or running an organism. It is advisable also in scientific treatises to refrain from calling inorganic compounds as such "organisms," as, for instance, the sea or the whole earth. Such names, having a purely symbolical value, may very well be used in poetry. The rhythmic wave-movement of the ocean may be regarded as its respiration, the surge as its voice, and so on. Many scientists (like Fechner) conceive the whole earth with all its organic and inorganic contents as a gigantic organism, whose countless organs have been arranged in an orderly whole by the world-reason (God). In the same way the physiologist, Preyer, regards the glowing heavenly bodies as "gigantic organisms, whose breath is, perhaps, the glowing vapor of iron, whose blood is liquid metal, and whose food may be meteorites." The danger of this poetic application of the metaphorical sense of organism is very well seen in this instance, as Preyer builds on it a quite untenable hypothesis of the origin of life (see chapter xv.).

In the wider sense the word "organic" has long been used in chemistry as an antithesis to inorganic. By organic chemistry is generally understood the chemistry of the compounds of carbon, that element being distinguished from all the others (some seventy-eight in number) by very important properties. It has, in the first place, the property of entering into an immense variety of combinations with other elements, and especially of uniting with oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and sulphur to form the most complicated albuminoids (see the Riddle, chapter xiv.). Carbon is a biogenetic element of the first importance, as I explained in my carbon-theory in 1866. It might even be called "the creator of the organic world." At first these organogenetic compounds do not appear in the organism in organized form—that is to say, they are not yet distributed into organs with definite purposes. Such organization is a result, not the cause, of the life-process.

I have already shown in the fourteenth chapter of the Riddle(and at greater length in the fifteenth chapter of my History of Creation) that the belief in the essential unity of nature, or the monism of the cosmos, is of the greatest importance for our whole system. I gave a very thorough justification of this cosmic monism in 1866. In the fifth chapter of the Generelle Morphologie I considered the relation of the organic to the inorganic in every respect, pointing out the differences between them on the one hand, and their points of agreement in matter, form, and force on the other. NÄgeli some time afterwards declared similarly for the unity of nature in his able Mechanisch-physiologische BegrÜndung der Abstammungslehre(1884). Wilhelm Ostwald has recently done the same, from the monistic point of view of his system of energy, in his Naturphilosophie, especially in the sixteenth chapter. Without being acquainted with my earlier work, he has impartially compared the physico-chemical processes in the organic and inorganic worlds, partly adducing the same illustrations from the instructive field of crystallization. He came to the same monistic conclusions that I reached thirty-six years ago. As most biologists continue to ignore them, and as, especially, modern vitalism thrusts these inconvenient facts out of sight, I will give a brief summary once more of the chief points as regards the matter, form, and forces of bodies.

Chemical analysis shows that there are no elements present in organisms that are not found in inorganic bodies. The number of elements that cannot be further analyzed is now put at seventy-eight; but of these only the five organogenetic elements already mentioned which combine to form plasm—carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and sulphur—are found invariably in living things. With these are generally (but not always) associated five other elements—phosphor, potassium, calcium, magnesium, and iron. Other elements may also be found in organisms; but there is not a single biological element that is not also found in the inorganic world. Hence the distinctive features which separate the one from the other can be sought only in some special form of combination of the elements. And it is carbon especially, the chief organic element, that by its peculiar affinity enters into the most diverse and complicated combinations with other elements, and produces the most important of all substances, the albuminoids, at the head of which is the living plasm (cf. chapter vi.).

An indispensable condition of the circulation of matter (metabolism) which we call life is the physical process of osmosis, which is connected with the variations in the quantity of water in the living substance and its power of diffusion. The plasm, which is of a spongy or viscous consistency, can take in dissolved matter from without (endosmosis) and eject matter from within (exosmosis). This absorptive property (or "imbibition-energy") of the plasm is connected with the colloidal character of the albuminoids. As Graham has shown, we may divide all soluble substances into two groups in respect of their diosmosis—crystalloids and colloids. Crystalloids (such as soluble salt and sugar) pass more easily into water through a porous wall than colloids (such as albumen, glue, gum, caramel). Hence we can easily separate by dialysis two bodies of different groups which are mixed in a solution. For this we need a flat bottle with side walls of india-rubber and bottom of parchment. If we let this vessel float in a large one containing plenty of water, and pour a mixture of dissolved gum and sugar into the inner vessel, after a time nearly all the sugar passes through the parchment into the water, and an almost pure solution of gum remains in the bottle. This process of diffusion, or osmosis, plays a most important part in the life of all organisms; but it is by no means peculiar to the living substance, any more than the absorptive or viscous condition is. We may even have one and the same substance—either organic or inorganic—in both conditions, as crystal or as colloid. Albumen, which usually seems to be colloidal, forms hexagonal crystals in many plant-cells (for instance, in the aleuron-granules of the endosperm), and tetrahedric hoemoglobin-crystals in many animal-cells (as in the blood corpuscles of mammals). These albuminoid crystals are distinguished by their capacity for absorbing a considerable quantity of water without losing their shape. On the other hand, mineral silicon, which appears as quartz in an immense variety (more than one hundred and sixty) of crystalline forms, is capable in certain circumstances (as metasilicon) of becoming colloidal and forming jelly-like masses of glue. This fact is the more interesting because silicium behaves in other ways very like carbon, is quadrivalent like it, and forms very similar combinations. Amorphous (or non-crystalline) silicium (a brown powder) stands in relation to the black metallic silicon-crystals just as amorphous carbon does to graphite-crystals. There are other substances that may be either crystalloid or colloid in different circumstances. Hence, however important colloidal structure may be for the plasm and its metabolism, it can by no means be advanced as a distinctive feature of living matter.

Nor is it possible to assign an absolute distinction between the organic and the inorganic in respect of morphology any more than of chemistry. The instructive monera once more form a connecting bridge between the two realms. This is true both of the internal structure and the outward form of both classes of bodies—of their individuality (chapter vii.) and their type (chapter viii.). Inorganic crystals correspond morphologically to the simplest (unnucleated) forms of the organic cells. It is true that the great majority of organisms seem to be conspicuously different from inorganic bodies by the mere fact that they are made up of many different parts which they use as organs for definite purposes of life. But in the case of the monera there is no such organization. In the simplest cases (chromacea, bacteria) they are structureless, globular, discoid, or rod-shaped plasmic individuals, which accomplish their peculiar vital function (simple growth and subdivision) solely by means of their chemical constitution, or their invisible molecular structure.

The comparison of cells with crystals was made in 1838 by the founders of the cell-theory, Schleiden and Schwann. It has been much criticised by recent cytologists, and does not hold in all respects. Still it is of importance, as the crystal is the most perfect form of inorganic individuality, has a definite internal structure and outward form, and obtains these by a regular growth. The external form of crystals is prismatic, and bounded by straight surfaces which cut each other at certain angles. But the same form is seen in the skeletons of many of the protists, especially the flinty shells of the diatomes and radiolaria; their silicious coverings lend themselves to mathematical determination just as well as the inorganic crystals. Midway between the organic plasma-products and inorganic crystals we have the bio-crystals, which are formed by the united plastic action of the plasm and the mineral matter—for instance, the crystalline flint and chalk skeletons of many of the sponges, corals, etc. Further, by the orderly association of a number of crystals we get compound crystal groups, which may be compared to the communities of protists—for instance, the branching ice-flowers and ice-trees on the frozen window. To this regular external form of the crystal corresponds a definite internal structure which shows itself in their cleavage, their stratified build, their polar axes, etc.

If we do not restrict the term "life" to organisms properly so-called, and take it only as a function of plasm, we may speak in a broader sense of the life of crystals. This is seen especially in their growth, the phenomenon which Baer regarded as the chief character of all individual development. When a crystal is formed in a matrix, this is done by attracting homogeneous particles. When two different substances, A and B, are dissolved in a mixed and saturated solution, and a crystal of A is put in the mixture, only A is crystallized out of it, not B; on the other hand, if a crystal of B is put in, A remains in solution and B alone assumes the solid crystalline form. We may, in a certain sense, call this choice assimilation. In many crystals we can detect internally an interaction of their parts. When we cut off an angle in a forming crystal, the opposite angle is only imperfectly formed. A more important difference between the growth of crystals and monera is that the former only grow by apposition, or the deposit of fresh solid matter at their surface; while the monera grow, like all cells, by intussusception, or the taking of new matter into their interior. But this difference is easily explained by their difference in consistency, the crystal being solid and the plasm semi-fluid. Moreover, the difference is not absolute; there are intermediary stages between apposition and intussusception. A colloid globule suspended in a salt solution in which it is not dissolved may grow by intussusception.

It was once the custom to restrict sensation and movement to animals, but they are now recognized to be present in nearly all living matter. They are, in fact, not altogether lacking in crystals, as the molecules move in crystallization in definite directions, and unite according to fixed laws; they must, therefore, also possess sensation, as we could not otherwise understand the attraction of the homogeneous particles. We find in crystallization, as in every chemical process, certain movements which are unintelligible without sensation—unconscious sensation, of course. In this respect, also, then, the growth of all bodies follows the same laws (cf. chapters xiii. and xv.).

The growth of a crystal is restricted like the growth of a moneron or of any cell. If the limit is passed and the conditions remain favorable to growth, we find an instance of that excessive or transgressive growth which we call reproduction in the case of living individuals. But we find just the same kind of extension in the inorganic crystal. Every crystal grows in a supersaturated medium only up to a definite size, which is determined by its chemical-molecular constitution. When this limit is reached a number of small crystals appear on the large one. Ostwald, who has made a thorough comparison of the process of growth in crystals and monera, especially notices the striking analogy between a bacterium (a plasmophagous moneron) growing and multiplying in its nutritive fluid and a crystal in its matrix. When the water slowly evaporates from a supersaturated solution of Glauber-salt, not only does a crystal slowly grow in it, but several young crystals appear on it. The analogy with the bacterium multiplying in its nutritive fluid can even be followed as far as its permanent forms or "spores." This quiescent form is assumed by the bacterium if its supply of food is exhausted; if fresh food is added, the multiplication by cleavage begins again. In the same way the crystals of Glauber-salt begin to decay when the solution is evaporated; they lose their crystal water, but not their power of multiplication. Even the amorphous powder of the salt causes again the formation of new watery crystals when put in a supersaturated solution. But the powder loses this property when it is heated, just as the dormant forms (or spores) of the bacteria lose their power of germination.

The exhaustive comparison of the growth of crystals and monera (as the simplest forms of unnucleated cells) is important, because it shows the possibility of tracing the vital function of reproduction—which had usually been regarded as a quite special "wonder of life"—to purely physical conditions. The division of the growing individual into several young ones must necessarily take place when the natural limit of growth has been passed, and when the chemical composition of the growing body and the cohesion of its molecules allow no further enlargement by the assumption of new matter. In order to illustrate the limit of this transgressive growth by a simple physical example, Ostwald imagines a ball placed in a small flat basin, built up high on one side. The ball is in a state of equilibrium in the basin; when it is lightly pushed aside it always returns to its original position. But when the push goes beyond a certain point, and the ball is thrust over the side of the basin, the balance is lost; the ball does not return, but falls to the ground. The crystal behaves just in the same way in a supersaturated solution when it exercises its power of forming new crystals; and it is just the same with the bacterium growing in a nutritive fluid when it passes the limit of its volume of growth, and divides into two individuals.

As we can find no morphological and little physiological difference between the living and non-living, we must look upon metabolism as the chief characteristic of organic life. This process causes the conversion of food into plasm; it is determined by the vital force itself, and is the formation of new living matter. It thus effects the nutrition and growth of the living being, and therefore its reproduction, which is merely transgressive growth. As I shall describe this metabolism fully in the tenth chapter, I will do no more here than emphasize the fact that this vital process also has analogies in inorganic chemistry, in the curious process of catalysis, especially that form of it which we call fermentation.

The distinguished chemist Berzelius discovered in 1810 the remarkable fact that certain bodies, by their mere presence, apart from their chemical affinity, set other bodies in decomposition or composition without being themselves affected. Thus, for instance, sulphuric acid changes the starch in sugar without undergoing any alteration itself. Finely ground platinum brought in contact with hydrogen-superoxide divides it into hydrogen and oxygen. Berzelius called this process catalysis; Mitscherlich, who discovered the cause of it to be the peculiar surface-action of many bodies, gave it the name of "contact-action." It was afterwards discovered that catalysis of this kind is very general, and that a special form of it—fermentation—plays an important part in the life of organisms.

This special form of contact-action which we call fermentation is always effected by catalytic bodies of the albuminoid class, and, in fact, of the group of non-coagulable proteins which are known as peptones. They have—in however small a quantity—the capacity to throw into decomposition large masses of organic matter (in the form of yeast, putrid matter, etc.) without themselves taking part in the decomposition. When these ferments are free and unorganized they are called enzyma, in opposition to organized ferments (bacteria, yeast-fungi, etc.); though the catalytic action of the latter also consists essentially in the production of enzyma. The recent investigations of Verworn, Hofmeister, Ostwald, etc., have shown that these catalyses play everywhere an important part in the life of the plasm. Many recent chemists and physiologists are of opinion that plasm is a colloid catalysator, and that all the varied activities of life are connected with this fundamental vital chemistry. Thus Franz Hofmeister (1901) says in his excellent work on The Chemical Organization of the Cell:

The belief that the agents of the chemical transformation in the cell are catalysators of a colloid nature is in complete accord with other facts that have been directly ascertained. What else are the chemists' ferments but colloid catalysators? The idea that the ferments are the essential chemical agency in the cell is calculated to meet the difficulty which arises from the smallness of the cell in appreciating its chemical processes. However large we suppose the colloid ferment molecules to be, there is room for millions of them in the smallest cell.

In the same way Ostwald attributes the greatest significance to catalysis in connection with the vital processes, and seeks to explain them on his theory of energy by reference to the duration of chemical processes. In the discourse "On Catalysis" that he delivered at Hamburg in 1901 he says:

We must recognize the enzyma as catalysators that arise in the organism during the life of the cells, and by their action relieve the living being of the greater part of its duties. Not only are digestion and assimilation controlled by enzyma from first to last, but the fundamental vital action of most organisms, the production of the necessary chemical energy by combustion at the expense of the oxygen in the air, takes place with the explicit co-operation of enzyma, and would be impossible without them. Free oxygen is, as is well known, a very inert body at the temperature of the living body, and the maintenance of life would be impossible without some acceleration of its rate of reaction.

In his further observations on catalysis and metabolism he says that they are both equally subject to the physico-chemical laws of energy.

Max Verworn has given us a very searching analysis of the molecular process in the catalytic aspect of metabolism in his Biogen Hypothesis (1903), "a critical and experimental study of the processes in living matter." He simplifies the catalytic theory of the enzyma by tracing all the phenomena of life to the catalytic metabolism of one single chemical compound, the plasm, and regards its active molecules, the biogens, as the ultimate chemical factors of the vital process. While the enzyma hypothesis assumes that there are in each cell a great number of different enzyma which are all co-ordinated, and each of which only performs its little special work, the biogen hypothesis deduces all the vital phenomena from one compound, the biogenetic plasm; and thus the biogen molecules, which increase by division into parts, are the sole factors of biological catalysis. Verworn also points out the analogy between this enzymatic process of metabolism and the inorganic processes of catalysis—for instance, in the manufacture of English sulphuric acid. A small and constant quantity of nitromuriatic acid, with the aid of air and water, converts an unlimited mass of sulphuretted acid into sulphuric acid without being changed itself; the molecule of the nitromuriatic acid breaks up steadily by the giving-off of oxygen, and is then restored by the assumption of oxygen.

The manifold and changeful phenomena of life and their sudden extinction at death seem to every thoughtful man to be something so wonderful and so different from all the changes in inorganic nature that from the very beginning of biological philosophy special forces were assumed to explain it. This was particularly due to the remarkable, orderly structure of the organism and the apparent purposiveness of the vital processes. Hence, in earlier days a special organic force (archÆus insitus) was assumed, controlling the individual life and pressing the "raw forces" of inorganic matter into its service. In the same way a special formative impulse was supposed to preside over the wonderful processes of development. When physiology began to win its independence, about the middle of the eighteenth century, it explained the peculiar features of organic life by a specific vital force. The idea was generally received, and Louis Dumas endeavored thoroughly to establish it at the beginning of the nineteenth century (cf. chapter iii. of the Riddle).

As the theory of a vital force, or vitalism, plays an important part in the study of the wonders of life, has undergone the most curious modifications in the course of the nineteenth century, and has been lately revived with great force, we must give a short account of it in its various forms. The phrase can be interpreted in a monistic sense, if we understand by it the sum of the forms of energy which are especially distinctive of the organism, particularly metabolism and heredity. In this we pass no opinion on their nature, and do not say that they are specifically different from the forces of inorganic nature. We might call this monistic conception "physical vitalism." However, the usual metaphysical vitalism affirms in a thoroughly dualistic sense that the vital force is a teleological and super-mechanical principle, is essentially different from the ordinary forces of nature, and of a transcendental character. The special form in which this theory of a supernatural vital force has been presented for the last twenty years is often called Neovitalism; we might call the older form, by contrast, Palavitalism.

The older idea of the vital force as a special energy could very well be accepted in the first third of the nineteenth century, and in the eighteenth, because the physiology of the time was destitute of the most important aids to the founding of a mechanical theory. There was then no such thing as the cell-theory or as physiological chemistry; ontogeny and paleontology were still in their cradles. Lamarck's theory of descent (1809) had been done to death, like his fundamental principle: "Life is only an elaborate physical phenomenon." Hence we can easily understand how physiologists acquiesced in the vitalist hypothesis up to 1833, and supposed the wonders of life to be enigmatic phenomena that escaped physical explanation.

But the position of Palavitalism changed in the second third of the nineteenth century. In 1833 appeared Johannes MÜller's classical Manual of Human Physiology, in which the great biologist not only made a comparative study of the vital phenomena in man and the animals, but sought to provide a sound basis for it in all its sections by his own observations and experiments. It is true that MÜller retained to the last (1858) the current idea of a vital force, as the supreme regulator of all the vital activities. However, he did not regard it as a metaphysical principle (like Haller, Kant, and their followers), but as a natural force, subject, like all others, to fixed chemical and physical laws, and subordinate to the whole. In his comprehensive study of every single vital function—the organs of sense and the nervous system, metabolism and the action of the heart, speech and reproduction—MÜller endeavored above all to establish, by close observation of the facts and careful experiments, the regularity of the phenomena, and to explain their development by a comparison of the higher and lower forms. Hence Johannes MÜller is wrongly described—as he has been of late—as a vitalist; he was rather the first physiologist to provide a physical foundation for the current metaphysical vitalism. He really gives an indirect proof of the reverse theory, as E. Dubois-Reymond rightly observed in his brilliant memorial speech. In the same way Schleiden (1843) cut the ground from under vitalism in botany. By his cell-theory (1838) he showed the unity of the multicellular organism to be the resultant of the functions of all the cells which compose it.

The physical explanation of the vital processes and the rejection of Palavitalism were general in the last third of the nineteenth century. This was due most of all to the great advance in experimental physiology, which Carl Ludwig and Felix Bernard led as regards the animal body, and Julius Sachs and Wilhelm Preyer for the plant. While these and other physiologists used the remarkable results of modern physics and chemistry in the experimental study of the vital functions, and sought to determine their complicated course in terms of mass and weight and formulate their discoveries as mathematically as possible, they brought a great number of the wonders of life under the same fixed laws that were recognized in the physics and chemistry of the inorganic world. On the other hand, vitalism met with a powerful opponent in Charles Darwin, who solved, by his theory of selection, one of the most obscure biological problems, the constantly repeated question: How can we give a mechanical explanation of the orderly structures of the living being? How was this ingenious machine of the animal or plant body unconsciously produced by natural means, without supposing that some intelligent artificer or creator had deliberately designed and produced it?

The further development of Darwin's theory of selection in the last four decades, and the increasing support which has been given to the theory of descent in the great advance of ontogeny, phylogeny, comparative anatomy, and physiology, did much to establish the monistic conception of life. It took the shape more and more of a definite anti-vitalism. Hence it is strange to find that in the course of the last twenty years the old vitalism that everybody had thought dead has lifted up its head once more, though in a new and modified form.[4] This modern vitalism comprises two essentially different tendencies.

The partisans of the modern vital force are divided into two groups, which may be designated the sceptical and the dogmatic. Sceptical Neovitalism was first formulated by Bunge, of Basle (1887), in the introduction to his Manual of Physiological Chemistry. While he granted the possibility of a full explanation of one part of the vital phenomena by mechanical causes, or the physical and chemical forces of lifeless nature, he rejected it for the other half, especially for psychic activities. He insists that the latter cannot be explained mechanically, and that there is nothing analogous to them in inorganic nature; only a supra-mechanical vital force can produce them, and this is transcendental and beyond the range of scientific inquiry. Much the same was said later by Rindfleisch (1888), more recently by Richard Neumeister in his Studies of the Nature of Vital Phenomena (1903), and by Oscar Hertwig in the lecture on "The Development of Biology in the Nineteenth Century," which he delivered at Aachen in 1900.

This sceptical Neovitalism is far surpassed by the dogmatic system, the chief actual representatives of which are the botanist Johannes Reinke and the metaphysician Hans Driesch. The vitalist writings of the latter, which are devoid of any grasp of historical development, have gained a certain vogue through the extraordinary arrogance of their author and the obscurity of his mystic and contradictory speculations. Reinke, on the other hand, has presented his transcendental dualism in clever and attractive form in two works which deserve notice on account of their consistent dualism. In the first of these, The World as Reality (1899), Reinke gives us "the outline of a scientific theory of the universe." The second work (1901) has the title, Introduction to Theoretical Biology. The two works have the same relation to each other as my Riddle of the Universe and the present supplementary volume. As our philosophic convictions are diametrically opposed in the main issues, and as we both think ourselves consistent in developing them, the comparison of them is not without interest in the great struggle of beliefs. Reinke is an avowed supporter of dualism, theism, and teleology. He reduces all the phenomena of life to a supernatural miracle.

Second Table

ANTITHESIS OF THE MONISTIC AND DUALISTIC THEORIES OF ORGANIC LIFE

III