B. Lindsay

If we are to accept the opinion of Dr. Isaac Watts, man, as a moral being, is distinctly inferior to the "birds in their little nests," who live in harmony with one another; and, again, if we are to believe Solomon, he is by no means always the equal in intelligence of the Ant. Yet somehow it came as a shock to many who had been accustomed to revere both these authors, when they were asked, early in the latter half of the nineteenth century, to regard man, from a zoological point of view, as just a little superior to the Apes.

Then arose a great agitation as to the possibility of finding the Missing Link. We shall see later on in this chapter, that if Research had been content, like Charity, to begin at home, its industry would have been duly rewarded. But inquiry, carried far afield in time and place, has not been without result. For it is generally believed that the remains found in 1894 in Java by Dr. EugÈne Dubois, are veritably those of the Missing Link. These remains, which consist of the top of a skull, two teeth and a thigh bone, belong either to the oldest Pleistocene age, or to the upper Pliocene; they are found in association with the remains of other animals, among which are included some forms now extinct, or absent from that region. These ape-like remains have been carefully compared with those of the lowest races of man which have hitherto been found in a fossil state, and the result of the comparison is as follows: Of twelve experts present at the Zoological Congress held at Leyden, "three held that the fossil remains belonged to a low race of man, three declared them to be those of a man-like ape of great size; the rest maintained that they belonged to an intermediate form, which directly connected primitive man with the anthropoid apes" (Haeckel). To the creature represented by these bones has been assigned the name of Pithecanthropus erectus, the Upright Ape-Man.

Let us now return from the subject of the Java fossil to those inquiries which, as we have above suggested, begin at home. We have already referred to the great principle of modern zoology, that the history of the development of the individual sums up the history of the development of the race. Of late years it has occurred to scientific men to apply this principle in the case of human beings, and to ask, "What can the baby teach us?"

The Baby, for one thing, has a very small nose, insignificant compared with the size of its jaw. At least scientists find that this is the case with their babies—if would, of course, be invidious to make such a remark regarding their friends' children; and still more so to add, that in this the Baby differs from the human adult, and somewhat resembles the Ape, in which the nose is still less prominent, and the jaw still more so. Observations have been made, too, regarding the Baby's remarkable power of "holding on" with its hands. While a Baby is, in most respects, a very weak creature, yet its powers of grip have been favourably compared with those of adult human beings. No one who has ever tried to rescue his watch or his hair from the clutches of a friend's Baby, will feel inclined to doubt the conclusions of scientific observers regarding the point in question.

The observations above referred to were made by Dr. Louis Robinson. He drew his conclusions from the study of sixty cases, all of them infants less than a month old; and of these at least half were tested within an hour of their birth.

In every instance except two, says Dr. Robinson, the child was able to hang on by its hands to the finger, or to a small stick three quarters of an inch in diameter, and to sustain the whole weight of its body for at least ten seconds. "In twelve cases, in infants under an hour old, half a minute passed before the grasp relaxed, and in three or four cases nearly a minute." In infants of about four days old, increased strength was shown, and "nearly all, when tried at this age, could sustain their weight for half a minute. At about a fortnight or three weeks after birth the faculty appeared to have attained its maximum, for several at this period succeeded in hanging for over a minute and a half, two for over two minutes, and one infant of three weeks old for two minutes thirty-five seconds!" "Thus," says Dr. Robinson, "a three-weeks-old baby can perform a feat of muscular strength that would tax the powers of many a healthy adult. If any of my readers doubt this," he adds, "let them try hanging by their hands from a horizontal bar for three minutes."

In these facts Dr. Robinson finds something to remind us of the ape-babies that owe their safety to their capability of holding on to a tree-climbing mother; and also something to suggest connection with an ancestor which, although well accustomed to the use of its hands, had yet to learn the use of its feet for walking on flat ground.

The same author, in discussing the "Meaning of a Baby's Footprint," has shown that the foot of a young child bears traces of adaptation to a state of existence in which it was used for purposes other than that of walking.

"The toes of infants," says Dr. Robinson, "are much more mobile than those of adults. The great toe is shorter than the second and third, and is often separated from the second by a considerable interval. The four outer toes can be, and frequently are, bent downwards so as to show a distinct knuckle on the upper aspect of the foot at the metatarso-phalangeal joint, and when at the same time the great toe is flexed and turned inwards towards the sole, the front part of the foot makes a very respectable fist. The great and little toes are often made to approach one another beneath the rest, and I have seen one child who could almost make them touch, and who habitually would endeavour to make the great toe oppose the others when any graspable object was brought into contact with the front part of the sole."[E]

[E] Nineteenth Century for May, 1892.

Regarding the lines in the sole of the foot, Dr. Robinson says: "The sole is covered with lines of a character exactly similar to those on the hand; and when the toes are bent downwards these become deep creases, showing that they are, like the palmar lines, the natural folding-places of the integument to facilitate the action of grasping.... The lines are scarcely visible at fourteen months old, and are only present in a few cases after the age of two years. In adults no trace of them can be seen when the foot is at rest, and only the faintest indication at one or two spots when the toes are flexed to the utmost. The obliteration is doubtless owing to the foot being used as an organ for progression rather than prehension, and it will be seen that the most distinct line crosses the sole at the spot where the epidermis is always dense and callous, and the subcutaneous tissues thickened into a cushion-like pad by the pressure and friction consequent on walking. This line undoubtedly marks the place where the chief fold in the skin was situated, when the toes were habitually clasped round some object such as the branch of a tree." It has been pointed out by other writers that the lines of the sole of the foot can plainly be seen in the adult foot of some savage races. It must be added, however, that the survival of the lines in the adult civilised foot is by no means so rare as Dr. Robinson's remarks would lead one to suppose. I have seen instances in which they were quite clearly marked. It must be added that anyone who wishes to confirm my observations in this respect must be careful not to mistake lines of disfigurement, caused by the pressure of boots, which are sufficiently common, for the primitive lines of the foot.

The child, as it grows, ceases to remind us of the ape. Its nose gets bigger as its toes cease to wriggle and learn to stand. But, for years of its life, it is only too apt to remind us of the savage. How greedy it often is! How readily it snatches that which does not belong to it! How quick it is to quarrel with its playmates, and to fight! How noisy when at play! How cross when it meets with disappointment! How fond of tawdry things! In all these qualities we see the history of the race, repeating itself in the life of the individual. The savage has preceded the civilised family—the child shows us the faults of a lower race. With the elapse of years they disappear, and are replaced by the more amiable and gracious manners of the adult human being.

Nor do we need to go into the nursery to find links with our inferiors. Much, indeed far too much, has been written of late years about "atavistic degeneracy"; that is to say, degeneracy which imitates the characteristics of our forefathers. Many things which are classed as diseases, whether of the body, mind, or moral nature, may be explained in this way. Take the gills, which, as we have stated, exist in all vertebrates, but not in the adult of the highest groups. In a sickly individual, even among the highest vertebrates, traces of these are sometimes seen existing in the adult, as a gap or open space in the neck, called by the medical man "cervical fistula": this is an instance of degeneracy in the body. Take, for another instance, the kleptomaniac, who snatches up everything he takes a fancy to, although he is not in want. This is degeneracy of the mind, a relic of savage nature out of place in civilised man. Yet the gill-space is an ancestral feature which has its right time to appear, though it is out of place in the adult; and the "want-to-snatch" stage, as we have already seen, is quite natural in the young child. A parallel instance to the last is that of the hysterical girl who invents all sorts of tales about her harrowing adventures, weaving in stories she has heard of other people, with an account of her own life. She is an impostor; but her instinct for weaving yarns is that of the savage, who is the more admired by his fellows the more he can show himself a liar. Even the dangerous criminal, such as the Anarchist assassin, is comparable with the treacherous savage, who stabs his guest, and with the fierce animal that bites the hand that feeds it.

The causes of degeneracy may seem obscure. But if we turn to our gardens, how easily is the process understood! Leave a cultivated plant to look after itself; neither watered, nor manured, nor weeded; and how long will it be before the plant resembles its wild ancestors? The flower will be less fine, the leaves more weedy; the whole aspect of the plant is changed. The causes: insufficient food and water, and the struggle for root space, standing-room, and light, with the weeds around it. Just in like manner the human being, when unfed, unwashed, and untaught, begins to degenerate. The want of fresh air and light associated with slum life, and even in the country, associated with the homes of the poor, are factors in the case that are not to be forgotten. Add to these drink, and the other sins of the fathers which are visited on the children. All these are among the causes of degeneracy.

Nay more, the very virtues of the parents, as we account them, may lead to the degeneracy of the offspring. Overwork, either physical or mental, causes the deterioration of the family, and in our days nearly every man successful in any career, either commercial or intellectual, is guilty of overwork. The "haste to be rich," equally with the haste to be famous, tells on the next generation. Those who are fond of moralising at the expense of their neighbours, enjoy pointing out the unsatisfactory careers of the sons of men who have become rich. Almost invariably such a one is idle, we are told, and fond of pleasure. Good cause has he to be so. He comes into the world with weakened constitution, owing to his father's strenuous career; and if he were to work as hard as his father, he would probably soon be dead; or at least his children, in their turn, would be miserable and diseased. Nature guides his inclinations, and whispers "Do not work too hard," "Do not deny yourself too much"; and thus, so long as his father's money maintains him, his life is preserved.

What is the kind of degeneracy that overtakes the family of the brain-worker? The modern world is full of it. We owe to the unamiable genius of Max Nordau a criticism of the intellectual world of the present day, which attributes well-nigh all the follies of intellectual cliques to degeneracy. Poetry, which is "full of sound and fury, signifying nothing," rich in rhyme and alliteration, but wanting in sense; art which seeks effect by loud and inharmonious colours; music which rejects "mere melody": in these the critic sees the taste of the savage, fond of a jingle of words, fond of bright colours, and ignorant of middle tints; and fond of noise without a tune.

The so-called Æsthetic movement which, a few years ago, wrought such marvels in decoration and in dress, comes in for a share of the critic's analysis. The dull senses of the degenerate cannot appreciate the soft colours which ordinary persons like to look at; to attract his attention and to please his fancy, he must have staring red, or staring blue. Or, if he possesses an object which is of special interest, he must bring this into contrast with a very sombre background, lest by chance it should miss being seen.

I met with an amusing instance the other day which is much to the point. In a remote part of the British Isles, two friends, immigrants from the world of "culture," had been criticising the landscape. It was a pity, they agreed, that everything was so grey and dull; otherwise the neighbourhood might have been pretty. If only the cottagers could be got to grow something in their gardens that would give a touch of colour to the scene! These poor creatures had before their purblind sight all Nature's rich harmony of colour, which affords such pleasure to persons of true taste. Green fields, brown rocks, blue sea, and blue sky, all were dull to them. Wild flowers of a score of kinds, and bright with every colour—these were too insignificant to be visible. They wanted some big patch of vivid colour, perfectly inappropriate to the climate and surroundings. Some exotic plant was needed, in their opinion, to give a touch of brightness. The harmony of colour and beauty of form in our native plants, and in the common flowers of cottage gardens, were imperceptible to their unobservant eyes. Their intelligence was on a level with that of the savage, who is impressed by new and striking objects, and delighted by gaudy colours, but finds no beauty in wild nature or in accustomed things. These people were typical specimens of the degenerate of the book-reading classes; dull of understanding and wanting in taste, as the result of mental overwork in several successive generations; immeasurably inferior in Æsthetic capabilities to the untaught peasants and fishermen of the district they would fain enlighten—for these appreciate the beauty of their country, and love its flowers.

Much might be added regarding atavistic degeneracy, as an explanation of the mental and moral defects of human beings. Its most frequent form, perhaps, is that of mere laziness. The Ape does not work; nor does the savage, if he can possibly help it. Civilised man, if thoroughly sound in mind and body, likes activity, and activity with a purpose. The poor man takes a pride in his labour; the rich man takes a pride in his skill in games, his learning, or his efforts to benefit others. The idler, disinclined for either hearty work or hearty play, is a Degenerate. Of late there has been much discussion of a plan for treating the confirmed idler as a criminal. It will be seen from the remarks made above, that there are equally good reasons for treating him as an invalid. In criticising the plans of would-be reformers, this fact should not be forgotten. He was a wise man who said "You cannot, by passing an Act of Parliament, make a Vice into a Crime."

It must, however, be remarked that the doctrine of degeneracy has lost both in force and in usefulness, by the treatment it has received at the hands of those who have constituted themselves its popular exponents. Some of these writers have made it but too evident that their criticisms are often captious, and that their definition of degeneracy includes all human failings—except their own. The reader who devotes a little attention to the subject will, however, readily find an explanation of this: for he will easily recognise, in the popular writers on Degeneracy, the characteristics of the Degenerate, as described by themselves.

First, the choice of a disagreeable subject, when the whole field of science lay open to them: for the Degenerate prefers a disagreeable subject. Secondly, the almost universal discovery of causes of dissatisfaction, in every possible direction: for the Degenerate is always vexed with everybody—except himself. Again, the want of principle shown in appealing to the morbid tastes of the public, by laying before it information on disagreeable subjects: for the Degenerate is lacking in principle; what does it matter to him how much harm is done to weak minds by his writings, so long as he sees in such writings a safe means of securing eager readers and liberal pay? Again, the Degenerate seeks notoriety; and this is easily secured by writing books that discuss the morbid side of life.

Above all, the habit of carrying the war of criticism into regions of art and culture with which the writer is obviously unfamiliar: this also marks the tendency of the writer's mind. To criticise the doing of that which he can by no means do; to destroy that which he can by no means make; to leave no margin of leniency in his judgment, for the imperfections which disfigure all human work: these are the familiar failings of youth, of the unripe mind. They are also those of the type of mind that never attains ripeness—of the Degenerate: we are forbidden, on high authority, to apply to our brethren a shorter and less modern term.

But although the doctrine of Degeneracy has thus found its way to the general reader in a form which is often much to be regretted, it is nevertheless a doctrine which, if wisely used, may lead to the most beneficial results. Already it is widely recognised, by the thinkers of all nations, that the theory of degeneracy, when thoroughly understood, must revolutionise our treatment of the criminal classes. Instead of the attempt to punish, civilised legislation must eventually, in many cases, substitute a system of restraint.

It is useless to try to reform the idler or the thief, whose instinct for idling or thieving is as imperative as a cat's instinct for catching mice. So long as he goes free, so long will the instinct reassert itself at every renewal of opportunity. Repeated punishment of the offender, who is powerless against his own impulses, is frequently a mere cruelty; while his repeated release, at the termination of every punitive sentence, is, on the other hand, still more certainly, a cruelty to the community at large, which he afflicts by his presence. Public opinion is gradually becoming awake to the necessity for fresh methods of dealing with these problems; it is by the patient investigations of scientific men that it has been enlightened.

TABLE SHOWING THE PLACE OF MAN IN CLASSIFICATIONS

Meanwhile, it must not be forgotten that the theory of degeneracy has its cheerful aspect. It enables us to look at the offending fellow-creature who belongs to the criminal classes, as an incomplete development rather than as a hardened sinner. It reminds us, too, that the criminal and the idler of to-day are now, what in the times of savagery and animalism, every man once was. The degenerate criminal, in fact, stands as a landmark, to point out the progress which has been made by the human race. This was the starting-point, where now he stands. How great the progress that is measured by the distance between him, and the orderly, kindly-hearted citizen of the present age!