Chapter XIV: Preface (11)

As to natural varieties or races under normal conditions, sexually propagated, it could readily be shown that they are neither more nor less likely to disappear from any inherent cause than the species from which they originated. Whether species wear out, i.e., have their rise, culmination, and decline, from any inherent cause, is wholly a geological and very speculative problem, upon which, indeed, only vague conjectures can be offered. The matter actually under discussion concerns cultivated domesticated varieties only, and, as to plants, is covered by two questions.

First, Will races propagated by seed, being so fixed that they come true to seed, and purely bred (not crossed with any other sort), continue so indefinitely, or will they run out in time--not die out, perhaps, but lose their distinguishing characters? Upon this, all we are able to say is that we know no reason why they should wear out or deteriorate from any inherent cause. The transient existence or the deterioration and disappearance of many such races are sufficiently accounted for otherwise; as in the case of extraordinarily exuberant varieties, such as mammoth fruits or roots, by increased liability to disease, already adverted to, or by the failure of the high feeding they demand. A common cause, in ordinary cases, is cross-breeding, through the agency of wind or insects, which is difficult to guard against. Or they go out of fashion and are superseded by others thought to be better, and so the old ones disappear.

Or, finally, they may revert to an ancestral form. As offspring tend to resemble grandparents almost as much as parents, and as a line of close-bred ancestry is generally prepotent, so newly-originated varieties have always a tendency to reversion. This is pretty sure to show itself in some of the progeny of the earlier generations, and the breeder has to guard against it by rigid selection. But the older the variety is--that is, the longer the series of generations in which it has come true from seed--the less the chance of reversion: for now, to be like the immediate parents, is also to be like a long line of ancestry; and so all the influences concerned--- that is, both parental and ancestral heritability--act in one and the same direction. So, since the older a race is the more reason it has to continue true, the presumption of the unlimited permanence of old races is very strong.

Of course the race itself may give off new varieties; but that is no interference with the vitality of the original stock. If some of the new varieties supplant the old, that will not be because the unvaried stock is worn out or decrepit with age, but because in wild Nature the newer forms are better adapted to the surroundings, or, under man's care, better adapted to his wants or fancies.

The second question, and one upon which the discussion about the wearing out of varieties generally turns, is, Will varieties propagated from buds, i.e., by division, grafts, bulbs, tubers, and the like, necessarily deteriorate and die out? First, Do they die out as a matter of fact? Upon this, the testimony has all along been conflicting. Andrew Knight was sure that they do, and there could hardly be a more trustworthy witness.

"The fact," he says, fifty years ago, "that certain varieties of some species of fruit which have been long cultivated cannot now be made to grow in the same soils and under the same mode of management, which was a century ago so perfectly successful, is placed beyond the reach of controversy. Every experiment which seemed to afford the slightest prospect of success was tried by myself and others to propagate the old varieties of the apple and pear which formerly constituted the orchards of Herefordshire, without a single healthy or efficient tree having been obtained; and I believe all attempts to propagate these varieties have, during some years, wholly ceased to be made."

To this it was replied, in that and the next generation, that cultivated vines have been transmitted by perpetual division from the time of the Romans, and that several of the sorts, still prized and prolific, are well identified, among them the ancient Graecula, considered to be the modern Corinth or currant grape, which has immemorially been seedless; that the old nonpareil apple was known in the time of Queen Elizabeth; that the white beurre pears of France have been propagated from the earliest times; and that golden pippins, St. Michael pears, and others said to have run out, were still to be had in good condition.

Coming down to the present year, a glance through the proceedings of pomological societies, and the debates of farmers' clubs, brings out the same difference of opinion. The testimony is nearly equally divided. Perhaps the larger number speak of the deterioration and failure of particular old sorts; but when the question turns on "wearing out," the positive evidence of vigorous trees and sound fruits is most telling. A little positive testimony outweighs a good deal of negative. This cannot readily be explained away, while the failures may be, by exhaustion of soil, incoming of disease, or alteration of climate or circumstances. On the other hand, it may be urged that, if a variety of this sort is fated to become decrepit and die out, it is not bound to die out all at once, and everywhere at the same time. It would be expected first to give way wherever it is weakest, from whatever cause. This consideration has an important bearing upon the final question, Are old varieties of this kind on the way to die out on account of their age or any inherent limit of vitality?

Here, again, Mr. Knight took an extreme view. In his essay in the "Philosophical Transactions," published in the year 1810, he propounded the theory, not merely of a natural limit to varieties from grafts and cuttings, but even that they would not survive the natural term of the life of the seedling trees from which they were originally taken. Whatever may have been his view of the natural term of the life of a tree, and of a cutting being merely a part of the individual that produced it, there is no doubt that he laid himself open to the effective replies which were made from all sides at the time, and have lost none of their force since. Weeping-willows, bread-fruits, bananas, sugar-cane, tiger-lilies, Jerusalem artichokes, and the like, have been propagated for a long while in this way, without evident decadence. Moreover, the analogy upon which his hypothesis is founded will not hold. Whether or not one adopts the present writer's conception, that individuality is not actually reached or maintained in the vegetable world, it is clear enough that a common plant or tree is not an individual in the sense that a horse or man, or any one of the higher animals, is--that it is an individual only in the sense that a branching zoophyte or mass of coral is. Solvitur crescendo: the tree and the branch equally demonstrate that they are not individuals, by being divided with impunity and advantage, with no loss of life, but much increase. It looks odd enough to see a writer like Mr. Sisley reproducing the old hypothesis in so bare a form as this: "I am prepared to maintain that varieties are individuals, and that as they are born they must die, like other individuals . . . We know that oaks, Sequoias, and other trees, live several centuries, but how many we do not exactly know. But that they must die, no one in his senses will dispute." Now, what people in their senses do dispute is, not that the tree will die, but that other trees, established from its cuttings, will die with it.

But does it follow from this that non-sexually-propagated varieties are endowed with the same power of unlimited duration that is possessed by varieties and species propagated sexually--i.e., by seed? Those who think so jump too soon at their conclusion. For, as to the facts, it is not enough to point out the diseases or the trouble in the soil or the atmosphere to which certain old fruits are succumbing, nor to prove that a parasitic fungus (Peronospora infestans) is what is the matter with potatoes. For how else would constitutional debility, if such there be, more naturally manifest itself than in such increased liability or diminished resistance to such attacks? And if you say that, anyhow, such varieties do not die of old age--meaning that each individual attacked does not die of old age, but of manifest disease--it may be asked in return, what individual man ever dies of old age in any other sense than of a similar inability to resist invasions which in earlier years would have produced no noticeable effect? Aged people die of a slight cold or a slight accident, but the inevitable weakness that attends old age is what makes these slight attacks fatal.

Finally, there is a philosophical argument which tells strongly for some limitation of the duration of non-sexually propagated forms, one that probably Knight never thought of, but which we should not have expected recent writers to overlook. When Mr. Darwin announced the principle that cross-fertilization between the individuals of a species is the plan of Nature, and is practically so universal that it fairly sustains his inference that no hermaphrodite species continually self-fertilized would continue to exist, he made it clear to all who apprehend and receive the principle that a series of plants propagated by buds only must have weaker hold of life than a series reproduced by seed. For the former is the closest possible kind of close breeding. Upon this ground such varieties may be expected ultimately to die out; but "the mills of the gods grind so exceeding slow" that we cannot say that any particular grist has been actually ground out under human observation.

If it be asked how the asserted principle is proved or made probable, we can here merely say that the proof is wholly inferential. But the inference is drawn from such a vast array of facts that it is wellnigh irresistible. It is the legitimate explanation of those arrangements in Nature to secure cross-fertilization in the species, either constantly or occasionally, which are so general, so varied and diverse, and, we may add, so exquisite and wonderful, that, once propounded, we see that it must be true.* What else, indeed, is the meaning and

* Here an article would be in place, explaining the arrangements in Nature for cross-fertilization, or wide-breeding, in plants, through the agency, sometimes of the winds, but more commonly of insects; the more so, since the development of the principle, the appreciation of its importance, and its confirmation by abundant facts, are mainly due to Mr. Darwin. But our reviews and notices of his early work "On the Contrivances in Nature for the Fertilization of Orchids by Means of Insects, in 1862, and his various subsequent papers upon other parts of this subject, are either too technical or too fragmentary or special to be here reproduced. Indeed, a popular essay is now hardly needed, since the topic has been fully presented, of late years, in the current popular and scientific journals, and in common educational works and text-books, so that it is in the way of becoming a part--and a most inviting part--of ordinary botanical instruction. use of sexual reproduction? Not simply increase of numbers; for that is otherwise effectually provided for by budding propagation in plants and many of the lower animals. There are plants, indeed, of the lower sort (such as diatoms), in which the whole multiplication takes place in this way, and with great rapidity. These also have sexual reproduction; but in it two old individuals are always destroyed to make a single new one! Here propagation diminishes the number of individuals fifty per cent. Who can suppose that such a costly process as this, and that all the exquisite arrangements for cross-fertilization in hermaphrodite plants, do not subserve some most important purpose? How and why the union of two organisms, or generally of two very minute portions of them, should reenforce vitality, we do not know, and can hardly conjecture. But this must be the meaning of sexual reproduction.

The conclusion of the matter, from the scientific point of view, is, that sexually-propagated varieties or races, although liable to disappear through change, need not be expected to wear out, and there is no proof that they do; but, that non-sexually propagated varieties, though not especially liable to change, may theoretically be expected to wear out, but to be a very long time about it.

II

Do Species wear out? and if not, why not?

The question we have just been considering was merely whether races are, or may be, as enduring as species. As to the inherently unlimited existence of species themselves, or the contrary, this, as we have said, is a geological and very speculative problem. Not a few geologists and naturalists, however, have concluded, or taken for granted, that species have a natural term of existence--that they culminate, decline, and disappear through exhaustion of specific vitality, or some equivalent internal cause. As might be expected from the nature of the inquiry, the facts which bear upon the question are far from decisive. If the fact that species in general have not been interminable, but that one after another in long succession has become extinct, would seem to warrant this conclusion, the persistence through immense periods of no inconsiderable number of the lower forms of vegetable and animal life, and of a few of the higher plants from the Tertiary period to the present, tells even more directly for the limitless existence of species. The disappearance is quite compatible with the latter view; while the persistence of any species is hardly explicable upon any other. So that, even under the common belief of the entire stability and essential inflexibility of species, extinction is more likely to have been accidental than predetermined, and the doctrine of inherent limitation is unsupported by positive evidence.

On the other hand, it is an implication of the Darwinian doctrine that species are essentially unlimited in existence. When they die out--as sooner or later any species may--the verdict must be accidental death, under stress of adverse circumstances, not exhaustion of vitality; and, commonly, when the species seems to die out, it will rather have suffered change. For the stock of vitality which enables it to vary and. survive in changed forms under changed circumstances must be deemed sufficient for a continued unchanged existence under unaltered conditions. And, indeed, the advancement from simpler to more complex, which upon the theory must have attended the diversification, would warrant or require the supposition of increase instead of diminution of power from age to age.

The only case we call to mind which, under the Darwinian view, might be interpreted as a dying out from inherent causes, is that of a species which refuses to vary, and thus lacks the capacity of adaptation to altering conditions. Under altering conditions, this lack would be fatal. But this would be the fatality of some species or form in particular, not of species or forms generally, which, for the most part, may and do vary sufficiently, and in varying survive, seemingly none the worse, but rather the better, for their long tenure of life.

The opposite idea, however, is maintained by M. Naudin,[XII-1] in a detailed exposition of his own views of evolution, which differ widely from those of Darwin in most respects, and notably in excluding that which, in our day, gives to the subject its first claim to scientific (as distinguished from purely speculative) attention; namely, natural selection. Instead of the causes or operations collectively personified under this term, and which are capable of exact or probable appreciation, M. Naudin invokes "the two principles of rhythm and of the decrease of forces in Nature." He is a thorough evolutionist, starting from essentially the same point with Darwin; for he conceives of all the forms or species of animals and plants "comme tire tout entier d'un protoplasma primordial, uniform, instable, eminemment plastique." Also in "l'integration croissante de la force evolutive a mesure qu'elle se partage dans les formes produites, et la decroissance proportionelle de la plasticite de ces formes a mesure qu'elles s'eloignent davantage de leur origine, et qu'elles sont mieux arretees." As they get older, they gain in fixity through the operation of the fundamental law of inheritance; but the species, like the individual, loses plasticity and vital force. To continue in the language of the original:

"C'est dire qu'il y a eu, pour l'ensemble du monde organique, une periode de formation ou tout etait changeant et mobile, une phase analogue a la vie embryonnaire et a la jeunesse de chaque etre particulier; et qu'a cet age de mobilite et de croissance a succede une periode de stabilite, au moins relative, une sorte d'age adulte, ou la force evolutive, ayant acheve son oeuvre, n'est plus occupee qu'a la maintenir, sans pouvoir produire d'organismes nouveaux. Limitee en quantite, comme toutes les forces en jeu dans une planete ou dans un systeme sideral tout entier, cette force n'a pu accomplir qu'un travail limite; et du meme qu'un organisme, animal ou vegetal, ne croit pas indefiniment et qu'il s'arrete a des proportions que rien ne peut faire depasser, de meme aussi l'organisme total de la nature s'est arrete a un etat d'equilibre, dont la duree, selon toutes vraisemblances, doit etre beaucoup plus longue que celle de la phase de developpement et de croissance.

A fixed amount of "evolutive force" is given, to begin with. At first enormous, because none has been used up in work, it is necessarily enfeebled in the currents into which the stream divides, and the narrower and narrower channels in which it flows with slowly-diminishing power. Hence the limited although very unequal duration of all individuals, of all species, and of all types of organization. A multitude of forms have disappeared already, and the number of species, far from increasing, as some have believed, must, on the contrary, be diminishing. Some species, no doubt, have suffered death by violence or accident, by geological changes, local alteration of the conditions, or the direct or indirect attacks of other species; but these have only anticipated their fate, for M. Naudin contends that most of the extinct species have died a natural death from exhaustion of force, and that all the survivors are on the way to it. The great timepiece of Nature was wound up at the beginning, and is running down. In the earlier stages of great plasticity and exuberant power, diversification took place freely, but only in definite lines, and species and types multiplied. As the power of survival is inherently limited, still more the power of change: this diminishes in time, if we rightly apprehend the idea, partly through the waning of vital force, partly through the fixity acquired by heredity--like producing like, the more certainly in proportion to the length and continuity of the ancestral chain And so the small variations of species which we behold are the feeble remnants of the pristine plasticity and an exhausted force.[XII-2] This force of variation or origination of forms has acted rhythmically or intermittently, because each movement was the result of the rupture of an equilibrium, the liberation of a force which till then was retained in a potential state by some opposing force or obstacle, overcoming which it passes to a new equilibrium and so on Hence alternations of dynamic activity and static repose, of origination of species and types, alternated with periods of stability or fixity. The timepiece does not run down regularly, but "la force procede par saccades; et . . . par pulsations d'autant plus energiques que la nature etait plus pres de son commencement."

Such is the hypothesis. For a theory of evolution, this is singularly unlike Darwin's in most respects, and particularly in the kind of causes invoked and speculations indulged in. But we are not here to comment upon it beyond the particular point under consideration, namely, its doctrine of the inherently limited duration of species. This comes, it will be noticed, as a deduction from the modern physical doctrine of the equivalence of force. The reasoning is ingenious, but, if we mistake not, fallacious.

To call that "evolutive force" which produces the change of one kind of plant or animal into another, is simple and easy, but of little help by way of explanation. To homologize it with physical force, as M. Naudin's argument requires, is indeed a step, and a hardy one; but it quite invalidates the argument. For, if the "evolutive force" is a part of the physical force of the universe, of which, as he reminds us, the sum is fixed and the tendency is toward a stable equilibrium in which all change is to end, then this evolutive was derived from the physical force; and why not still derivable from it? What is to prevent its replenishment in vegetation, pari passu with that great operation in which physical force is stored up in vegetable organisms, and by the expenditure or transformation of which their work, and that of all animals, is carried on? Whatever be the cause (if any there be) which determines the decadence and death of species, one cannot well believe that it is a consequence of a diminution of their proper force by plant-development and division; for instance, that the sum of what is called vital force in a full-grown tree is not greater, instead of less, than that in the seeding, and in the grove greater than in the single parental tree. This power, if it be properly a force, is doubtless as truly derived from the sunbeam as is the power which the plant and animal expend in work. Here, then, is a source of replenishment as lasting as the sun itself, and a ground--so far as a supply of force is concerned--for indefinite duration. For all that any one can mean by the indefinite existence of species is, that they may (for all that yet appears) continue while the external conditions of their being or well-being continue.

Perhaps, however, M. Naudin does not mean that "evolutive force," or the force of vitality, is really homologous with common physical force, but only something which may be likened to it. In that case the parallel has only a metaphorical value, and the reason why variation must cease and species die out is still to seek. In short, if that which continues the series of individuals in propagation, whether like or unlike the parents, be a force in the physical sense of the term, then there is abundant provision in Nature for its indefinite replenishment. If, rather, it be a part or phase of that something which directs and determines the expenditure of force, then it is not subject to the laws of the latter, and there is no ground for inferring its exhaustibility. The limited vitality is an unproved and unprovable conjecture. The evolutive force, dying out in the using, is either the same conjecture repeated, or a misapplied analogy.

After all--apart from speculative analogies--the only evidences we possess which indicate a tendency in species to die out, are those to which Mr. Darwin has called attention. These are, first, the observed deterioration which results, at least in animals, from continued breeding in and in, which may possibly be resolvable into cumulative heritable disease; and, secondly, as already stated (p. 285), what may be termed the sedulous and elaborate pains everywhere taken in Nature to prevent close breeding--arrangements which are particularly prominent in plants, the greater number of which bear hermaphrodite blossoms. The importance of this may be inferred from the universality, variety, and practical perfection of the arrangements which secure the end; and the inference may fairly be drawn that this is the physiological import of sexes. It follows from this that there is a tendency, seemingly inherent, in species as in individuals, to die out; but that this tendency is counteracted or checked by sexual wider breeding, which is, on the whole, amply secured in Nature, and which in some way or other reenforces vitality to such an extent as to warrant Darwin's inference that "some unknown great good is derived from the union of individuals which have been kept distinct for many generations." Whether this reenforcement is a complete preventive of decrepitude in species, or only a palliative, is more than we can determine. If the latter, then existing species and their derivatives must perish in time, and the earth may be growing poorer in species, as M. Naudin supposes, through mere senility. If the former, then the earth, if not even growing richer, may be expected to hold its own, and extant species or their derivatives should last as long as the physical world lasts and affords favorable conditions. General analogies seem to favor the former view. Such facts as we possess, and the Darwinian hypothesis, favor the latter.

XIII

EVOLUTIONARY TELEOLOGY

When Cuvier spoke of the "combination of organs in such order that they may be in consistence with the part which the animal has to play in Nature," his opponent, Geoffroy St.-Hilaire, rejoined, "I know nothing of animals which have to play a part in Nature." The discussion was a notable one in its day. From that time to this, the reaction of morphology against "final causes" has not rarely gone to the extent of denying the need and the propriety of assuming ends in the study of animal and vegetable organizations. Especially in our day, when it became apparent that the actual use of an organ might not be the fundamental reason of its existence-- that one and the same organ, morphologically considered, was modified in different cases to the most diverse uses, while intrinsically different organs subserved identical functions, and consequently that use was a fallacious and homology the surer guide to correct classification--it was not surprising that teleological ideas nearly disappeared from natural history. Probably it is still generally thought that the school of Cuvier and that of St.-Hilaire have neither common ground nor capability of reconcilement.

In a review of Darwin's volume on the "Fertilization of Orchids" * (too technical and too detailed for reproduction here), and later in a brief sketch of the character of his scientific work (art. IX, p. 234), we expressed our sense of the great gain to science from his having brought back teleology to natural history. In Darwinism, usefulness and purpose come to the front again as working principles of the first order; upon them, indeed, the whole system rests.

To most, this restoration of teleology has come from an unexpected quarter, and in an unwonted guise; so that the first look of it is by no means reassuring to the minds of those who cherish theistic views of Nature. Adaptations irresistibly suggesting purpose had their supreme application in natural theology. Being manifold, particular, and exquisite, and evidently inwrought into the whole system of the organic world, they were held to furnish irrefragable as well as independent proof of a personal designer, a divine originator of Nature. By a confusion of thought, now obvious, but at the time not unnatural, they were also regarded as proof of a direct execution of the contriver's purpose in the creation of each organ and organism, as it were, in the manner man contrives and puts together a machine--an idea which has been set up as the orthodox doctrine, but which to St. Augustine and other learned Christian fathers would have savored of heterodoxy.

In the doctrine of the origination of species through natural selection, these adaptations appear as the outcome rather than as the motive, as final results rather than final causes. Adaptation to use, although the very essence of Darwinism, is not a fixed and inflexible adaptation, realized once for all at the outset; it includes a long progression and succession of modifications, adjusting themselves to changing circumstances, under which they may be more and more diversified, specialized, and in a just sense perfected. Now, the question is, Does this involve the destruction or only the reconstruction of our consecrated ideas of teleology? Is it compatible with our seemingly inbore conception of Nature as an ordered system? Furthermore, and above all, can the Darwinian theory itself dispense with the idea of purpose, in the ordinary sense of the word, as tantamount to design?

From two opposing sides we hear the first two questions answered in the negative. And an affirmative response to the third is directly implied in the following citation:

"The word purpose has been used in a sense to which it is, perhaps, worth while to call attention. Adaptation of means to an end may be provided in two ways that we at present know of: by processes of natural selection, and by the agency of an intelligence in which an image or idea of the end preceded the use of the means. In both cases the existence of the adaptation is accounted for by the necessity or utility of the end. It seems to me convenient to use the word purpose as meaning generally the end to which certain means are adapted, both in these two cases and in any other that may hereafter become known, provided only that the adaptation is accounted for by the necessity or utility of the end. And there seems no objection to the use of the phrase 'final cause' in this wider sense, if it is to be kept at all. The word 'design' might then be kept for the special case of adaptation by an intelligence. And we may then say that, since the process of natural selection has been understood, purpose has ceased to suggest design to instructed people, except in cases where the agency of man is independently probable."--P.C.W., in the Contemporary Review for September, 1875, p. 657.

The distinction made by this anonymous writer is convenient and useful, and his statement clear. We propose to adopt this use of the terms purpose and design, and to examine the allegation. The latter comes to this: "Processes of natural selection" exclude "the agency of an intelligence in which the image or idea of the end precedes the use of the means;" and since the former have been understood "purpose has ceased to suggest design to instructed people, except in cases where the agency of man is independently probable." The maxim "L'homme propose, Dieu dispose," under this reading means that the former has the monopoly of design, while the latter accomplishes without designing. Man's works alone suggest design.

But it is clear to us that this monopoly is shared with certain beings of inferior grade. Granting that quite possibly the capture of flies for food by Dionaea and the sundews may be attributed to purpose apart from design (if it be practicable in the last resort to maintain this now convenient distinction), still their capture by a spider's-web, and by a swallow on the wing, can hardly "cease to suggest design to instructed people." And surely, in coming at his master's call, the dog fulfills his own design as well as that of his master; and so of other actions and constructions of brute animals.

Without doubt so acute a writer has a clear and sensible meaning; so we conclude that he regards brutes as automata, and was thinking of design as coextensive merely with general conceptions. Not concerning ourselves with the difficulty he may have in drawing a line between the simpler judgments and affections of man and those of the highest-endowed brutes, we subserve our immediate ends by remarking that the automatic theory would seem to be one which can least of all dispense with design, since, either in the literal or current sense of the word, undesigned automatism is, as near as may be, a contradiction in terms. As the automaton man constructs manifests the designs of its maker and mover, so the more efficient automata which man did not construct would not legitimately suggest less than human intelligence. And so all adaptations in the animal and vegetable world which irresistibly suggest purpose (in the sense now accepted) would also suggest design, and, under the law of parsimony, claim to be thus interpreted, unless some other hypothesis will better account for the facts. We will consider, presently, if any other does so.

We here claim only that some beings other than men design, and that the adaptations of means to ends in the structure of animals and plants, in so far as they carry the marks of purpose, carry also the implication of having been designed. Also, that the idea or hypothesis of a designing mind, as the author of Nature--however we came by it--having possession of the field, and being one which man, himself a designer, seemingly must needs form, cannot be rivaled except by some other equally adequate for explanation, or displaced except by showing the illegitimacy of the inference. As to the latter, is the common apprehension and sense of mankind in this regard well grounded? Can we rightly reason from our own intelligence and powers to a higher or a supreme intelligence ordering and shaping the system of Nature?

A very able and ingenious writer upon "The Evidences of Design in Nature," in the Westminster Review for July, 1875, maintains the negative. His article may be taken as the argument in support of the position assumed by "P.C.W.," in the Contemporary Review above cited. It opens with the admission that the orthodox view is the most simple and apparently convincing, has had for centuries the unhesitating assent of an immense majority of thinkers, and that the latest master-writer upon the subject disposed to reject it, namely, Mill, comes to the conclusion that, "in the present state of our knowledge, the adaptations in Nature afford a large balance of probability in favor of creation by intelligence." It proceeds to attack not so much the evidence in favor of design as the foundation upon which the whole doctrine rests, and closes with the prediction that sooner or later the superstructure must fall. And, truly, if his reasonings are legitimate, and his conclusions just, "Science has laid the axe to the tree."

"Given a set of marks which we look upon in human productions as unfailing indications of design," he asks, "is not the inference equally legitimate when we recognize these marks in Nature? To gaze on such a universe as this, to feel our hearts exult within us in the fullness of existence, and to offer in explanation of such beneficent provision no other word but Chance, seems as unthankful and iniquitous as it seems absurd. Chance produces nothing in the human sphere; nothing, at least, that can be relied upon for good. Design alone engenders harmony, consistency; and Chance not only never is the parent, but is constantly the enemy of these. How, then, can we suppose Chance to be the author of a system in which everything is as regular as clockwork? . . . The hypothesis of Chance is inadmissible."

There is, then, in Nature, an order; and, in "P.C.W.'s" sense of the word, a manifest purpose. Some sort of conception as to the cause of it is inevitable, that of design first and foremost. "Why"--the Westminster Reviewer repeats the question--"why, if the marks of utility and adaptation are conclusive in the works of man, should they not be considered equally conclusive in the works of Nature?" His answer appears to us more ingenious than sound. Because, referring to Paley's watch,--

"The watch-finder is not guided solely in his inference by marks of adaptation and utility; he would recognize design in half a watch, in a mere fragment of a watch, just as surely as in a whole time-keeper . . . Two cog-wheels, grasping each other, will be thought conclusive evidence of design, quite independently of any use attaching to them. And the inference, indeed, is perfectly correct; only it is an inference, not from a mark of design, properly so called, but from a mark of human workmanship . . . No more is needed for the watch-finder, since all the works of man are, at the same time, products of design; but a great deal more is requisite for us, who are called upon by Paley to recognize design in works in which this stamp, this label of human workmanship, is wanting. The mental operation required in the one case is radically different from that performed in the other; there is no parallel, and Paley's demonstration is totally irrelevant."[XIII-2] But, surely, all human doings are not "products of design;" many are contingent or accidental. And why not suppose that the finder of the watch, or of the watch-wheel, infers both design and human workmanship? The two are mutually exclusive only on the supposition that man alone is a designer, which is simply begging the question in discussion. If the watch-finder's attention had been arrested by a different object, such as a spider's web, he would have inferred both design and non-human workmanship. Of some objects he might be uncertain whether they were of human origin or not, with-out ever doubting they were designed, while of others this might remain doubtful. Nor is man's recognition of human workmanship, or of any other, dependent upon his comprehending how it was done, or what particular ends it subserves. Such considerations make it clear that "the label of human workmanship" is not the generic stamp from which man infers design. It seems equally clear that "the mental operation required in the one case" is not so radically or materially "different from that performed in the other" as this writer would have us suppose. The judgment respecting a spider's web, or a trap-door spider's dwelling, would be the very same in this regard if it preceded, as it occasionally might, all knowledge of whether the object met with were of human or animal origin. A dam across a stream, and the appearance of the stumps of trees which entered into its formation, would suggest design quite irrespective of and antecedent to the considerable knowledge or experience which would enable the beholder to decide whether this was the work of men or of beavers. Why, then, should the judgment that any particular structure is a designed work be thought illegitimate when attributed to a higher instead of a lower intelligence than that of man? It might, indeed, be so if the supposed observer had no conception of a power and intelligence superior to his own. But it would then be more than "irrelevant;" it would be impossible, except on the supposition that the phenomena would of themselves give rise to such an inference. That it is now possible to make the inference, and, indeed, hardly possible not to make it, is sufficient warrant of its relevancy.

It may, of course, be rejoined that, if this important factor is given, the inference yields no independent argument of a divine creator; and it may also be reasonably urged that the difference between things that are made under our observation and comprehension, and things that grow, but have originated beyond our comprehension, is too wide for a sure inference from the one to the other. But the present question involves neither of these. It is simply whether the argument for design from adaptations in Nature is relevant, not whether it is independent or sure. It is conceded that the argument is analogical, and the parallel incomplete. But the gist is in the points that are parallel or similar. Pulleys, valves, and suchlike elaborate mechanical adaptations, cannot differ greatly in meaning, wherever met with.

The opposing argument is repeated and passed in another form:

"The evidence of design afforded by the marks of adaptation in works of human competence is null and void in the case of creation itself . . . Nature is full of adaptations; but these are valueless to us as traces of design, unless we know something of the rival adaptations among which an intelligent being might have chosen. To assert that in Nature no such rival adaptations existed, and that in every case the useful function in question could be established by no other instrument but one, is simply to reason in a circle, since it is solely from what we find existing that our notions of possibility and impossibility are drawn. . . . We cannot imagine ourselves in the position of the Creator before his work began, nor examine the materials among which he had to choose, nor count the laws which limited his operations. Here all is dark, and the inference we draw from the seeming perfections of the existing instruments or means is a measure of nothing but our ignorance."

But the question is not about the perfection of these adaptations, or whether others might have been instituted in their place. It is simply whether observed adaptations of intricate sorts, admirably subserving uses, do or do not legitimately suggest to one designing mind that they are the product of some other. If so, no amount of ignorance, or even inconceivability, of the conditions and mode of production could affect the validity of the inference, nor could it be affected by any misunderstanding on our part as to what the particular use or function was; a statement which would have been deemed superfluous, except for the following:

"There is not an organ in our bodies but what has passed, and is still passing, through a series of different and often contradictory interpretations. Our lungs, for instance, were anciently conceived to be a kind of cooling apparatus, a refrigerator; at the close of the last century they were supposed to be a centre of combustion; and nowadays both these theories have been abandoned for a third . . . Have these changes modified in the slightest degree the supposed evidence of design?"

We have not the least idea why they should. So, also, of complicated processes, such as human digestion, being replaced by other and simpler ones in lower animals, or even in certain plants. If "we argue the necessity of every adaptation solely from the fact that it exists," and that "we cannot mutilate it grossly without injury to the function," we do not "announce triumphantly that digestion is impossible in any way but this," etc., but see equal wisdom and no impugnment of design in any number of simpler adaptations accomplishing equivalent purposes in lower animals.

Finally, adaptation and utility being the only marks of design in Nature which we possess, and adaptation only as subservient to usefulness, the Westminster Reviewer shows us how:

"The argument from utility may be equally refuted another way. We found in our discussion of the mark of adaptation that the positive evidence of design afforded by the mechanisms of the human frame was never accompanied by the possibility of negative evidence. We regarded this as a suspicious circumstance, just as the fox, invited to attend the lion in his den, was deterred from his visit by observing that all the foottracks lay in one direction. The same suspicious circumstance warns us now. If positive evidence of design be afforded by the presence of a faculty, negative evidence of design ought to be afforded by the absence of a faculty. This, however, is not the case." [Then follows the account of a butterfly, which, from the wonderful power of the males to find the females at a great distance, is conceived to possess a sixth sense.] "Do we consider the deficiency of this sixth sense in man as the slightest evidence against design? Should we be less apt to infer creative wisdom if we had only four senses instead of five, or three instead of four? No, the case would stand precisely as it does now. We value our senses simply because we have them, and because our conception of life as we desire it is drawn from them. But to reason from such value to the origin of our endowment, to argue that our senses must have been given to us by a deity because we prize them, is evidently to move round and round in a vicious circle.

"The same rejoinder is easily applicable to the argument from beauty, which indeed is only a particular aspect of the argument from utility. It is certainly improbable that a random daubing of colors on a canvas will produce a tolerable painting, even should the experiment be continued for thousands of years. Our conception of beauty being given, it is utterly improbable that chance should select, out of the infinity of combinations which form and color may afford, the precise combination which that conception will approve. But the universe is not posterior to our sense of beauty, but antecedent to it: our sense of beauty grows out of what we see; and hence the conformance of our world to our aesthetical conceptions is evidence, not of the world's origin, but of our own."

We are accustomed to hear design doubted on account of certain failures of provision, waste of resources, or functionless condition of organs; but it is refreshingly new to have the very harmony itself of man with his surroundings, and the completeness of provision for his wants and desires, brought up as a refutation of the validity of the argument for design. It is hard, indeed, if man must be out of harmony with Nature in order to judge anything respecting it, or his relations with it; if he must have experience of chaos before he can predicate anything of order.

But is it true that man has all that he conceives of, or thinks would be useful, and has no "negative evidence of design afforded by the absence of a faculty" to set against the positive evidence afforded by its presence? He notes that he lacks the faculty of flight, sometimes wants it, and in dreams imagines that he has it, yet as thoroughly believes that he was designed not to have it as that he was designed to have the faculties and organs which he possesses. He notes that some animals lack sight, and so, with this negative side of the testimony to the value of vision, he is "apt to infer creative wisdom" both in what he enjoys and in what the lower animal neither needs nor wants. That man does not miss that which he has no conception of, and is by this limitation disqualified from judging rightly of what he can conceive and know, is what the Westminster Reviewer comes to, as follows:

"We value the constitution of our world because we live by it, and because we cannot conceive ourselves as living otherwise. Our conceptions of possibility, of law, of regularity, of logic, are all derived from the same source; and as we are constantly compelled to work with these conceptions, as in our increasing endeavors to better our condition and increase our provision we are constantly compelled to guide ourselves by Nature's regulations, we accustom ourselves to look upon these regularities and conceptions as antecedent to all work, even to a Creator's, and to judge of the origin of Nature as we judge of the origin of inventions and utilities ascribable to man. This explains why the argument of design has enjoyed such universal popularity. But that such popularity is no criterion of the argument's worth, and that, indeed, it is no evidence of anything save of an unhappy weakness in man's mental constitution, is abundantly proved by the explanation itself." Well, the constitution and condition of man being such that he always does infer design in Nature, what stronger presumption could there possibly be of the relevancy of the inference? We do not say of its correctness: that is another thing, and is not the present point. At the last, as has well been said, the whole question resolves itself into one respecting the ultimate veracity of Nature, or of the author of Nature, if there be any.

Passing from these attempts to undermine the foundation of the doctrine--which we judge to be unsuccessful--we turn to the consideration of those aimed at the superstructure. Evidences of design may be relevant, but not cogent. They may, as Mill thought, preponderate, or the wavering balance may incline the other way. There are two lines of argument: one against the sufficiency, the other against the necessity, of the principle of design. Design has been denied on the ground that it squares with only one part of the facts, and fails to explain others; it may be superseded by showing that all the facts are in the way of being explained without it.

The things which the principle of design does not explain are many and serious. Some are in their nature inexplicable, at least are beyond the power and province of science. Others are of matters which scientific students have to consider, and upon which they may form opinions, more or less well grounded. As to biological science--with which alone we are concerned--it is getting to be generally thought that this principle, as commonly understood, is weighted with much more than it can carry.

This statement will not be thought exaggerated by those most familiar with the facts and the ideas of the age, and accustomed to look them in the face. Design is held to, no doubt, by most, and by a sure instinct; not, however, as always offering an explanation of the facts, but in spite of the failure to do so. The stumbling-blocks are various, and they lie in every path: we can allude only to one or two as specimens.

Adaptation and utility are the marks of design. What, then, are organs not adapted to use marks of? Functionless organs of some sort are the heritage of almost every species. We have ways of seeming to account for them--and of late one which may really account for them--but they are unaccountable on the principle of design. Some, shutting their eyes to the difficulty, deny that we know them to be functionless, and prefer to believe they must have a use because they exist, and are more or less connected with organs which are correlated to obvious use; but only blindfolded persons care to tread the round of so narrow a circle. Of late some such abortive organs in flowers and fruits are found to have a use, though not the use of their kind. But unwavering believers in design should not trust too much to instances of this sort. There is an old adage that, if anything be kept long enough, a use will be found for it. If the following up of this line, when it comes in our way, should bring us round again to a teleological principle, it will not be one which conforms to the prevalent ideas now attacked.

It is commonly said that abortive and useless organs exist for the sake of symmetry, or as parts of a plan. To say this, and stop there, is a fine instance of mere seeming to say something. For, under the principle of design, what is the sense of introducing useless parts into a useful organism, and what shadow of explanation does "symmetry" give? To go further and explain the cause of the symmetry and how abortive organs came to be, is more to the purpose, but it introduces quite another principle than that of design. The difficulty recurs in a somewhat different form when an organ is useful and of exquisite perfection in some species, but functionless in another. An organ, such as an eye, strikes us by its exquisite and, as we may, perfect adaptation and utility in some animal; it is found repeated, still useful but destitute of many of its adaptations, in some animal of lower grade; in some one lower still it is rudimentary and useless. It is asked, If the first was so created for its obvious and actual use, and the second for such use as it has, what was the design of the third? One more case, in which use after all is well subserved, we cite from the article already much quoted from:

"It is well known that certain fishes (Pleuronecta) display the singularity of having both eyes on the same side of their head, one eye being placed a little higher than the other. This arrangement has its utility; for the Pleuronecta, swimming on their side quite near the bottom of the sea, have little occasion for their eyesight except to observe what is going on above them. But the detail to which we would call notice is, that the original position of the eyes is symmetrical in these fishes, and that it is only at a certain point of their development that the anomaly is manifested, one of the eyes passing to the other side of the head. It is almost inconceivable that an intelligent being should have selected such an arrangement; and that, intending the eyes to be used only on one side of the head, he should have placed them originally on different sides."