Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

“And they did not know,” I answered, “in what sense he called himself King, so they had to crucify him as a traitor. Can’t you think of some other example? Of course, there were all the heretics of old times.”

Alfred and Henry said that Roosevelt was in a sense an example, because he had been much blamed for exposing the truth and hurting business; but that the hurt was an essential part of progress and good.

Ruth said: “Surely it is better to expose the truth and suffer for it, than to go on in falsehood.”

I gave as another example the Russians, with whom, a short time ago, it was a crime to educate the peasants; and I told how brave men and women had been sent to Siberia for breaking the law in this respect.

“But,” I said, “this is a dangerous subject, and truly, we ought not to have mentioned it until we could probe it to the bottom. For surely in a democratic state one of the essential inner laws is that we shall obey the law which our fellows have made.”

“If a law seems wrong to a man,” said Henry, “he can try to change it, but meantime he must obey it. For instance, a man might believe in free trade, but still he would have no right to smuggle in goods.”

“One ought to obey school-laws, I suppose,” said Marian.

“Surely,” I answered, “for the school is an institution you enter from choice, and if you don’t like the laws you can protest by leaving. But if there were a law unjust to your fellows, you would disobey it. Still, even then, the best way to protest would be by a strike of the students.”

They had a long discussion on the great crime of whispering in school, in which I scarcely joined, as I refuse to be a petty preacher to them. But I tried to explain to them why it was so hard for them to obey these little laws.

“It is,” I said, “because you did not help to make the laws yourselves, that you are tempted to break them out of mere mischief. Still, you would not lie about it, but rather do it openly, because you feel that truth between individuals is an inner law, the first step toward understanding. You know I believe that, even unconsciously, we have all always striven for this unity, this completeness that now we are going to strive for with open eyes.”

“And all bad leads in the same direction, and comes to good,” said Virginia.

“Now I want you to understand that clearly,” I said. “All bad things are bad only because they do not reach up to our idea of the best. But that bad things are turned to good, or used for good is because we use them so; because the desire and the striving for good is so strong within us, that we use them to fulfil that desire. It is not a necessity. It is a matter of choice. If we wish, we can use everything for good. And we often do so, even unconsciously. Everything strives toward that good, which is life itself.”

“Then you believe,” said Marian, “that even every criminal has some good in him?”

“Yes, surely,” I answered, “else he would not be here, alive, at all. Every living being is good; and if he is not so far as we at present, he may go farther than we some day. Surely, we will take him onward with us, else we cannot be complete. You must see that any one who believes the great good to be understanding love and unity, cannot be made whole till every one is made whole with him. He needs all the world.”

“Every one must feel that,” said Marian.

“The other day, Marian,” I went on, “you said: ‘If we can never reach the goal, what is the good of anything?’ Now, I, for one, believe in infinite good; I believe that no matter how far we go, we shall long to go farther, so that what now would seem unimaginably good to us might one day seem bad. Can you imagine stagnant perfection?”

“I think,” said Marian, “that a perfectly good world would be terribly monotonous.”

“That is what I think, too,” I answered. “What we love is the going forward, the achieving, the striving.”

Henry said: “It is like travelling toward the horizon, and we think that is the end. But when we reach it, we see another horizon.”

Ruth asked: “How can we strive for anything, if we don’t expect to reach it? Is not God what we long to reach? Is not God the ideal?”

“Is not God, the real, here, now?” I answered her. “I cannot understand Infinity or Eternity, so I say Infinity is here and Eternity is now, because I am always here and now. So I cannot understand infinite good and unity, but I know that here and now I must strive for it, and that the constant striving, and getting more and ever more, is my greatest joy. Now, Ruth, do you admit that we cannot go forward alone, that all must go together to be complete?”

“Yes.”

“Then the whole is one, and every man and creature is a part of me.”

“If every one believed that,” said Marian, “how different, how much better the world would be! People could not criticize each other.”

“_I_ think it would,” I said, “and I am glad you think so, too; for if every one believed that, no one could condemn another, any more than you could condemn your own sore finger. You might say: ‘My finger is sore,’ but you wouldn’t say: ‘My finger is very wicked, and I hate it.’”

“I believe that,” said Marian. “I am convinced mentally, but I don’t feel it. I don’t think that I could live it yet.”

Virginia asked whether she might say for us “Abou ben Adhem,” which expressed our idea of man and God. And she said it for us. We were all silent for a few moments. Then I said: “And the love of even more than man, of all creatures, of all the world.”

Marian admitted that she did not love animals. Ruth said she did. Marian seems distressed by the fact that she cannot be perfect at once. That is what she means when she says she is mentally convinced, but doesn’t feel it yet. Alfred feels the same lack. These ambitious children!

“Now,” I said, “I want you to feel certain and convinced of each thing as we go on. We all agree at present, don’t we?”

“Yes,” they answered.

“I feel as if something must be wrong, because we all agree,” I went on, “and yet I know you are independent thinkers. Are you sure that all bad is a condition of good, even all physical bad, such things as accidents and loss? For instance, railroads are of value—why?”

None knew the true reason but Ruth. She said they brought nations together.

“And the accidents on railroads,” I said, “are the price of that progress, a price we have to pay for perfecting that system. It would be better to avoid all accidents—as I hope we shall do one day—but, meanwhile, we would rather take the risk than not have railroads. No one can be convinced, however, that all bad is a condition of good, until tried.”

“I have been tried,” answered Virginia.

They all thought themselves convinced, except Alfred. He said: “It might be true nine times, but the tenth time it might not be true.”

“Then,” said Henry, “you would believe it were true the tenth time, even though you didn’t understand how.”

“No,” I answered; “he would test it the tenth time. We will _know_ each thing.”

Now we re-examined our conviction on all these questions, and went over each point again. We probed the possibilities of atheism, and saw that no one who faced things could be an atheist, that atheism was the result of laziness, fear or vanity. Either a man feared to face the truth, or could not bear to admit how little he knew. And we saw that an atheist might be a very good man, only he would build his morality on a philosophy he did not understand or examine. We might be good without any religious convictions, but this conviction, this belief, would give us a reason for goodness, and make us strong in the face of uncertainty, temptation and trial. Henry said things were worth while only when they were hard to do.

“There,” said I, “you have a proof of our instinctive feeling that pain is a necessary part of progress.”

Virginia said she wanted to believe what would make her happy; that she would choose the optimistic faith. I answered her I wanted to believe the truth, happy or unhappy, but I had come to the conclusion at last that the truth was very good. I told them how at their age I had been in great doubt, how I had thought the truth might be very bad.

“Pain is real,” I said, “but we will not fear to face that, or anything bitter, when we know it to be a condition of going onward.”

Virginia said I was shaping her thought for her. I reminded her how she used to be my “little disciple.” All the others, and especially Marian, said that this meeting was far more satisfying than the last; that we had reached something definite. Marian said: “I seem to see already what we will have to say on every subject, but we shall have no end of things to speak of.”

THIRD MEETING

Florence and Henry were delayed and did not arrive until after four. But before that we had already gathered about the table, and found it hard to restrain ourselves from beginning the discussion. I said to the children that I thought we would not speak of immortality to-day, as there was too much that came before. I asked them whether they were anxious to get to it. They were very anxious. Florence said: “It is such an important subject.” Ruth said: “I believe we will all agree on immortality.” I answered her that just there I thought we might disagree most. Marian said she had definite ideas on the subject. I can see that Henry has indefinite and theological ideas.

I then read aloud the little paper Marian had written on our talk of the previous week:

“On Sunday, October 18th, our club, the Seekers, held its second meeting. We first discussed our ideas of God. We reached the conclusion that God is our divine self, that through God we can perceive, but we cannot perceive God. This seems to me a very beautiful idea. I think our discussion on this subject was particularly nice, because we did not try to limit God by any attributes, for he is infinite. We also discussed progress. I understood it much better this week than last. The aim of progress is to reach a clear understanding of our fellow-beings; we hope that, sometime, there will be sympathy and understanding among all men, for we each have a divine self, which will not reach perfection until it is in perfect accord with all the other people’s. We discussed good and evil, and decided that evil is that which we outgrow, and which might once have seemed good, but which now seems bad because we have found something better. Good is the progress that we are making toward our goal of common understanding. Unhappiness and accidents, etc., are incidental to progress, and will occur less and less frequently. I enjoyed this meeting of the club very much.”

We now reviewed all the conclusions we had reached. Then I was glad to have them speak once more of good and bad, and ask many questions. Ruth said she was not sure of being convinced. She said: “I talked it over with mother. It seems to me I sometimes put my thought into your words, and imagine you have said what I mean, when perhaps you haven’t. Please repeat that again, about good and bad.” Ruth is always afraid she may be weakening in her own ideas, and tries not to be convinced. I strove to impress upon her that my idea might include hers.

I said: “You see now that the thought I want to give you is an unanswerable religion, which is not new, but larger than all the old beliefs.”

Marian asked: “Large enough to include them all?”

“Yes, just that. Did you ever think of the old word, holiness, h-o-l-i-n-e-s-s? I know another word that to us would mean holiness, a different holiness.”

“You mean w-h-o-l-e?” said Marian.

“Yes, to be whole and complete.”

Now as we spoke again of good and bad, we came upon the interesting question of disease.

“How can that be explained as a part of progress?” asked Marian.

Virginia, with her usual misconception on this subject, said that disease helped us forward because through it scientists came to know and understand many things about life. Henry, still more off the track, said that disease led to a knowledge of medicine.

“Henry’s idea,” I answered, “we cannot consider, because, of course, the only virtue of medical skill is that it cures disease, and if there were not disease we would not need medical progress. But Virginia’s idea is true in a certain sense. It is quite true that disease impelled people to use the microscope, to discover themselves physically, to learn of the infinitude of minute creatures in the universe; and so it led to a larger knowledge of life, because the infinitely little makes our world just as vast as the infinitely big. But this only shows that we made progress out of disease, as we make progress out of all things, because the will of life, the will to go forward, is within us. It does not show how disease itself can be the result or price of progress. That is a difficult question, but I seem to see it clearly, and I will try to explain it to you. None of you, except perhaps Virginia and Alfred, have a clear idea of evolution, and I would like to spend one meeting in explaining it, because it is so essential. Don’t you think so?”

“Yes,” they said.

“But I can’t go into this question of disease without explaining something of evolution to you now. I will try to make it clear: Each individual is different. As animals progressed and went forward, those parts which were newest were also more unstable, because they were ready to change more. These parts were most apt to become diseased, or, rather, weakened, because progress might be in any direction, and had to feel its way.” It was difficult for me to explain this to the children, who were so utterly unprepared, and I said much more. Even so, I don’t think Marian and Ruth understood it thoroughly, and I shall have to repeat it when we speak of evolution. I said I did not believe the germs of disease ever entered any part unless that part were weakened or imperfect. I said: “Take as an example the human brain. Suppose that two children were born with brains slightly different from others. One might turn out to be a genius, and the other to be eccentric and even insane, because progress feels its way in all directions. So disease, coming to the new unstable parts, would be the necessary cost of progress.”

Virginia said: “Young and new things are always most delicate. I had a palm with many leaves, and one was new. Now, the palm was left for a day against the window pane, and the young leaf died from the pressure of the glass, which did not at all hurt the old leaves.” This poetical and delightful little figure of speech made me wonder whether Virginia understood just what I meant.

We went over the question of good and bad, to Ruth’s satisfaction. And then I asked Henry, whose understanding of it I doubted, to tell me in what three ways the bad was a part of good and progress. His answer was clear and true:

“There is the bad, which is only bad because we now possess or know something better, the old good we have left behind us. Then there is the bad which is the direct result of progress and growth, such as accidents and disease. Then there is the use of bad which we make, to turn it into good, such as the knowledge we get from it, and, as Virginia said before, the sympathy and love which grow out of misfortune.”

“Now,” I said, “I would like some of you to tell me what you mean by those two words, matter and spirit.”

Henry, Virginia and Ruth were the only ones ready to answer.

Henry said that spirit is the soul. He quoted from a Sunday-school formula: “The spirit of man is in the image of God, and immortal.”

I said that those words did not mean anything definite to me. They might be true, but I did not understand them. Ruth said she did, and it was what she meant; that matter was, like the bad, something to be overcome and left behind.

“I think,” said Virginia, “that matter is the tool of spirit; the body is the servant of the mind.”

They began to argue, but I stopped them, saying: “I will first tell you what I think. Is there any matter without form? Has not all matter form, and is it not, therefore, as it were, something like an idea in the mind?”

Henry wanted to deny this, but thought a moment, and admitted that all matter had some form.

I went on: “I am a spirit, that is, a self; and I know things only in my spirit, because I see, hear, touch them. So I don’t believe in matter, so called, at all. I think that our forms, our bodies, and all forms in the universe are an expression of spirit or self.” I said expression was the means for reaching unity, that creatures could not come together unless they expressed themselves to each other, and that I believed all expression was for this purpose. I said, what is called matter, the material conditions of life, are the result of the action of spirit; our bodies, which seem so solid and material, are constantly changed, are not at all the same as matter, but only in form; we are reborn each day according to the spirit. I said that in this sense matter, so-called, was indeed something we were constantly leaving behind us, that every material condition was the result of a previous state of mind. This is true of all human things, and we cannot help thinking it is true of universal things. We know that fire burns, that planets whirl through space, that water runs, and we cannot help feeling these expressions of force to be the expression of something akin to will and spirit.

Virginia said, then there must be something much more than human sympathy and understanding, which we long to reach. I answered, I believed so, but I had not wanted to suggest it to them.

I said that all our present bodily conditions, the seemingly unalterable conditions called material, were the expression of will and spirit in the past, either of ours or others; that our very existence here, the existence of everything, was the result of will and desire.

Marian said: “I don’t think it is just that we should suffer and be, because of another’s will and spirit.”

Virginia answered: “It _is_ fair. We are part of the whole.”

“That is so,” said Marian. “Of course.” It was a full and sufficient answer.

I said I believed that disease could be prevented, even if not cured, by thought, because will and desire controlled the body. I said: “We have our own destiny in our hands, we are free to do as we choose with the future, because will shapes everything.” I was delighted to find that the children had never heard the silly discussions about free will, and did not have to have that bugbear driven out. I said: “We are a part of the will of life.”

As another illustration of idea coming before form, I spoke of plants and seeds, how in the seed is the possibility, the idea of an infinity of trees.

Virginia said: “In them spirit seems to be asleep, for it must be there.” She said all things slept sometimes, and while they slept the spirit worked in them.

Ruth was not in the least convinced. Indeed, the thing was not overclear. She said: “I still think matter is something to be overcome, something that binds us. Surely we will sometime be spirits without matter, altogether spiritual.”

I tried to show them that spirit without expression would be unthinkable, that though expression might not be what we call matter, it would still be some expression. I said: “Expression frees us.”

That was puzzling, and needed more explanation.

I asked Henry: “What is the object and aim of life?”

He answered vaguely: “I suppose it is spirit.”

“Now, what do you mean by that?” I asked.

He answered: “I suppose we don’t know what it is until we reach the truth.” Evidently he did not, but all the others did. They all spoke at once to explain to him that the object of life was complete understanding and love.

I said: “That is what expression is to get for us, for we express ourselves in form and thought, so that we may understand and be understood. And that is what I meant by freedom. I meant understanding, love and perfect adjustment. In one sense matter is binding, because we want more freedom. Matter, so called, is the physical condition which our will made in the past, and which we want already to surpass. Suppose that a man wrote a book in which he put all his ideas, and that when he finished the book he was forbidden to write or speak again; his ideas would grow afterward, and as he could not express them, he would think himself limited and bound by the book he had written. So material conditions are binding only because we want still more freedom, though they themselves were freedom at the time of their creation. In that sense, Ruth, you might call the body something which the spirit constantly wants to leave behind, because it is creating new forms for itself.”

Marian said: “It is as if there were a house with many rooms, and we thought we wanted to go only into the first; but each door made us long for the next room, and the next, so that we could never be satisfied.”

“And if one door were locked,” I said, “we would consider ourselves sadly bound, though we had thought we wished to go only so far. Suppose a man made a statue, that statue would be an expression of his spirit. But if the next instant he wanted to change it, to make, say, the lines of the arm more perfect, he could not do so by willing. He would have to make a new statue.”

“But that is different,” said Ruth. “The stuff he works in is still matter.”

I tried to explain how all creation is an inter-change of form, a flowing and influence. I tried to show them how all things whatsoever, even thoughts, are forms, and all form an expression.

Virginia said: “Those who write books, or do any great work, are immortal in that, because of their influence.” I answered her that all of us were immortal in this sense, that each thing had endless influence.

Marian asked the one unanswerable question, and I was delighted. She said: “Why was the Divine Self ever divided? How did we ever happen to need bodies and expression? Why did it not all grow together?”

She saw that contrast was needed for recognition. But why, she wondered, was anything at all? I answered her: “We said the other day that it did not matter whether the search for good were infinite or not. Neither does it concern us to know the unknowable, whether or how the awaking world began. But we do know it is awakening, what is the direction, what is the aim and desire of life. To me no more seems needed. We know how to go forward.”

“That is true,” she said. She spoke of old age and mental decay. She said she did not see why people lost, for no reason, the progress they seemed to have made. I answered her that I did not think they lost it, unless they did not try to keep it; that it is a thing one must work for at each moment.

“But why do they stop trying?” she asked.

“I don’t think they stop,” I said. “I think they never did try, but in youth such people merely had more stimulation from without.”

“Now, my grandfather,” she said, “was an intelligent man, and he is losing his memory.”

“Is he losing the valuable thing? Does he love you less, understand you less? Are you sure the memory he is losing is the thing he still needs?”

She saw what I meant. She was struck by it.

I went on: “One might lose the ability to do mathematics, when one had gained all there was to be got out of mathematics.”

She said: “I think you are right. I understand that.”

Now when Ruth insisted again that matter was something binding, something to be left behind, Alfred said:

“I don’t think it is binding.”

“Neither do I,” said Virginia.

“Neither do I,” said I, “for we can always express ourselves in a new way. The man who has written a book is not dumb afterward.”

The meeting was very short and unsatisfactory. I believe that the children went home disappointed, for I could see that we had not got at anything that the children had not understood. Since then Virginia’s mother told me that Virginia did not enjoy it as much as the other meetings; that it was too deep for her. Florence’s “big brother Arthur” told me that she, too, did not enjoy it as much, and that when he questioned her she seemed to understand clearly only the fact that there was no sharp distinction between mind and matter. Otherwise, as he put it, she “talked woolly.” During the meeting she yawned once.

Well, then, this meeting was a failure. As such, I want to use it. What was the cause? Of course, one of the chief causes was the difficulty of the subject, and yet the unavoidability of it. How could I go on to speak of immortality to children with such absurd notions? I don’t think it could be “skipped.” Of course, I would at first suppose that my method of tackling the subject was at fault. It may be so, but at present I can think of no other method. I think that the real and remediable cause of the difficulty was this: That the children did not have a good enough conception of the philosophy of science, actual knowledge of cosmic facts, to understand my point of view. I should have had the talk on evolution first. To remedy this as much as possible, I am going to have the talk on evolution next. To speak of immortality now would cause still more confusion. I await next Sunday with some uncertainty and doubt. For the next meeting must be good, or the club will be a failure. We must learn by experience, they as well as I. I will go forward with courage, if my little army does not fail me.

If I were giving again the talk on matter and spirit, I would do it differently. I would not say “matter is the expression of spirit,” but “matter is the medium through which spirit expresses itself.” For matter is something, though we know not what, and never know it except as form, which seems to us always an expression of will. But we know that, whatever it be, it passes from one controlling will to another. (Of course, it is too difficult to be discussed in this fashion by boys and girls.)

FOURTH MEETING

After all, the last meeting was not such a failure as I had supposed. I asked Alfred to come earlier, and questioned him before the others arrived. He answered me with precision and common sense. He said: “All matter was once spirit, is the result of spirit.” When I said: “What we call matter is the medium through which spirit expresses itself,” he answered: “Yes, but spirit expresses itself in other ways, too.” “Think a minute,” said I, “does it? Can the spirit express itself through any other medium?” “No,” he said, after thinking a moment, “no, of course not.” “Nor,” said I, “do we at all know matter except through the intellect.” I told him that I wanted to speak to him alone because he was so silent at the club. Then Henry arrived. He said he enjoyed the last meeting very much, and thought he understood it all. The paper he wrote proved that he understood far better than I had supposed:

“To-day we first went over what we had said last week. The question arose as to which class of evil disease belongs. We came to the conclusion that it is the result or price of progress. We also spoke about the idea of a trinity. We had said at the last meeting that God is a divine self within us, and that when we know each other we will know God. Connecting each one of us to the other, there is a feeling of sympathy, a third element. That is to say, there is you, and myself, and, making the third part, that sympathetic understanding which brings us closer together.

“The chief topic to-day was that of Matter and Spirit. At first there was a little difference of opinion, but we finally agreed that in reality everything is spirit, and that which we call matter is only the expression of the spirit. As an example we took the sculptor, who, getting an idea through the mind, expresses this spirit in a statue, which we call matter. We speak of the body as matter, but it is spirit, in as much as it is the medium through which the spirit manifests itself.”

When I told the children I had decided to take up evolution before immortality, because evolution was the problem of creation, they were all satisfied and interested.

Then I read aloud Marian’s little paper:

“On Sunday, October 25th, the Seekers held a regular meeting. We first reviewed our discussion of the last week, and then took up the subject of Matter and Spirit. Our discussion was long, and the conclusion we reached was that matter is an expression of spirit. In the first place, matter is that which has form or qualities. Every material thing is the expression of a thought. If a man makes a table, he does so because he wishes to, because it is his will to do so. If he writes a book, that book is an expression of his thought, but it is what is commonly called matter. Matter is, in short, a result of spirit, is an expression of spirit. Our bodies are the expression of our minds, and the way in which we express ourselves to each other. If our bodies are not perfect, if they are diseased, it is merely that our minds have not advanced far enough to express the perfect body. Our talk this week helped me a great deal. Although we did not cover much ground, we reached a conclusion on one of the most difficult subjects, and I think almost every one was convinced.”

Ruth said she had thought all the week of what I had told them, and that she was sure she agreed with me now. The children’s thoughts seem to develop during the week, as if they shaped afterward, and slowly, all that had been said.

Virginia disagreed with Marian, that the perfect mind would make the perfect body. She said: “People with perfect bodies are often fools. And sickly people are often the most intelligent and fine spirited.”

Marian and Ruth both protested, but could not express themselves. So I said: “That is true. But still I believe the perfect mind would have the perfect body. Our bodies may be imperfect for several reasons: Perhaps we are suffering for the wrong spirit of our ancestors, through heredity. Or, again, the body which may be good enough, and quite perfect, even, with the fool’s mind, might not be strong enough for the active mind. That mind would have to create for itself a more perfect body. So, you see, our bodily imperfections are the price of progress. Our upright position, for instance, which is so great a help to the mind, is a strain on the body, and the cause of many of our ills.”

Ruth said: “I think our bodies will become so much better than they are now, that the best we know now will seem very poor.”

Virginia had written a little paper, which seemed to me at the first reading so vague and uncomprehending, that I did not wish to read it aloud. I was glad I did read it aloud, however, as her explanation and interpretation of herself showed that she understood. This is the paper:

MY IDEA OF MATTER

“Matter is a part of mind. Without it there would be no
improvement of the mind. Mind, without matter, would be like a
stunted child. It would still exist, but it would not grow. It
seems as if matter were the medium between mind and progress.”

Virginia said that was her own idea, whether we agreed or not. It means, according to Virginia, that matter is the medium of expression of mind, and that mind could not grow without this medium. Very good, it seems to me; and we do agree.

I said, and Ruth and Henry joined me, that one must make a distinction, for convenience, at least, between the words “spirit” and “matter.” Marian said they had been separated so long, so completely and so foolishly, that she was glad to dwell upon their sameness.

Now I went on to speak of evolution.[1] I showed them how the theory of evolution, or descent from a common ancestor or ancestors, was a creation theory, just as much as Genesis was a creation theory.

I said: “There is no reason why you should believe this any more than any other history, or story, unless the proofs convince you.”

Alfred and Virginia said it was a reasonable, convincing theory. Marian saw what I meant, and, not knowing so much as they, asked for the proof.

I first gave them the proof of likeness of structure, and showed them pictures of the resemblances of bone and organ structure in various animals. Ruth said she was quite sure all little babies were like monkeys.

Then I gave the proof of the race-likeness of the young. (Examples and illustrations.)

Then that of rudimentary organs. (Examples and illustrations.)

Virginia suggested the geological proof in the finding of fossils. I enlarged on this, and spoke of series of living and extinct shells, etc.

I traced the general progress of evolution, the division into groups and branches.

I told them—what some knew—that evolution was an ancient, philosophical theory, and only the method of evolution Darwinian. Some of them said Darwin’s name always made them think of monkeys.

I now went on to explain Darwin’s theory of natural selection; spoke of variation in all directions as the law of life; then explained the struggle for food and place, and then protective colorings, and consequent elimination. The children gave as many examples and instances as myself. Then I went on to tell what artificial selection had been able to do, and showed a group of pictures of the dog, domesticated from a wolf-like animal. The pictures included prize bulldogs, St. Bernards, French poodles, tiny Japanese dogs and great Danes.

Now Florence, who has just had instruction in evolution by her helpful big brother, said:

“But a great many scientists no longer accept natural selection and the survival of the fittest as an explanation of development. There is the theory of isolation, too.”

“Yes,” I said, “and I am one of those who believe in natural selection only in part, but I wanted you to hear it all. Florence, explain the effect of isolation to us.”

She explained it, and gave a very good example, that of some birds in a species having stronger wings than others, and so flying farther to nest.

When I asked what any theory of the process of evolution failed to explain, Ruth answered “immortality.” I told her that evolutionary theories did not attempt to explain that.

I showed them how no theory explained change itself, explained the initial variation. I showed them, too, the limits of natural selection. When I took the eye as an example of a specialized organ too complex to be easily accounted for by natural selection, I found them hard to convince, because they did not realize the complexity of the eye. But when I spoke of the life and death value of any organic change as necessary for its selection, they saw how that limited selection in many ways.

We spoke of the relation of evolution to our idea of life. At once they said it was a proof of progress.

I insisted on its being a self-evolving, a will in life. They saw that. Alfred said: “Could the one-celled creature will; did it know enough?” Marian answered that it was a subconscious will.

Henry said: “Within living things is the inner will. But how about the earth? Isn’t there a will outside for other things?”

I answered that even the earth seemed self-impelled; that within the universe seemed to be an immense will, and we were a part of that will; it was our will within us.

I said that creatures could change only because they wanted to be different, because something wanted to be different. I said to change, and to change always in one direction, was progress; that what we wanted to do, and thought we had done, was to find that direction.

They saw at once how physical death was necessary to race progress, how the old died to make room for the young, and how each newborn creature had new possibilities of progress.

But when I spoke of all the progress of evolution, of even struggle and selection leading toward harmony, fitness and relationship, which is the thing we want, Ruth said:

“I don’t see how the lobster killing its fellows because it had a larger claw could lead to harmony and better relationship.”

That was a good point. But I scarcely had a chance to answer it, for Marian said that creatures had to develop themselves first.

Then I spoke again, in this relation, of changing standards of good and bad, how what was right for an animal, for the lobster, for instance, was wrong for us. I showed them how all animals were selfish, and had to be selfish and self-evolving alone; how we had to be unselfish only because we realized how vast we were. Marian spoke again of the criminal. She said: “If he were behind us, he, from his own point of view, would not be bad.”

“But he would have to be punished,” said Ruth, “and made to be good.”

“Yes,” I answered, “for he is human, and we expect human actions of him. But we would not dare to blame him.”

Henry said we would punish him not as a punishment to hurt him, but to teach him.

We spoke again of diversity as necessary to comprehension, to understanding. I told them I had a whimsical fancy that the first one-celled creature divided because it wanted company. If creatures never divided, and became different, they certainly could never understand each other. Marian said:

“I see now. It is like a girl who had always lived in her own family and developed pretty well there, but the more different people she met the better she would develop.”

“Yes,” I answered, “unlikeness gives us recognition.”

Virginia said: “If we were all one self, life would be uninteresting.”

“Yes,” said I, “but we might reach a self-conscious self which is unthinkable to us now. There is one way, however, in which evolution helps us, and that is such an obvious way that none of you has thought of it.”

For a moment they were puzzled. Then Alfred said: “It is that we are really all one self.”

“Oh, I see,” said Marian.

“Yes,” I answered, “it is that we are all physically related with all life.”

Then I went on to say that no one knew how life began, that there were theories, but they might be no better than fairy tales. They wanted to hear some. I said:

“One theory is that life is eternal in the shape of life-germs, or organic matter, and that these pass from planet to planet throughout the ether forever. But it is only a theory, and a doubtful one.”

“I like that theory,” said Virginia.

I said I thought beginnings concerned us no more than ends, that all things, histories, science, knowledge, theories concerned us only in so far as they helped us to understand, as they served the large aim of life and showed us how to go. I made Henry repeat again that the aim of life was complete understanding. I said: “To me it is like a measure by which I measure and value all things.” We tried to measure various things by it, such as the relative advancement of monkeys, birds and ants, and the greatness of Napoleon and Shakespeare. We came to few conclusions, except that the love of man made man lovable, and that Shakespeare must have been a lover of men.

Henry said: “I think he worked for his own sake, and not for others.”

“Yes,” I answered; “but he loved and understood his fellows, so he could not help serving them in serving himself. It was his joy.”

I said if we had that standard of understanding love, we would need no other morality. I quoted from St. Augustine’s Confessions:

“Love God, and do as you please.”

“But,” I said, “most of us do not love God, or the great good, enough to be able to do as we please without thinking. We still have to stop to measure.”

As they were going home, I said: “Next week we will speak of immortality.”

“Really, this time?” asked Ruth.

“Now, after this meeting,” said Marian, “I am afraid you may tell us, what I have sometimes heard, that we are immortal in the race. Will you?”

“No,” I answered, “I will not.”

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[1] For examples and illustrations I used the first volume of Romanes’ “Darwin and After Darwin” as more convenient and compact than Darwin himself.

FIFTH MEETING

Henry said: “I told some one lately about our club and what we did, and he thought we spoke of things that were too deep and philosophical.”

“Do you think so?” I asked.

“No,” he answered, “of course I don’t.”

I said: “We are doing something unusual for boys and girls of your age. Most people would think you not able to understand and enjoy it. But I know you do, and you know it.”

Marian said: “Why should we not be able to talk of these things in a club, when we certainly do talk of them among ourselves?”

I read Henry’s paper:

“To-day we spoke on the theory of evolution. The theory tells us that we are descended from a single, one-celled animal. This animal grew and was divided into several cells, which in turn were divided. We find that when a race of animals needs something with which to protect itself, or with which to get food, that thing usually grows, as in the case of the mother bird, whose feathers are usually the color of the place where she has her nest. In this manner the one-celled animals may have developed, as the increasing numbers made it harder to get food, and brought other difficulties. Another way in which species may develop is that of isolation. For example, while a flock of birds is flying south to escape the cold, some of the weaker ones are left on the way. Here the cold may cause many feathers to grow, and the other conditions may have such an effect as to develop an entirely new kind of bird. We can also take as an example the different colors of men, caused by the conditions in which they live.

“The disappearance of certain species while others survive is, according to the idea of natural selection, only the survival of the fittest. We find that long ago there were animals larger than any of to-day, but they have completely died out, perhaps because they could not find food, while the smaller, weaker animals have survived because they were better fitted for the conditions. Looking back at history, we can see how at different periods one nation would wipe out another which was weaker, or how one people, more advanced than others, could better protect itself from the elements, and, therefore, lived while others died. The similarity of different animals gives a good foundation for this theory. A baby will often take attitudes exactly like those of a monkey, and while it is young crawl on all fours like animals. Different kinds of animals have bones and all other parts of the body just alike, and also like those of men.

“This theory teaches progression and is therefore useful. It teaches that we were once one, and we should therefore have sympathy with one another.”

I next read Florence’s paper:

“In our last talk we spoke of evolution and its bearing on progress. I shall simply try to give an idea of what we said about evolution itself. By evolution we mean that we all sprang from a common ancestral source, and have gradually developed into higher and different forms. In general, this change has been from the greatest simplicity, which we find in the one-celled animal, to the highest complexity.

“Darwin, although not the first to advance the theory of evolution, was the first to enlarge and further it. His deductions rest on three main theories—heredity, variation and natural selection. He thought that the offspring always inherited the parents’ qualities with something new in its composition. By natural selection Darwin meant the survival of the fittest, that is, that only the most fitted for life should live. In this way the offspring receiving traits from its parents, if they be to its advantage, will live and continue them, and those who have not got them will be killed. In other words, Darwin believed that the terrible struggle for existence, which usually destroys nine-tenths of each generation, must favor those who possess the best variation for their environment; and that these will in turn hand on to their successors these favoring variations. In this next generation the same process will be repeated, and in this way we get a steady though very gradual advance.

“To-day, however, looking at it broadly, we can see that all heredity and variation need is some way of separating those individuals having some peculiar variation from those who do not possess any. This we call isolation, and it can easily be seen that natural selection is only a subhead under this title. Another form of isolation beside natural selection is geographical.

“Our theories have advanced to this stage, and although it is quite a large move from the original ideas of Darwin, there are many questions still puzzling us, which have yet to be solved.”

Then came Marian’s paper:

“On Sunday, November 1st, the Seekers held a very interesting meeting. The subject we discussed was Evolution. The very lowest form of life is a one-celled animal. This divides into a two-celled one, which in turn continues to divide and differentiate until it takes the form of a plant or animal. All animals must have had some common ancestor. The proof of this is the existence of rudimentary organs, such as the appendix in man and the bones in the flipper of a whale where we should expect legs. Another proof is to be found in the remains and knowledge we have of prehistoric animals. Some of them were shaped like reptiles, and yet had wings. In connection with evolution, there are the theories of _natural selection_ and _isolation_. _Natural selection_ is the belief in the survival of the fittest. For instance, if one lobster happened to grow a large claw, which enabled it to fight better, its young were likely to inherit this tendency, and their young also, etc., until the larger-clawed lobsters, being better able to fight, would kill off most of the others. This theory would not always hold good, however. The theory of _isolation_ is very interesting. If, for instance, a bird of one species was born with a longer bill than most of the others, and this bird found a warmer climate was better for it, and, after mating, flew farther south, its young would probably inherit this longer bill, and would also fly farther south than most of the species. Soon they would become entirely separated from the original species, and would become a new class of birds. The connection that _Evolution_ has with our work is that evolution is progress and that our aim is progress. Evolution also helps us to understand animals and plants, and to come into a better understanding with nature. Disease is the price of progress. As we progress, one part goes ahead, often at the expense of some other part. Thus disease may be called the price of progress.”

Marian admitted that she was rather mixed up about the cells dividing and the long-billed bird going south for his health. But this is doing well for the unscientific Marian, who said a while ago that she did not see how science could have any effect on our view of life.

Then I read Virginia’s paper:

THEORY OF EVOLUTION

“The first life that appeared on the earth was a one-celled
animal or plant that appeared beneath the water. The germs of
life travel through the ether, and wherever there are conditions
in which living things can thrive, there they settle. So that
was the way in which life began on the earth.

“This one-celled animal, after a while, divided into more cells,
and thus became more complicated. When land appeared, land
animals and plants came into existence. And these animals became
higher and higher. First the animals without a spine, then a
more complicated specimen, in the lower forms of vertebrates.
Then the reptiles, out of which came two branches, the birds and
the immense reptiles of which none have survived that I know of.
But out of them came the mammals. And after many thousands of
years, man appeared.

“At first man was more like an animal, but after centuries he
became less savage. He made implements for himself, and lived in
tribes with his fellow men; and the more highly civilized man
becomes, the more will he sympathize with the rest of mankind,
so that when the highest civilization arrives, it will only mean
complete love of all living things.”

I insisted that the theory of germ transmission was not a fact. I said she seemed to have avoided natural selection, that I thought she did not like it because it was too mathematical and too logical for her. Ruth thought perhaps that was why she did not like it much, either, though it interested her. I said: “It seems at first so ‘cruel’ a theory; it repels us until we remember that what is cruel in a man is not so in a beast.” Virginia answered that she did not think it cruel, because it was not meant cruelly. “They had to kill each other,” she said. Henry asked me whether I thought it cruel to eat animals. I answered it was not cruel, unless they were cruelly killed. Ruth added that some time we would get beyond the need of eating animals. “To hunt for fun is wicked,” said Virginia.

Marian said: “Perhaps we think natural selection not so cruel among animals, because we did not do the suffering.”

The children all said they did not remember just what relation evolution had to our idea of life. I answered that the very fact that we could not go on in our thought without it proved its relation, and that we would constantly come back to it, that I did not need to explain it now.

Then we spoke of prayer. I asked each one in turn what and how much they had thought of it.