it may be that there are many of my audience who are quite familiar
with that study, yet as a lecturer of some standing, it would, I know
by experience, be very bad policy on my part to suppose such to be
extensively the case. On the contrary, I must imagine that there are
many of you who would like to know what Biology is; that there are
others who have that amount of information, but would nevertheless
gladly hear why it should be worth their while to study Biology; and
yet others, again, to whom these two points are clear, but who desire
to learn how they had best study it, and, finally, when they had best
study it.
I shall, therefore, address myself to the endeavour to give you some
answer to these four questions--what Biology is; why it should be
studied; how it should be studied; and when it should be studied.
In the first place, in respect to what Biology is, there are, I
believe, some persons who imagine that the term "Biology" is simply a
new-fangled denomination, a neologism in short, for what used to be
known under the title of "Natural History;" but I shall try to show
you, on the contrary, that the word is the expression of the growth of
science during the last 200 years, and came into existence half a
century ago.
At the revival of learning, knowledge was divided into two kinds--the
knowledge of nature and the knowledge of man; for it was the current
idea then (and a great deal of that ancient conception still remains)
that there was a sort of essential antithesis, not to say antagonism,
between nature and man; and that the two had not very much to do with
one another, except that the one was oftentimes exceedingly troublesome
to the other. Though it is one of the salient merits of our great
philosophers of the seventeenth century, that they recognised but one
scientific method, applicable alike to man and to nature, we find this
notion of the existence of a broad distinction between nature and man
in the writings both of Bacon and of Hobbes of Malmesbury; and I have
brought with me that famous work which is now so little known, greatly
as it deserves to be studied, "The Leviathan," in order that I may put
to you in the wonderfully terse and clear language of Thomas Hobbes,
what was his view of the matter. He says:--
"The register of knowledge of fact is called history. Whereof there be
two sorts, one called natural history; which is the history of such
facts or effects of nature as have no dependence on man's will; such as
are the histories of metals, plants, animals, regions, and the like.
The other is civil history; which is the history of the voluntary
actions of men in commonwealths."
So that all history of fact was divided into these two great groups of
natural and of civil history. The Royal Society was in course of
foundation about the time that Hobbes was writing this book, which was
published in 1651; and that Society was termed a "Society for the
Improvement of Natural Knowledge," which was then nearly the same thing
as a "Society for the Improvement of Natural History." As time went on,
and the various branches of human knowledge became more distinctly
developed and separated from one another, it was found that some were
much more susceptible of precise mathematical treatment than others.
The publication of the "Principia" of Newton, which probably gave a
greater stimulus to physical science than any work ever published
before, or which is likely to be published hereafter, showed that
precise mathematical methods were applicable to those branches of
science such as astronomy, and what we now call physics, which occupy a
very large portion of the domain of what the older writers understood
by natural history. And inasmuch as the partly deductive and partly
experimental methods of treatment to which Newton and others subjected
these branches of human knowledge, showed that the phenomena of nature
which belonged to them were susceptible of explanation, and thereby
came within the reach of what was called "philosophy" in those days; so
much of this kind of knowledge as was not included under astronomy came
to be spoken of as "natural philosophy"--a term which Bacon had
employed in a much wider sense. Time went on, and yet other branches of
science developed themselves. Chemistry took a definite shape; and
since all these sciences, such as astronomy, natural philosophy, and
chemistry, were susceptible either of mathematical treatment or of
experimental treatment, or of both, a broad distinction was drawn
between the experimental branches of what had previously been called
natural history and the observational branches--those in which
experiment was (or appeared to be) of doubtful use, and where, at that
time, mathematical methods were inapplicable. Under these circumstances
the old name of "Natural History" stuck by the residuum, by those
phenomena which were not, at that time, susceptible of mathematical or
experimental treatment; that is to say, those phenomena of nature which
come now under the general heads of physical geography, geology,
mineralogy, the history of plants, and the history of animals. It was
in this sense that the term was understood by the great writers of the
middle of the last century--Buffon and Linnaeus--by Buffon in his great
work, the "Histoire Naturelle Générale," and by Linnaeus in his
splendid achievement, the "Systema Naturae." The subjects they deal
with are spoken of as "Natural History," and they called themselves and
were called "Naturalists." But you will observe that this was not the
original meaning of these terms; but that they had, by this time,
acquired a signification widely different from that which they
possessed primitively.
The sense in which "Natural History" was used at the time I am now
speaking of has, to a certain extent, endured to the present day. There
are now in existence in some of our northern universities, chairs of
"Civil and Natural History," in which "Natural History" is used to
indicate exactly what Hobbes and Bacon meant by that term. The unhappy
incumbent of the chair of Natural History is, or was, supposed to cover
the whole ground of geology, mineralogy, and zoology, perhaps even
botany, in his lectures.
But as science made the marvellous progress which it did make at the
latter end of the last and the beginning of the present century,
thinking men began to discern that under this title of "Natural
History" there were included very heterogeneous constituents--that, for
example, geology and mineralogy were, in many respects, widely
different from botany and zoology; that a man might obtain an extensive
knowledge of the structure and functions of plants and animals, without
having need to enter upon the study of geology or mineralogy, and
_vice versâ_; and, further as knowledge advanced, it became clear
that there was a great analogy, a very close alliance, between those
two sciences, of botany and zoology which deal with human beings, while
they are much more widely separated from all other studies. It is due
to Buffon to remark that he clearly recognised this great fact. He
says: "Ces deux genres d'êtres organisés [les animaux et les végétaux]
ont beaucoup plus de propriétés communes que de différences réelles."
Therefore, it is not wonderful that, at the beginning of the present
century, in two different countries, and so far as I know, without any
intercommunication, two famous men clearly conceived the notion of
uniting the sciences which deal with living matter into one whole, and
of dealing with them as one discipline. In fact, I may say there were
three men to whom this idea occurred contemporaneously, although there
were but two who carried it into effect, and only one who worked it out
completely. The persons to whom I refer were the eminent physiologist
Bichat, and the great naturalist Lamarck, in France; and a
distinguished German, Treviranus. Bichat [1] assumed the existence of a
special group of "physiological" sciences. Lamarck, in a work published
in 1801, [2] for the first time made use of the name "Biologie," from
the two Greek words which signify a discourse upon life and living
things. About the same time, it occurred to Treviranus, that all those
sciences which deal with living matter are essentially and
fundamentally one, and ought to be treated as a whole; and, in the year
1802, he published the first volume of what he also called "Biologie."
Treviranus's great merit lies in this, that he worked out his idea, and
wrote the very remarkable book to which I refer. It consists of six
volumes, and occupied its author for twenty years--from 1802 to 1822.
That is the origin of the term "Biology"; and that is how it has come
about that all clear thinkers and lovers of consistent nomenclature
have substituted for the old confusing name of "Natural History," which
has conveyed so many meanings, the term "Biology" which denotes the
whole of the sciences which deal with living things, whether they be
animals or whether they be plants. Some little time ago--in the course
of this year, I think--I was favoured by a learned classic, Dr. Field
of Norwich, with a disquisition, in which he endeavourved to prove
that, from a philological point of view, neither Treviranus nor Lamarck
had any right to coin this new word "Biology" for their purpose; that,
in fact, the Greek word "Bios" had relation only to human life and
human affairs, and that a different word was employed by the Greeks
when they wished to speak of the life of animals and plants. So Dr.
Field tells us we are all wrong in using the term biology, and that we
ought to employ another; only he is not sure about the propriety of
that which he proposes as a substitute. It is a somewhat hard
one--"zootocology." I am sorry we are wrong, because we are likely to
continue so. In these matters we must have some sort of "Statute of
Limitations." When a name has been employed for half a century, persons
of authority [3] have been using it, and its sense has become well
understood, I am afraid people will go on using it, whatever the weight
of philological objection.
Now that we have arrived at the origin of this word "Biology," the next
point to consider is: What ground does it cover? I have said that in
its strict technical sense, it denotes all the phenomena which are
exhibited by living things, as distinguished from those which are not
living; but while that is all very well, so long as we confine
ourselves to the lower animals and to plants, it lands us in
considerable difficulties when we reach the higher forms of living
things. For whatever view we may entertain about the nature of man, one
thing is perfectly certain, that he is a living creature. Hence, if our
definition is to be interpreted strictly, we must include man and all
his ways and works under the head of Biology; in which case, we should
find that psychology, politics, and political economy would be absorbed
into the province of Biology. In fact, civil history would be merged in
natural history. In strict logic it may be hard to object to this
course, because no one can doubt that the rudiments and outlines of our
own mental phenomena are traceable among the lower animals. They have
their economy and their polity, and if, as is always admitted, the
polity of bees and the commonwealth of wolves fall within the purview
of the biologist proper, it becomes hard to say why we should not
include therein human affairs, which, in so many cases, resemble those
of the bees in zealous getting, and are not without a certain parity in
the proceedings of the wolves. The real fact is that we biologists are
a self-sacrificing people; and inasmuch as, on a moderate estimate,
there are about a quarter of a million different species of animals and
plants to know about already, we feel that we have more than sufficient
territory. There has been a sort of practical convention by which we
give up to a different branch of science what Bacon and Hobbes would
have called "Civil History." That branch of science has constituted
itself under the head of Sociology. I may use phraseology which, at
present, will be well understood and say that we have allowed that
province of Biology to become autonomous; but I should like you to
recollect that that is a sacrifice, and that you should not be
surprised if it occasionally happens that you see a biologist
apparently trespassing in the region of philosophy or politics; or
meddling with human education; because, after all, that is a part of
his kingdom which he has only voluntarily forsaken.
Having now defined the meaning of the word Biology, and having
indicated the general scope of Biological Science, I turn to my second
question, which is--Why should we study Biology? Possibly the time may
come when that will seem a very odd question. That we, living
creatures, should not feel a certain amount of interest in what it is
that constitutes our life will eventually, under altered ideas of the
fittest objects of human inquiry, appear to be a singular phenomenon;
but at present, judging by the practice of teachers and educators,
Biology would seem to be a topic that does not concern us at all. I
propose to put before you a few considerations with which I dare say
many will be familiar already, but which will suffice to show--not
fully, because to demonstrate this point fully would take a great many
lectures--that there are some very good and substantial reasons why it
may be advisable that we should know something about this branch of
human learning.
I myself entirely agree with another sentiment of the philosopher of
Malmesbury, "that the scope of all speculation is the performance of
some action or thing to be done," and I have not any very great respect
for, or interest in, mere knowing as such. I judge of the value of
human pursuits by their bearing upon human interests; in other words,
by their utility; but I should like that we should quite clearly
understand what it is that we mean by this word "utility." In an
Englishman's mouth it generally means that by which we get pudding or
praise, or both. I have no doubt that is one meaning of the word
utility, but it by no means includes all I mean by utility. I think
that knowledge of every kind is useful in proportion as it tends to
give people right ideas, which are essential to the foundation of right
practice, and to remove wrong ideas, which are the no less essential
foundations and fertile mothers of every description of error in
practice. And inasmuch as, whatever practical people may say, this
world is, after all, absolutely governed by ideas, and very often by
the wildest and most hypothetical ideas, it is a matter of the very
greatest importance that our theories of things, and even of things
that seem a long way apart from our daily lives, should be as far as
possible true, and as far as possible removed from error. It is not
only in the coarser, practical sense of the word "utility," but in this
higher and broader sense, that I measure the value of the study of
biology by its utility; and I shall try to point out to you that you
will feel the need of some knowledge of biology at a great many turns
of this present nineteenth century life of ours. For example, most of
us attach great importance to the conception which we entertain of the
position of man in this universe and his relation to the rest of
nature. We have almost all been told, and most of us hold by the
tradition, that man occupies an isolated and peculiar position in
nature; that though he is in the world he is not of the world; that his
relations to things about him are of a remote character; that his
origin is recent, his duration likely to be short, and that he is the
great central figure round which other things in this world revolve.
But this is not what the biologist tells us.
At the present moment you will be kind enough to separate me from them,
because it is in no way essential to my present argument that I should
advocate their views. Don't suppose that I am saying this for the
purpose of escaping the responsibility of their beliefs; indeed, at
other times and in other places, I do not think that point has been
left doubtful; but I want clearly to point out to you that for my
present argument they may all be wrong; and, nevertheless, my argument
will hold good. The biologists tell us that all this is an entire
mistake. They turn to the physical organisation of man. They examine
his whole structure, his bony frame and all that clothes it. They
resolve him into the finest particles into which the microscope will
enable them to break him up. They consider the performance of his
various functions and activities, and they look at the manner in which
he occurs on the surface of the world. Then they turn to other animals,
and taking the first handy domestic animal--say a dog--they profess to
be able to demonstrate that the analysis of the dog leads them, in
gross, to precisely the same results as the analysis of the man; that
they find almost identically the same bones, having the same relations;
that they can name the muscles of the dog by the names of the muscles
of the man, and the nerves of the dog by those of the nerves of the
man, and that, such structures and organs of sense as we find in the
man such also we find in the dog; they analyse the brain and spinal
cord and they find that the nomenclature which fits, the one answers
for the other. They carry their microscopic inquiries in the case of
the dog as far as they can, and they find that his body is resolvable
into the same elements as those of the man. Moreover, they trace back
the dog's and the man's development, and they find that, at a certain
stage of their existence, the two creatures are not distinguishable the
one from the other; they find that the dog and his kind have a certain
distribution over the surface of the world, comparable in its way to
the distribution of the human species. What is true of the dog they
tell us is true of all the higher animals; and they assert that they
can lay down a common plan for the whole of these creatures, and regard
the man and the dog, the horse and the ox as minor modifications of one
great fundamental unity. Moreover, the investigations of the last
three-quarters of a century have proved, they tell us, that similar
inquiries, carried out through all the different kinds of animals which
are met with in nature, will lead us, not in one straight series, but
by many roads, step by step, gradation by gradation, from man, at the
summit, to specks of animated jelly at the bottom of the series. So
that the idea of Leibnitz, and of Bonnet, that animals form a great
scale of being, in which there are a series of gradations from the most
complicated form to the lowest and simplest; that idea, though not
exactly in the form in which it was propounded by those philosophers,
turns out to be substantially correct. More than this, when biologists
pursue their investigations into the vegetable world, they find that
they can, in the same way, follow out the structure of the plant, from
the most gigantic and complicated trees down through a similar series
of gradations, until they arrive at specks of animated jelly, which
they are puzzled to distinguish from those specks which they reached by
the animal road.
Thus, biologists have arrived at the conclusion that a fundamental
uniformity of structure pervades the animal and vegetable worlds, and
that plants and animals differ from one another simply as diverse
modifications of the same great general plan.
Again, they tell us the same story in regard to the study of function.
They admit the large and important interval which, at the present time,
separates the manifestations of the mental faculties observable in the
higher forms of mankind, and even in the lower forms, such as we know
them, from those exhibited by other animals; but, at the same time,
they tell us that the foundations, or rudiments, of almost all the
faculties of man are to be met with in the lower animals; that there is
a unity of mental faculty as well as of bodily structure, and that,
here also, the difference is a difference of degree and not of kind. I
said "almost all," for a reason. Among the many distinctions which have
been drawn between the lower creatures and ourselves, there is one
which is hardly ever insisted on, [4] but which may be very fitly
spoken of in a place so largely devoted to Art as that in which we are
assembled. It is this, that while, among various kinds of animals, it
is possible to discover traces of all the other faculties of man,
especially the faculty of mimicry, yet that particular form of mimicry
which shows itself in the imitation of form, either by modelling or by
drawing, is not to be met with. As far as I know, there is no sculpture
or modelling, and decidedly no painting or drawing, of animal origin. I
mention the fact, in order that such comfort may be derived therefrom
as artists may feel inclined to take.
If what the biologists tell us is true, it will be needful to get rid
of our erroneous conceptions of man, and of his place in nature, and to
substitute right ones for them. But it is impossible to form any
judgment as to whether the biologists are right or wrong, unless we are
able to appreciate the nature of the arguments which they have to
offer.
One would almost think this to be a self-evident proposition. I wonder
what a scholar would say to the man who should undertake to criticise a
difficult passage in a Greek play, but who obviously had not acquainted
himself with the rudiments of Greek grammar. And yet, before giving
positive opinions about these high questions of Biology, people not
only do not seem to think it necessary to be acquainted with the
grammar of the subject, but they have not even mastered the alphabet.
You find criticism and denunciation showered about by persons who not
only have not attempted to go through the discipline necessary to
enable them to be judges, but who have not even reached that stage of
emergence from ignorance in which the knowledge that such a discipline
is necessary dawns upon the mind. I have had to watch with some
attention--in fact I have been favoured with a good deal of it
myself--the sort of criticism with which biologists and biological
teachings are visited. I am told every now and then that there is a
"brilliant article" [5] in so-and-so, in which we are all demolished. I
used to read these things once, but I am getting old now, and I have
ceased to attend very much to this cry of "wolf." When one does read
any of these productions, what one finds generally, on the face of it
is, that the brilliant critic is devoid of even the elements of
biological knowledge, and that his brilliancy is like the light given
out by the crackling of thorns under a pot of which Solomon speaks. So
far as I recollect, Solomon makes use of the image for purposes of
comparison; but I will not proceed further into that matter.
Two things must be obvious: in the first place, that every man who has
the interests of truth at heart must earnestly desire that every
well-founded and just criticism that can be made should be made; but
that, in the second place, it is essential to anybody's being able to
benefit by criticism, that the critic should know what he is talking
about, and be in a position to form a mental image of the facts
symbolised by the words he uses. If not, it is as obvious in the case
of a biological argument, as it is in that of a historical or
philological discussion, that such criticism is a mere waste of time on
the part of its author, and wholly undeserving of attention on the part
of those who are criticised. Take it then as an illustration of the
importance of biological study, that thereby alone are men able to form
something like a rational conception of what constitutes valuable
criticism of the teachings of biologists. [6]