I. Man an Animal.

It was in the zoology class at college. We had made all the long

journey from amoeba to coral, from coral to worm, from worm to

mollusk, from mollusk to fish, from fish to reptile, and from

reptile to mammal—and there, in the closing pages of faithful old

Packard, we found it. ‘A mammal of the order of primates,’ the

book said, with that unconcern characteristic of the deliverances of

science. I was almost saddened. It was the first intimation I had

ever received of that trite but neglected truth that _man is an

animal_.

But the intimation was so weak, and I was at that time so

unconscious, that it was not till years later that I began, through

reflection, actually to realise the truth here first caught sight

of. During these years I knew that man was not a mineral nor a

plant—that, indeed, he belonged to the animal kingdom. But, like

most men still, I continued to think of him as being altogether

different from other animals. I thought of man _and the animals_,

_not_ of man and the _other_ animals. Man was somehow _sui generis_.

He had had, I believed, a unique and miraculous origin; for I had

not yet learned of organic evolution. The pre-Darwinian belief that

I had come down from the skies, and that non-human creatures of all

kinds had been brought into existence as adjuncts of the

distinguished species to which I belonged, occupied prominent place

in my thinking. Non-human races, so I had been taught, had in

themselves no reason for existence. They were accessories. A chasm,

too wide for any bridge ever to span, yawned between the human and

all other species. Man was celestial, a blue-blood barely escaping

divinity. All other beings were little higher than clods. So

faithfully and mechanically did I reflect the bias in which I had

grown up.

But man _is_ an _animal_. It was away out there on the prairies,

among the green corn rows, one beautiful June morning—a long time

ago it seems to me now—that this revelation really came to me. And

I repeat it here, as it has grown to seem to me, for the sake of a

world which is so wise in many things, but so darkened and wayward

regarding this one thing. However averse to accepting it we may be

on account of favourite traditions, man is an animal in the most

literal and materialistic meaning of the word. Man has not a spark

of so-called ‘divinity’ about him. In important respects he is

the most highly evolved of animals; but in origin, disposition, and

form he is no more ‘divine’ than the dog who laps his sores, the

terrapin who waddles over the earth in a carapace, or the

unfastidious worm who dines on the dust of his feet. Man is not the

pedestalled individual pictured by his imagination—a being

glittering with prerogatives, and towering apart from and above all

other beings. He is a pain-shunning, pleasure-seeking,

death-dreading organism, differing in particulars, but not in kind,

from the pain-shunning, pleasure-seeking, death-dreading organisms

below and around him. Man is neither a rock, a vegetable, nor a

deity. He belongs to the same class of existences, and has been

brought into existence by the same evolutional processes, as the

horse, the toad that hops in his garden, the firefly that lights its

twilight torch, and the bivalve that reluctantly feeds him.

Man’s body is composed fundamentally of the same materials as the

bodies of all other animals. The bodies of all animals are composed

of clay. They are formed of the same elements as those that murmur

in the waters, gallop in the winds, and constitute the substance of

the insensate rocks and soils. More than two-thirds of the weight of

the human body is made up of oxygen alone, a gas which forms

one-fifth of the weight of the air, more than eight-ninths of that

of the sea, and forty-seven per cent, of the superficial solids of

the earth.

Man’s body is composed of cells. So are the bodies of all other

animals. And the cells in the body of a human being are not

essentially different in composition or structure from the cells in

the body of the sponge. All cells are composed primarily of

protoplasm, a compound of carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen.

Like all other animals, man is incapable of producing a particle of

the essential substance of which his body is made. No animal can

produce protoplasm. This is a power of the plant, and the plant

only. All that any animal can do is to burn the compounds formed in

the sun-lit laboratories of the vegetable world. The human skeleton,

like the skeletons of nearly all other animals, is composed chiefly

of lime—lime being, in the sea, where life spent so many of its

earlier centuries, the most available material for parts whose

purpose it is to furnish shape and durability to the organism. Man

grows from an egg. So do all creatures of clay. Every animal

commences at the same place—in a single, lowly, almost homogeneous

cell. A dog, a frog, a philosopher, and a worm cannot for a long

time after their embryonic commencement be distinguished from each

other. Like the oyster, the ox, the insect, and the fish, like all

that live, move, and breathe, man is mortal. He increases in size

and complexity through an allotted period of time; then, like all

his kindred, wilts back into the indistinguishable flux from which

he came. Man inhales oxygen and exhales carbon dioxide. So does

every animal that breathes, whether it breathe by lungs, gills,

skin, or ectosarc, and whether it breathe the sunless ooze of the

sea floor or the ethereal blue of the sky. Animals inhale oxygen

because they eat carbon and hydrogen. The energy of all animals is

produced mainly by the union of oxygen with the elements of carbon

and hydrogen in the tissues of animal bodies, the plentiful and

ardent oxygen being the most available supporter of the combustion

of these two elements.

Man is, then, an animal, more highly evolved than the most of his

fellow-beings, but positively of the same clay, and of the same

fundamental make-up, with the same eagerness to exceed and the same

destiny, as his less pompous kindred who float and frolic and pass

away in the seas and atmospheres, and creep over the land-patches of

a common clod.

The Universal Kinship · 第 20 / 53 题