OF EVOLUTION, AND A NINETEENTH CENTURY FOE.
"Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.
* * * * * * * *
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in the light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward look, the land is light."
A. H. CLOUGH.
Late in the afternoon of a sunny August day two pedestrians might
have been seen skirting the shore of one of the beautiful little
lakes which lie cradled in the arms of the grand old monarch of Welsh
mountains. The elder, grey-bearded and somewhat bent, had yet an air
of alertness, a certain elasticity of step which bespoke a buoyant
temperament; the younger, lacking entirely this touch of triumph,
walked firmly and sharply, following in his companion's wake, and
himself closely followed by a fox-terrier. Very still was the
mountain side, for miles round not another living creature was in
sight; above them to the right towered the most abrupt side of
Snowdon, rugged and wild and grim-looking, its chaos of grey rocks
relieved here and there by tufts of coarse mountain grass or clumps
of fern; to the left, in striking contrast, lay the little lake,
small and insignificant enough to be scarcely known by its name, and
yet in the beauty of its situation and in its majesty of calmness
attracting the eye almost as much as its stately bearer.
"There's a stiffish climb before us," said Charles Osmond, pausing as
he looked up the mountain path. "What do you say to an hour's rest
here? we couldn't have a lovelier place."
"Very well, and Waif shall have a swim," replied Donovan, "I'll just
give him a stone or two. We have plenty of time if we're to see the
sunset from the top."
Whistling to the dog, he ran down the slope to the lake, while Waif,
in a tremor of delighted excitement, plunged into the cool water
after the sticks and stones which his master threw. Charles Osmond,
stretched out on the grass with one of the grey boulders by way of a
pillow, watched the two thoughtfully, the spirited swimming of the
fox-terrier, the fine strongly-made figure of the man hurling the
stones into the lake with a vigour and directness and force
which--albeit there was no mark--bespoke him a good marksman. After
a time he made his way again up the slope, and threw himself down at
full length beside his companion with a sigh of comfortable content.
"You old Italian!" said Charles Osmond, with a laugh, "what a way you
have of throwing yourself in an instant into exactly the most
comfortable position! now a true-born Britisher fidgets, and
wriggles, and grumbles, and in the end does not look as if he'd found
the right place."
"One of the bequests of my great-great-grandmother," said Donovan,
"by nature I do go straight out on the hearthrug when other fellows
would crouch up in an arm-chair."
"Oh! it is four generations back, is it! I staked my reputation as
an observer that you had a bit of the Italian in you the very first
time we met, though Brian scouted the idea."
"It comes out in that and in the way I owned to you before," said
Donovan, "the endlessness of the feud when once begun. We've some
bloodthirsty proverbs as to enemies in Italy."
"I shouldn't have thought you revengeful by nature."
"It smoulders, and does not often show itself in flame," said
Donovan. "I'm afraid there have often been times when I could have
done something desperate to Ellis Farrant if I'd had a chance. Even
now, professing to go by very different rules, I believe if I saw him
fall into that lake, the fiend of revenge in me would try hard to
hold me still on the shore. Good folk may shudder, but that's the
plain unvarnished truth. I have shocked even you, though, by the
confession."
"No," said Charles Osmond, slowly, "you've only surprised me a
little. Having come to such blanks in yourself and your system, I
wonder rather that the fitness of Christianity to fill those blanks
does not seem more striking. The lesson of forgiveness, for
instance, could only have been taught by Christ--by the great
Forgiver. I wonder that your need does not throw more light on
Christianity."
"Proof," sighed Donovan. "It is that we want."
He thought of his talks with Dr. Tremain as the words passed his
lips, but though the doctor's argument was still fresh in his mind,
he had by no means come yet to think that logical proof could be
willingly renounced.
"But the sense of need is an indirect proof," said Charles Osmond.
"I cannot see it in that way," said Donovan. "That a man in a desert
is dying of thirst is no proof that there is water in the place."
"No; but it is a proof that the natural place for man is not the said
desert, and that the water he longs for does exist, that it is his
natural means of life, and that without it he will certainly die."
"It is not much good to talk by metaphors," said Donovan, "and, since
we have broken the ice, I should very much like to ask you one or two
questions in plainest English. It is all very well to speak of need
and thirst and the rest of it, but there are gigantic difficulties in
the way. I should like very much to know, for instance, how you get
over the evolution theory."
"You speak as if it were a wall," said Charles Osmond, laughing a
little. "I never thought of 'getting over it.' To my mind, it is
one of the most beautiful of the 'ladders set up to Heaven from
earth,' and if folks hadn't been scared by the conglomeration of
narrow-minded fearfulness and atheistical cock-crowings, the
probabilities are that more would have seen the real beauty and
grandeur of the idea."
"I noticed Hæckel's 'Creation' and 'Evolution of Man' in your
book-shelves the very first night I came to you," said Donovan; "and
I've always wondered how you did get over it."
"There you are again, making my ladder a wall," said Charles Osmond,
with a little twinkle in his deep, bright eyes.
"Well, it is a wall to me," said Donovan. "Having all come into
existence so exceedingly well without a God----"
"And," interrupted Charles Osmond, "finding it so hard to live
without Him, being so conscious of a grave deficiency in our nature
which yet nature does not give us the means to supply. In honesty,
you must remember that you've previously admitted that."
"Yes, but surely you see the difficulty," said Donovan, with a touch
of impatience in his tone.
"I do," said Charles Osmond, gravely, "that is, I think I see where
your difficulty is. For myself, as I told you, the theory of
evolution seems to me in absolute harmony with all that I know or can
conceive of God. I accept it fully as His plan for the world, or
rather, perhaps I should say, as an imperfect glimpse of the beauty
of His plan, the best and clearest that present science can give us.
In another hundred years we may know much more."
"But you cannot make Hæckel square with the Bible."
"I certainly do not accept all Hæckel's conclusions, for they are
often drawn from premises which are utterly illogical; nor do I
accept all his assumptions, for he often practically claims
omniscience. At the same time, he has done us a great service, and
the false deductions of a teacher cannot spoil or alter the truth of
his system. If it were so, it would be a bad look out for
Christianity, with its two hundred and odd sects. Do you consider
that spontaneous generation is already proved?"
"Not absolutely," said Donovan, "but quite sufficiently for working
purposes, and in time I can't doubt that it will be completely
proved. What will then become of the Author of the Universe, to
adopt the current phrase?"
"If it should be proved, as I fully expect it will be," replied
Charles Osmond, "it will merely carry us one step further back in our
appreciation of the original Will-power. We shall still recognise
the one Mind impressing one final and all-embracing law upon what we
call matter and force, and then leaving force and matter to elaborate
the performance of that law."
"You assume a good deal there," said Donovan. "Why should we imagine
that law--still less, a personal Will--existed before the existence
of primordial cells?"
"You must either assume that there existed only one primordial cell,
or else that there was a law of order impressed upon the infinite
number of primordial cells," said Charles Osmond.
Donovan left off twisting the grasses which grew beside him, and
knitted his brows in thought. This idea was a new one to him. He
was silent for a minute or two, then, keeping his judgment entirely
suspended, he said, slowly,
"And what then? I should like to hear that borne out a little."
"The question is, how has the absolute uniformity of action been
attained? If matter be self-existent, there must have been at the
very first outset an infinite number of cells, and also an infinite
possibility of variation. Say, just for illustration, a million
cells, each capable of varying in a million ways. Now just calculate
the mathematical chances that ultimate order could result from this
disorder, and, if so, what length of time, approximately, it would
occupy, allowing each cell an hour of existence, and then to give
birth to another cell, probably differing from itself!"
Donovan laughed a little, and mused, and presently Charles Osmond
continued.
"No, it seems to me that orderly transmission of hereditary form or
habit is only possible on the supposition either of the one
self-existent cell, to which there are many objections, or on the
supposition of a law of order, which must have been antecedent to the
cells, or it could not have impressed them."
"I daresay many would willingly concede as much as that," said
Donovan. "It is only when you go on to assert that the law came from
a law-giver that we cry out."
"Well, where did it come from?" said Charles Osmond.
"I suppose it was a fortuitous concourse of atoms," said Donovan,
doubtfully.
"That is a thoroughly unscientific hypothesis," returned Charles
Osmond. "Mind, I don't assert that my theory is proved, but I claim
this, that both physical and mathematical science demonstrate the
probability of some law existing before primordial cells existed, and
that this probability is at least as reasonable as a working
hypothesis, as is that of evolution in explaining the method in which
that primordial law has operated."
"But what will my old 'soul-preserving' friends say to you?" observed
Donovan, smiling. "You agree to the disenthronement of that
all-important being--man."
"Do I?" said Charles Osmond.
"Well, you accept as your oldest ancestor something more
insignificant than an amœba."
"Yes, but I thought the longer the pedigree the better," said Charles
Osmond, with laughter in his eyes.
"But, seriously, where do you make your spirit-world begin?"
"I think," said Charles Osmond, "there was once a wise man, but who
he was I haven't an idea, and this was his wise utterance, 'The
spirit sleeps in the stone, dreams in the animal, and wakes in man.'
The revelation, or, if you will, the awakening, appeared to be
sudden, it came as it were in a flash; but it was the result of long
processes, it followed the universal rule--a gradual advance, then a
sudden unfolding. And in this way, I take it, all revelation comes."
Donovan looked full into his companion's face for a moment, a
question, and a very eager one, was trembling on his lips, his whole
face was a question, the question which Charles Osmond would fain
have answered if he could. But a reserved man does not easily talk
of that which affects him most nearly, and in this case certainly out
of the abundance of the heart the mouth did not speak. The firm yet
sensitive lips were closed again, but perhaps the very silence
revealed more to Charles Osmond than any spoken words could have
done, and by a hundred other slight indications he knew perfectly
well that Donovan's heart was full of the spirit hunger.
"Let me just for a minute fall back on the Mosaic account," he said,
after a little time had passed. "You think that account incompatible
with the evolution theory, to my mind it expresses in a simple, clear
way, such as a wise teacher might use with young children, the very
truths that recent researches have wonderfully enlarged upon. If you
will notice it carefully the very order given to the creation in the
first of Genesis is exactly borne out by modern science. Then we are
told in the grand old simple words which only were fit for such a
purpose--that God breathed into him, and man became a living soul.
To man evolved probably from the simplest of organisms, to gradually
perfected man the revelation is made: God breathes into him the
breath of life, that is the knowledge of Himself, life according to
Christ's definition being knowledge of God. Man was now fully alive,
fully awake, the spirit had slept, had dreamed, but the revelation
was made, and his dormant spirit sprang into life."
"But I am not conscious of this spirit," said Donovan, "I am aware of
nothing that cannot be explained as a function of the brain, thought,
mind, will."
"Yet you are conscious of being incomplete," said Charles Osmond.
"It seems to me that for a time we get on very well as body and soul
men, or body and mind, if you like it better; but sooner or later
comes the craving for something higher, which something, I take it,
is the spirit life. And one thing more, if you will let me say it,
you tell me you are conscious of nothing but body and mind, but I
can't help thinking that your love for that little sister whom you
mentioned to me was the purest spiritual love, to which no scientific
theory will apply."
For many minutes Donovan did not speak, not because he was actually
thinking of his companion's words, but because a vision of the past
was with him; little Dot in her purity, her child-like trust, her
clinging devotion rose once more before him. How had she learnt the
truths which to him were so unattainable? Brought up for years in a
way which could not possibly bias her mind, how was it that she had,
apparently without the least difficulty, taken hold of such an
abstraction, such a mysterious, incomprehensible idea? She had not
believed on "authority," for naturally the nurse-maid's authority
would have weighed less with her than his own, yet in some way the
Unseen, the Unknown, the to him Unknowable, had become to her the
most intense reality. She had very rarely spoken to him on that
subject because she knew it grieved him; he could only remember one
instance in which she had definitely expressed the reality of her
faith. He had been remonstrating with her a little, and she had
answered in a half-timid way which somehow angered him because it was
so unusual with her.
"You see, Dono, I can't help knowing that God is, because He is
nearer to me even than you."
He could almost feel the little face nestling closer to him as the
shy words were ended, and clearly could he recall the terrible pang
which that faltering childish sentence had caused him. He had then
believed that she was under a great delusion, now he inclined to
think that her pure soul had grasped a great truth which still
remained to him utterly unknowable. This was almost all that he had
actually heard her say, except the last half unconscious prayer, the
speech of a little child to its father containing no pompous title,
no ascriptions of praise, but only the most absolute trust. She had
never fallen into conventional religious phraseology; but perhaps
nothing could have so exactly met Donovan's wants that summer
afternoon as her last perfectly peaceful words, "He is so very good,
you know--you will know." No argument, however subtle, no sermon,
however eloquent, had the hope-giving power which lay in the little
child's words--words which had lain dormant in his heart for years,
apparently with no effect whatever.
Charles Osmond saw that his reference had awakened a long train of
thought; he would not look at the changes on the face of his
companion, for just now in its naturalness it was exceedingly like a
book, and a book which he felt it hardly fair to read. Instead he
gazed across the quiet little lake to the sunny landscape beyond,
battled with a conceited thought which had arisen within him, and was
ready with his beautiful, honest mind and hearty sympathy to come
back to Donovan's standpoint as soon as he seemed to wish it.
Waif, having studied the group from a distance for some minutes, and
having given himself a series of severe shakings to wring the water
from his coat, seemed to consider himself dry enough for society. He
came back to his master, sniffed at his clothes, and finding that his
remonstrating whines received no notice, began to lick his face.
Then Donovan came back to the world of realities, and perhaps because
of the softening influence of the past vision, perhaps merely out of
gratitude to the dumb friend who understood his moods so well and
filled so great a blank for him, he threw his arms round the dog, wet
as he was, hugged him, patted him, praised and petted him in a way
which put the fox-terrier into his seventh heaven of happiness.
Charles Osmond was touched and amused by the manner in which the
silence was ended. Presently Donovan turned towards him again with a
much brightened face.
"There is one thing which you Christians will have to face before
long," he began, "or rather I should think must face now, with the
theory of evolution so nearly established."
"Well?" said Charles Osmond.
"I mean this," continued Donovan: "Our original ancestors and their
living representatives can hardly be left out of your scheme of
immortality. It seems to me a very half-and-half scheme if it only
includes mankind. You know," he added, laughing a little, "even the
idea of heaven you gave us in your sermon the other night--about the
least material and the most beautiful I ever heard--would scarcely be
perfect to me without Waif."
"I quite agree with you," said Charles Osmond. "Nor can I understand
why people object so much to the idea. Luther, you know, fully
admitted his belief that animals might share in the hereafter, and to
appeal to a still higher authority it seems to me that, unless we
deliberately narrow the meaning of the words, St. Paul clearly
asserts the deliverance of the whole creation from the bondage of
corruption into the deliverance of the glory of the children of God.
I believe in One who fills all things, by whom all things consist,
therefore I certainly do believe in the immortality of animals."
"Well, seeing how infinitely more loving my dog is than most men, I
own that it seems to me unfair to shut him out of your scheme. The
old Norsemen walked with their dogs in the 'Happy Hunting Fields,'
and, however material that old legend, there is a touch of beauty in
it which is somehow wanting--at any rate, to dog-lovers--in the
ordinary, and I must say equally material, descriptions of the
gorgeous halls of Zion."
"You two are very fond of each other," said Charles Osmond, looking
at the dog and his master.
"We have been through a good deal together, and I believe, to begin
with, the mere fact of his wanting me when no one else did, of his
following me so persistently in the Strand just at the time when
everyone had hard words to throw at me, drew me towards him. I've
watched him nearly dying with distemper, and somehow dragged him
through. He has watched me nearly dying in a bog, and, by his sense
and persistency, got me rescued. Besides that, at least three times
he has saved me from a worse death, just by being what he is, the
most loving little brute in England."
"Brave little Waif! I shall never forget my first sight of him,"
said Charles Osmond, smiling. "It was a wonder you two didn't put me
out that night, the fit was distracting enough; but when I saw you
and the fox-terrier walking up the aisle, head No. 1 nearly went into
space, though I could have told the people every one of your
characteristic features, and should have known Waif among a thousand
dogs!"
"But to go back once more to our old subject," said Donovan; "does
not your theory bring you to something very like Pantheism?"
"I think it is the Higher Pantheism," said Charles Osmond. "While
we've been lying here, Tennyson's lines have been haunting me. You
know them, I suppose?"
Donovan only knew one poem in the world, however, and he asked to
hear this one. Charles Osmond repeated it, and, because he loved it,
rendered it very well.
"You see," he said, after a pause, "it is this Higher Pantheism which
leads us up to the greatest heights.
'Speak to Him thou, for He hears and Spirit with Spirit
can meet,
Closer is He than breathing, and nearer than hands and feet.'
It leads us to no vague impersonal Force, but to the Spirit by whom
and in whom we live and move and have our being."
Donovan did not speak, and before long they began to climb their
mountain; but, though he said no word to his companion, he moved to a
sort of soundless tune which set itself to a verse of the poem,
"Dark is the world to thee: thyself art the reason why;
For is He not all but thou, that hast power to feel 'I am I'?"
The climb was rather a stiff one, and by the time they reached the
summit they were glad enough of the fresh breeze which was there to
greet them as they made their way up to the little cairn. The sun
was within a quarter of an hour of setting, its red beams were
bathing the landscape in a flood of glory; around the mountains stood
in solemn grandeur, as if doing homage to the parting king, the red
beams lighted up one or two, but more were in solemn shade, varying
from pearly grey to the softest purple. There was something
perfectly indescribable in the sense of breadth and height and beauty
combined; in their different ways the two pedestrians revelled in it.
The creases seemed to smooth themselves out of Charles Osmond's brow,
he lost the weight of care which the long year's work brought, not
always to be shaken off in the summer holiday. But here it was
impossible to be earth-bound; his whole being was echoing the words,
"Are not these, oh! soul, the vision of Him who reigns?"
And Donovan, exulting in that sense of space which was so dear to
him, realised as he had never realised before that it is the Infinite
only which can satisfy the Infinite.
The lofty is often closely followed by the prosaic, and in the
neighbourhood of great heights there lurk the dangers of the
precipice. Donovan had reached high ground, but in a minute came the
most violent re-action, the most humiliating fall.
They were not the only tourists who had made the ascent that
afternoon. A very different party sat drinking and smoking on the
other side of one of the huts; their laughter was borne across every
now and then to the westward side of the cairn, but both Charles
Osmond and Donovan were too much absorbed in their own thoughts to be
at all disturbed by it. The rudeness of the shock was therefore
quite unbroken. From high but unfortunately fruitless aspirations,
Donovan was recalled to the hardest of facts by a sudden shadow
arising between him and the sun. A dark and rather good-looking man
stood on the very edge of the rock looking at the sky, very possibly
not seeing it much, but looking at it just for want of something
better to do. Charles Osmond glanced at him, then, as if struck by
some curious resemblance, he turned towards his companion, and at
once knew that the stranger could be none other than Ellis Farrant,
for Donovan's face bore a look of such fearful struggle as in his
life of half a century the clergyman had never before seen.
Before long Ellis turned, and finding himself face to face with the
man he had so shamefully wronged, had the grace to flush deeply. But
in a minute he recovered himself, and assumed the _rôle_ of the
easy-mannered gentleman, which he knew so well how to play.
"Why, Donovan!" he exclaimed. "Who would have thought of meeting you
up here? Pity your mother's not with me, but I'm only here for a
week's fishing with Mackinnon."
The struggle had apparently ceased, Donovan had set his face like a
flint, but his eyes flashed fire, and as he drew himself up and
folded his arms, at the same time making a backward movement in order
to be as far from Ellis as the narrow platform would admit, he was
certainly a formidable-looking foe. There was no doubt whatever as
to his sentiments; he might have stood for a model of one of the old
Romans righteously hating his enemy. Ellis shrank beneath his
glance, but it somehow made him malicious.
"You must remember Mackinnon," he continued, in his bland voice. "He
was with us, if you recollect, on the night of that unfortunate
dance, when poor little----"
He broke off, for Donovan, with the look of a man goaded beyond
bearing, bent forward, and with the extraordinary vehemence which
contrasted so strangely with his usually repressed manner, thundered
rather than spoke the words,
"Be silent."
Being a cowardly man, Ellis did not feel disposed to stay in the
neighbourhood of his foe; he not only obeyed the injunction but
disappeared from the scene as quickly as possible.
Donovan once more leant back against the cairn with folded arms, and
for many minutes did not stir. Charles Osmond did not venture to
speak to him; in perfect silence the two stood watching the setting
sun, which was now like a golden-red globe on the horizon line. Many
hundreds of times had the sun gone down on Donovan's wrath, and this
evening proved no exception to the rule. By the time the last red
rim had disappeared, however, all traces of agitation had passed from
him, and he turned to his companion a quiet, cold face, observing, in
the most matter-of-fact tone,
"We must be making our way home, I suppose."
"Certainly, if we're to eat the captain's trout for supper," said
Charles Osmond.
And without further remark they began the descent, Donovan showing
traces of latent irritation in the headlong way in which he plunged
down the steep path. Charles Osmond, following much more slowly,
found him beside the little lake where they had rested in the
afternoon; perhaps the place or some recollection of their talk had
softened him, at any rate, he was quite himself again. Charles
Osmond put his arm within his, and they walked on steadily down the
less abrupt part of the mountain to Pen-y-pass, and along the Capel
Currig road to Bettws-y-Coed.
Presently Donovan broke the silence.
"Well, you have seen Ellis Farrant at last. Odd that he should have
turned up just after we had been talking of him. I hope you were
satisfied with my Christian forbearance."
Charles Osmond was silent, not quite liking his tone.
"I have offended you," said Donovan. "I will take away the
adjective."
"I daresay your forbearance was very great," said Charles Osmond,
"and your provocation far greater than I can understand, but you must
forgive me for saying that I saw nothing Christian in it."
"What did you see?" asked Donovan, a little amused.
"I saw a perfect example of the way in which a nineteenth century
gentleman hates his enemy, the hatred of the ancients kept in check
by the power of modern civilization."
"And how would you have had me meet him?" cried Donovan. "Did you
expect a stage reconciliation, while he is still defrauding me? Did
you wish me to embrace him and wish him good speed?"
"I wished you to act as I think Christ would have acted," said
Charles Osmond, quietly.
"Oh! once more I tell you this idealism is impossible!" exclaimed
Donovan, impatiently. "I am but a mortal man, and cannot help hating
this fellow."
"You see in copying Him whom I consider to be more than mortal man,
we do realise our own short-comings," said Charles Osmond.
"Well, what do you imagine Christ would have done in such a case?"
"I think you can answer that question for yourself," said Charles
Osmond. "But to put it on what to me is a lower footing, consider
how the best man you ever knew would have acted, and then carry his
conduct still further. Your father, for instance--how would he have
treated an enemy?"
Unconsciously Charles Osmond had touched on Donovan's tenderest part.
He fell into a reverie, and they walked a mile before he spoke again.
"I believe you are right," he said at last; and there was something
of pathos in the words coming from one so strong and so exceedingly
slow to own himself conquered. "I'm afraid up there on the mountain
I've fallen when I might have risen."
"I daresay you will have another opportunity given you," said Charles
Osmond, by way of consolation.
"Don't be in too great a hurry," said Donovan, smiling. "I'm afraid
I can't honestly wish for it yet."
Then they fell to talking of every-day matters, and late in the
evening they reached the cottage where they were spending a few
weeks--a somewhat curious quartette--the Osmonds, father and son, old
Rouge Frewin, and Donovan. The captain was supremely happy; went out
fishing every day, and partly from his love to Donovan and his desire
to do him credit, partly from his awe of a "parson out of the
pulpit," really managed to keep sober through the whole of their stay
in Wales. But perhaps no one got quite so much from the Welsh
holiday as Donovan himself. He went back to work with both body and
mind invigorated, having learnt more in that month's intercourse with
Charles Osmond than he would have learnt in years of solitary life.
There now remained only a few months of his medical course. Then
"the world was all before him." He had not as yet formed any plans,
but as the autumn advanced public events pointed the way for him, and
he found his vocation.