boundaries of zoological or botanical science were to be displayed in
such a manner that each one could be distinctly seen by any visitor
sauntering through the public galleries of a museum, the vastness and
expense of the institution would be out of all proportion to its
utility; the specimens themselves would be quite inaccessible to the
examination of all those capable of deriving instruction from them, and,
owing to the injurious effects of continued exposure to light upon the
greater number of preserved natural objects, would ultimately lose a
large part of their permanent value. Collections of this kind must, in
fact, be treated as the books in a library, and be used only for
consultation and reference by those who are able to read and appreciate
their contents. To demand, as has been ignorantly done, that all the
specimens belonging to our national museums, for instance, should be
displayed in cases in the public galleries, would be equivalent to
asking that every book in a library, instead of being shut up and
arranged on shelves for consultation when required, should have every
single page framed and glazed and hung on the walls, so that the
humblest visitor as he passes along the galleries has only to open his
eyes and revel in the wealth of literature of all ages and all
countries, without so much as applying to a custodian to open a case.
Such an arrangement is perfectly conceivable. The idea from some points
of view is magnificent, almost sublime. But imagine the space required
for such an arrangement of the national library of books, or, indeed, of
any of the smallest local libraries; imagine the inconvenience to the
real student, the disadvantages which he would be under in reading the
pages of any work fixed in an immovable position beneath a glass case;
think of the enormous distances he would often have to traverse to
compare a reference or verify a quotation, and the idea of sublimity
soon gives place to its usual antithesis. The attempt to display every
bird, every insect, shell, or plant, which is or ought to be in any of
our great museums of reference would produce an exactly similar result.
In the arrangement of collections designed for research, which, of
course, will contain all those precious specimens called “types,” which
must be appealed to through all time to determine the species to which a
name was originally given, the principal points to be aimed at are--the
preservation of the objects from all influences deleterious to them,
especially dust, light, and damp; their absolutely correct
identification, and record of every circumstance that need be known of
their history; their classification and storage in such a manner that
each one can be found without difficulty or loss of time; and, both on
account of expense as well as convenience of access, they should be made
to occupy as small a space as is compatible with these requirements.
They should be kept in rooms provided with suitable tables and good
light for their examination, and within reach of the necessary books of
reference on the particular subjects which the specimens illustrate.
Furthermore, the rooms should be so situated that the officers of the
museum, without too great hindrance to their own work, can be at hand
for occasional assistance and supervision of the student, and if
collections of research and exhibited specimens are contained in one
building, it is obvious that the closer the contiguity in which those of
any particular group are placed the greater will be the convenience both
of students and curators, for in very few establishments will it be
possible to form each series on such a scale as to be entirely
independent of the other.
On the other hand, in a collection arranged for the instruction of the
general visitor, the conditions under which the specimens are kept
should be totally different. In the first place, their numbers must be
strictly limited, according to the nature of the subject to be
illustrated and the space available. None must be placed too high or too
low for ready examination. There must be no crowding of specimens one
behind the other, every one being perfectly and distinctly seen, and
with a clear space around it. Imagine a picture-gallery with half the
pictures on the walls partially or entirely concealed by others hung in
front of them; the idea seems preposterous, and yet this is the approved
arrangement of specimens in most public museums. If an object is worth
putting into a gallery at all, it is worth such a position as will
enable it to be seen. Every specimen exhibited should be good of its
kind, and all available skill and care should be spent upon its
preservation and rendering it capable of teaching the lesson it is
intended to convey. And here I cannot refrain from saying a word upon
the sadly-neglected art of taxidermy, which continues to fill the cases
of most of our museums with wretched and repulsive caricatures of
mammals and birds, out of all natural proportions, shrunken here and
bloated there, and in attitudes absolutely impossible for the creature
to have assumed while alive. Happily there may be seen occasionally,
especially where amateurs of artistic taste and good knowledge of
natural history have devoted themselves to the subject, examples enough
to show that an animal can be converted after death, by a proper
application of taxidermy, into a real lifelike representation of the
original, perfect in form, proportions, and attitude, and almost, if not
quite, as valuable for conveying information on these points as the
living creature itself. The fact is that taxidermy is an art resembling
that of the painter, or rather the sculptor; it requires natural genius
as well as great cultivation, and it can never be permanently improved
until we have abandoned the present conventional low standard and low
payment for “bird-stuffing,” which is utterly inadequate to induce any
man of capacity to devote himself to it as a profession.
To return from this digression, every specimen exhibited should have its
definite purpose, and no absolute duplicate should on any account be
permitted. Above all, the purpose for which each specimen is exhibited,
and the main lesson to be derived from it, must be distinctly indicated
by the labels affixed, both as headings of the various divisions of the
series, and to the individual specimens. A well-arranged educational
museum has been defined as a collection of instructive labels
illustrated by well-selected specimens.
What is, or should be, the order of events in arranging a portion of a
public museum? Not, certainly, as too often happens now, bringing a
number of specimens together almost by haphazard, and cramming them as
closely as possible in a case far too small to hold them, and with
little reference to their order or to the possibility of their being
distinctly seen. First, as I said before, you must have your curator. He
must carefully consider the object of the museum, the class and
capacities of the persons for whose instruction it is founded, and the
space available to carry out this object. He will then divide the
subject to be illustrated into groups, and consider their relative
proportions, according to which he will plan out the space. Large labels
will next be prepared for the principal headings, as the chapters of a
book, and smaller ones for the various subdivisions. Certain
propositions to be illustrated, either in the structure, classification,
geographical distribution, geological position, habits, or evolution of
the subjects dealt with, will be laid down and reduced to definite and
concise language. Lastly will come the illustrative specimens, each of
which as procured and prepared will fall into its appropriate place. As
it is not always easy to obtain these at the time that they are wanted,
gaps will often have to be left, but these, if properly utilised by
drawings or labels, may be made nearly as useful as if occupied by the
actual specimens.
A public exhibition which is intended to be instructive and interesting
must never be crowded. There is, indeed, no reason why it ever should
be. Every such exhibition, whether on a large or small scale, can only
contain a representative series of specimens, selected with a view to
the needs of the particular class of persons who are likely to visit the
gallery, and the number of specimens exhibited should be adapted to the
space available. There is, therefore, rarely any excuse for filling it
up in such a manner as to interfere with the full view of every specimen
shown. A crowded gallery, except in some very exceptional circumstances,
at once condemns the curator, as the remedy is generally in his own
hands. In order to avoid it he has nothing to do but sternly to
eliminate all the less important specimens. If any of these possess
features of historical or scientific interest demanding their permanent
preservation, they should be kept in the reserve collections; if
otherwise, they should not be kept at all.
The ideal public museums of the future will, however, require far more
exhibition space than has hitherto been allowed; for though the number
of specimens shown may be fewer than is often thought necessary now,
each will require more room if the conditions above described are
carried out, and especially if it is thought desirable to show it in
such a manner as to enable the visitor to realise something of the
wonderful complexity of the adaptations which bring each species into
harmonious relation with its surrounding conditions. Artistic
reproductions of natural environments, illustrations of protective
resemblances, or of special modes of life, all require much room for
their display. This method of exhibition, wherever faithfully carried
out, is, however, proving both instructive and attractive, and will
doubtless be greatly extended.
Guide-books and catalogues are useful adjuncts, as being adapted to
convey fuller information than labels, and as they can be taken away for
study during the intervals of visits to the museum, but they can never
supersede the use of labels. Any one who is in the habit of visiting
picture-galleries where the names of the artists and the subject are
affixed to the frame, and others in which the information has in each
case to be sought by reference to a catalogue, must appreciate the vast
superiority in comfort and time-saving of the former plan.
Acting upon such principles as these, every public gallery of a museum,
whether the splendid saloon of a national institution, or the humble
room containing the local collection of a village club, can be made a
centre of instruction, and will offer interests and attractions which
will be looked for in vain in the majority of such institutions at the
present time.
One of the best illustrations of the different treatment of collections
intended for research or advancement of knowledge, and for popular
instruction or diffusion of knowledge, is now to be seen in Kew Gardens,
where the admirably constructed and arranged herbarium answers the first
purpose, and the public museums of economic botany the second. A similar
distinction is carried out in the collections of systematic botany in
the natural history branch of the British Museum, with the additional
advantage of close contiguity; indeed, as an example of a scheme of good
museum arrangement (although not perfect yet in details) I cannot do
better than refer to the upper story of the east wing of that
institution. The same principles, little regarded in former times in
this country, and still unknown in some of the largest continental
museums, are gradually pervading every department of the institution,
which, from its national character, its metropolitan position, and
exceptional resources, ought to illustrate in perfection the ideal of a
natural-history museum. In fact, it is only in a national institution
that an exhaustive research collection in all branches of natural
history, in which the specialist of every group can find his own subject
fully illustrated, can or ought to be attempted.
As the actual comparison of specimen with specimen is the basis of
zoological and botanical research, and as work done with imperfect
materials is necessarily imperfect in itself, it is far the wisest
policy to concentrate in a few great central institutions, the number
and situation of which must be determined by the population and the
resources of the country, all the collections, especially those
containing specimens already alluded to as so dear to the systematic
naturalist, known as author’s “types,” required for original
investigations. It is far more advantageous to the investigator to go to
such a collection and take up his temporary abode there, while his
research is being carried out, with all the material required at his
hand at once, than to travel from place to place and pick up piecemeal
the information he requires, without opportunity of direct comparison of
specimens.
I do not say that collections for special study, and even original
research, should not, under particular circumstances and limitations, be
formed at museums other than central national institutions, or that
nothing should be retained in provincial museums but what is of a
directly educational or elementary nature. A local collection,
illustrating the fauna and flora of the district, should be part of
every such museum; and this may be carried to almost any amount of
detail, and therefore in many cases it would be very unadvisable to
exhibit the whole of it. A selection of the most important objects may
be shown under the conditions described above, and the remainder
carefully preserved in cabinets for the study of specialists.
It is also very desirable in all museums, in order that the exhibited
series should be as little disturbed as possible in arrangement, and be
always available for the purpose for which it is intended, that there
should be, for the use of teachers and students, a supplementary set of
common objects, which, if injured, could be easily replaced. It must not
be forgotten that the zealous investigator and the conscientious curator
are often the direst antagonists: the one endeavours to get all the
knowledge he can out of a specimen, regardless of its ultimate fate, and
even if his own eyes alone have the advantage of it; the other is
content if a limited portion only is seen, provided that can be seen by
every one both now and hereafter.
Such, then, is the primary principle which ought to underlie the
arrangement of all museums--the distinct separation of the two objects
for which collections are made; the publicly exhibited collection being
never a store-room or magazine, but only such as the ordinary visitor
can understand and profit by, and the collection for students being so
arranged as to afford every facility for examination and research. The
improvements that can be made in detail in both departments are endless,
and to enter further into their consideration would lead me far beyond
the limits of this address. Happily, as I said before, the subject is
receiving much attention.
I would willingly dwell longer upon it--indeed I feel that I have only
been able to touch slightly and superficially upon many questions of
practical interest, well worthy of more detailed consideration; but time
warns me that I must be bringing this discourse to a close, and I have
still said nothing in reference to subjects upon which you may expect
some words on this occasion. I mean those great problems concerning the
laws which regulate the evolution of organic beings, problems which
agitate the minds of all biologists of the present day, and the solution
of which is watched with keen interest by a far wider circle--a circle,
in fact, coincident with the intelligence and education of the world.
Several communications connected with these problems will be brought
before the sectional meetings during the next few days, and we shall
have the advantage of hearing them discussed by some of those who, by
virtue of their special attention to and full knowledge of these
subjects, are most competent to speak with authority. It is therefore
for me rather delicate ground to tread upon, especially at the close of
a discourse mainly devoted to another question. I will, however, briefly
point out the nature of the problems and the lines which the endeavour
to solve them will probably take, without attempting to anticipate the
details which you will doubtless hear most fully and ably stated
elsewhere.
I think I may safely premise that few, if any, original workers at any
branch of biology appear now to entertain serious doubt about the
general truth of the doctrine that all existing forms of life have been
derived from other forms by a natural process of descent with
modification, and it is generally acknowledged that to the records of
the past history of life upon the earth we must look for the actual
confirmation of the truth of a doctrine which accords so strongly with
all we know of the present history of living beings.
Professor Huxley wrote in 1875: “The only perfectly safe foundation for
the doctrine of evolution lies in the historical, or rather
archæological, evidence that particular organisms have arisen by the
gradual modification of their predecessors, which is furnished by fossil
remains. That evidence is daily increasing in amount and in weight, and
it is to be hoped that the comparisons of the actual pedigree of these
organisms with the phenomena of their development may furnish some
criterion by which the validity of phylogenic conclusions deduced from
the facts of embryology alone may be satisfactorily tested.”
Palæontology, however, as we all know, reveals her secrets with no open
hand. How can we be reminded of this more forcibly than by the discovery
announced scarcely three months ago by Professor Marsh of numerous
mammalian remains from formations of the Cretaceous period, the absence
of which had so long been a source of difficulty to all zoologists? What
vistas does this discovery open of future possibilities, and what
thorough discredit, if any were needed, does it throw on the value of
negative evidence in such matters! Bearing fully in mind the necessary
imperfection of the record we have to deal with, I think that no one
taking an impartial survey of the recent progress of palæontological
discovery can doubt that the evidence in favour of a gradual
modification of living forms is still steadily increasing. Any regular
progressive series of changes of structure coinciding with changes in
time can of course only be expected to be preserved and to come again
before our eyes under such a favourable combination of circumstances as
must be of most rare occurrence; but the links, more or less perfect, of
many such series are continually being revealed, and the discovery of a
single intermediate form is often of immense interest as indicating the
path along which the modification from one apparently distinct form to
another may have taken place.
Though palæontology may be appealed to in support of the conclusion that
modifications have taken place as time advanced, it can scarcely afford
any help in solving the more difficult problems which still remain as
to the methods by which the changes have been brought about.
Ever since the publication of what has been truly described as the
“creation of modern natural history,” Darwin’s work on the _Origin of
Species_, there has been no little controversy as to how far all the
modifications of living forms can be accounted for by the principle of
natural selection or preservation of variations best adapted for their
surrounding conditions, or whether any, and if so what, other factors
have taken part in the process of organic evolution.
It certainly cannot be said that in these later times the controversy
has ended. Indeed those who are acquainted with scientific literature
must know that notes struck at the last annual meeting of this
Association produced a series of reverberations the echoes of which have
hardly yet died away.
Within the last few months also two important works have appeared in our
country, which have placed in an accessible and popular form many of the
data upon which the most prevalent views on the subject are based.
The first is _Darwinism: an Exposition of the Theory of Natural
Selection, with some of its Applications_, by Alfred Russel Wallace. No
one could be found so competent to give such an exposition of the theory
as one who was, simultaneously with Darwin, its independent originator,
but who, by the title he has chosen, no less than by the contents of the
book, has, with rare modesty and self-abnegation, transferred to his
fellow-labourer all the merit of the discovery of what he evidently
looks upon as a principle of overwhelming importance in the economy of
nature; “supreme,” indeed, he says, “to an extent which even Darwin
himself hesitated to claim for it.”
The other work I refer to is the English translation of the remarkable
_Essays upon Heredity and Kindred Biological Problems_, by Dr. August
Weismann, published at the Oxford Clarendon Press, in which is fully
discussed the very important but still open question--a question which
was brought into prominence at our meeting at Manchester two years
ago--of the transmission or non-transmission to the offspring of
characters acquired during the lifetime of the parent.
It is generally recognised that it is one of the main elements of
Darwin’s, as well as of every other theory of evolution, that there is
in every individual organic being an innate tendency to vary from the
standard of its predecessors, but that this tendency is usually kept
under the sternest control by the opposite tendency to resemble them--a
force to which the terms “heredity” and “atavism” are applied. The
causes of this initial tendency to vary, as well as those of its limits
and prevailing direction, and the circumstances which favour its
occasional bursting through the constraining principle of heredity,
offer an endless field for speculation. Though several theories of
variation have been suggested, I think that no one would venture to say
we have passed beyond the threshold of knowledge of the subject at
present.
Taking for granted, however, as we all do, that this tendency to
individual variation exists, then comes the question, What are the
agents by which, when it has asserted itself, it is controlled or
directed in such a manner as to produce the permanent or apparently
permanent modifications of organic structures which we see around us? Is
“survival of the fittest” or preservation by natural selection of those
variations best adapted for their surrounding conditions (the
essentially Darwinian or still more essentially Wallacian doctrine) the
sole or even the chief of these agents? Can isolation, or the revived
Lamarckian view of the direct action of the environment, or the effects
of use or disuse accumulating through generations, either singly or
combined, account for all? or is it necessary to invoke the aid of any
of the numerous subsidiary methods of selection which have been
suggested as factors in bringing about the great result?
Any one who has closely followed these discussions, especially those
bearing most directly upon what is generally regarded as the most
important factor of evolution--natural selection, or “survival of the
fittest”--cannot fail to have noticed the appeal constantly made to the
advantage, the utility, or otherwise of special organs or modifications
of organs or structures to their possessors. Those who have convinced
themselves of the universal application of the doctrine of natural
selection hold that every particular structure or modification of
structure must be of utility to the animal or plant in which it occurs,
or to some ancestor of that animal or plant, otherwise it could not have
come into existence; the only reservation being for cases which are
explained by the principle which Darwin called “correlation of growth.”
Thus the extreme natural selectionists and the old-fashioned school of
teleologists are so far in agreement.