CONCLUDING REMARKS.
HERE, then, I leave my case, though well aware that I have crossed the
threshold only of my subject. My work is of a tentative character, put
before the public as a sketch or design for a, possibly, further
endeavour, in which I hope to derive assistance from the criticisms which
this present volume may elicit. Such as it is, however, for the present
I must leave it.
We have seen that we cannot do anything thoroughly till we can do it
unconsciously, and that we cannot do anything unconsciously till we can
do it thoroughly; this at first seems illogical; but logic and
consistency are luxuries for the gods, and the lower animals, only. Thus
a boy cannot really know how to swim till he can swim, but he cannot swim
till he knows how to swim. Conscious effort is but the process of
rubbing off the rough corners from these two contradictory statements,
till they eventually fit into one another so closely that it is
impossible to disjoin them.
Whenever, therefore, we see any creature able to go through any
complicated and difficult process with little or no effort—whether it be
a bird building her nest, or a hen’s egg making itself into a chicken, or
an ovum turning itself into a baby—we may conclude that the creature has
done the same thing on a very great number of past occasions.
We found the phenomena exhibited by heredity to be so like those of
memory, and to be so utterly inexplicable on any other supposition, that
it was easier to suppose them due to memory in spite of the fact that we
cannot remember having recollected, than to believe that because we
cannot so remember, therefore the phenomena cannot be due to memory.
We were thus led to consider “personal identity,” in order to see whether
there was sufficient reason for denying that the experience, which we
must have clearly gained somewhere, was gained by us when we were in the
persons of our forefathers; we found, not without surprise, that unless
we admitted that it might be so gained, in so far as that we once
_actually were_ our remotest ancestor, we must change our ideas
concerning personality altogether.
We therefore assumed that the phenomena of heredity, whether as regards
instinct or structure were mainly due to memory of past experiences,
accumulated and fused till they had become automatic, or quasi automatic,
much in the same way as after a long life—
. . . “Old experience do attain
To something like prophetic strain.”
After dealing with certain phenomena of memory, but more especially with
its abeyance and revival, we inquired what the principal corresponding
phenomena of life and species should be, on the hypothesis that they were
mainly due to memory.
I think I may say that we found the hypothesis fit in with actual facts
in a sufficiently satisfactory manner. We found not a few matters, as,
for example, the sterility of hybrids, the phenomena of old age, and
puberty as generally near the end of development, explain themselves with
more completeness than I have yet heard of their being explained on any
other hypothesis.
We considered the most important difficulty in the way of instinct as
hereditary habit, namely, the structure and instincts of neuter insects;
these are very unlike those of their parents, and cannot apparently be
transmitted to offspring by individuals of the previous generation, in
whom such structure and instincts appeared, inasmuch as these creatures
are sterile. I do not say that the difficulty is wholly removed,
inasmuch as some obscurity must be admitted to remain as to the manner in
which the structure of the larva is aborted; this obscurity is likely to
remain till we know more of the early history of civilisation among bees
than I can find that we know at present; but I believe the difficulty was
reduced to such proportions as to make it little likely to be felt in
comparison with that of attributing instinct to any other cause than
inherited habit, or inherited habit modified by changed conditions.
We then inquired what was the great principle underlying variation, and
answered, with Lamarck, that it must be “sense of need;” and though not
without being haunted by suspicion of a vicious circle, and also well
aware that we were not much nearer the origin of life than when we
started, we still concluded that here was the truest origin of species,
and hence of genera; and that the accumulation of variations, which in
time amounted to specific and generic differences, was due to
intelligence and memory on the part of the creature varying, rather than
to the operation of what Mr. Darwin has called “natural selection.” At
the same time we admitted that the course of nature is very much as Mr.
Darwin has represented it, in this respect, in so far as that there is a
struggle for existence, and that the weaker must go to the wall. But we
denied that this part of the course of nature would lead to much, if any,
accumulation of variation, unless the variation was directed mainly by
intelligent sense of need, with continued personality and memory.
We conclude, therefore, that the small, structureless, impregnate ovum
from which we have each one of us sprung, has a potential recollection of
all that has happened to each one of its ancestors prior to the period at
which any such ancestor has issued from the bodies of its
progenitors—provided, that is to say, a sufficiently deep, or
sufficiently often-repeated, impression has been made to admit of its
being remembered at all.
Each step of normal development will lead the impregnate ovum up to, and
remind it of, its next ordinary course of action, in the same way as we,
when we recite a well-known passage, are led up to each successive
sentence by the sentence which has immediately preceded it.
And for this reason, namely, that as it takes two people “to tell” a
thing—a speaker and a comprehending listener, without which last, though
much may have been said, there has been nothing told—so also it takes two
people, as it were, to “remember” a thing—the creature remembering, and
the surroundings of the creature at the time it last remembered. Hence,
though the ovum immediately after impregnation is instinct with all the
memories of both parents, not one of these memories can normally become
active till both the ovum itself, and its surroundings, are sufficiently
like what they respectively were, when the occurrence now to be
remembered last took place. The memory will then immediately return, and
the creature will do as it did on the last occasion that it was in like
case as now. This ensures that similarity of order shall be preserved in
all the stages of development, in successive generations.
Life, then, is faith founded upon experience, which experience is in its
turn founded upon faith—or more simply, it is memory. Plants and animals
only differ from one another because they remember different things;
plants and animals only grow up in the shapes they assume because this
shape is their memory, their idea concerning their own past history.
Hence the term “Natural History,” as applied to the different plants and
animals around us. For surely the study of natural history means only
the study of plants and animals themselves, which, at the moment of using
the words “Natural History,” we assume to be the most important part of
nature.
A living creature well supported by a mass of healthy ancestral memory is
a young and growing creature, free from ache or pain, and thoroughly
acquainted with its business so far, but with much yet to be reminded of.
A creature which finds itself and its surroundings not so unlike those of
its parents about the time of their begetting it, as to be compelled to
recognise that it never yet was in any such position, is a creature in
the heyday of life. A creature which begins to be aware of itself is one
which is beginning to recognise that the situation is a new one.
It is the young and fair, then, who are the truly old and the truly
experienced; it is they who alone have a trustworthy memory to guide
them; they alone know things as they are, and it is from them that, as we
grow older, we must study if we would still cling to truth. The whole
charm of youth lies in its advantage over age in respect of experience,
and where this has for some reason failed, or been misapplied, the charm
is broken. When we say that we are getting old, we should say rather
that we are getting new or young, and are suffering from inexperience,
which drives us into doing things which we do not understand, and lands
us, eventually, in the utter impotence of death. The kingdom of heaven
is the kingdom of little children.
A living creature bereft of all memory dies. If bereft of a great part
of memory, it swoons or sleeps; and when its memory returns, we say it
has returned to life.
Life and death, then, should be memory and forgetfulness, for we are dead
to all that we have forgotten.
Life is that property of matter whereby it can remember. Matter which
can remember is living; matter which cannot remember is dead.
_Life_, _then_, _is memory_. The life of a creature is the memory of a
creature. We are all the same stuff to start with, but we remember
different things, and if we did not remember different things we should
be absolutely like each other. As for the stuff itself of which we are
made, we know nothing save only that it is “such as dreams are made of.”
* * * * *
I am aware that there are many expressions throughout this book, which
are not scientifically accurate. Thus I imply that we tend towards the
centre of the earth, when, I believe, I should say we tend towards to the
centre of gravity of the earth. I speak of “the primordial cell,” when I
mean only the earliest form of life, and I thus not only assume a single
origin of life when there is no necessity for doing so, and perhaps no
evidence to this effect, but I do so in spite of the fact that the amœba,
which seems to be “the simplest form of life,” does not appear to be a
cell at all. I have used the word “beget,” of what, I am told, is
asexual generation, whereas the word should be confined to sexual
generation only. Many more such errors have been pointed out to me, and
I doubt not that a larger number remain of which I know nothing now, but
of which I may perhaps be told presently.
I did not, however, think that in a work of this description the
additional words which would have been required for scientific accuracy
were worth the paper and ink and loss of breadth which their introduction
would entail. Besides, I know nothing about science, and it is as well
that there should be no mistake on this head; I neither know, nor want to
know, more detail than is necessary to enable me to give a fairly broad
and comprehensive view of my subject. When for the purpose of giving
this, a matter importunately insisted on being made out, I endeavoured to
make it out as well as I could; otherwise—that is to say, if it did not
insist on being looked into, in spite of a good deal of snubbing, I held
that, as it was blurred and indistinct in nature, I had better so render
it in my work.
Nevertheless, if one has gone for some time through a wood full of burrs,
some of them are bound to stick. I am afraid that I have left more such
burrs in one part and another of my book, than the kind of reader whom I
alone wish to please will perhaps put up with. Fortunately, this kind of
reader is the best-natured critic in the world, and is long suffering of
a good deal that the more consciously scientific will not tolerate; I
wish, however, that I had not used such expressions as “centres of
thought and action” quite so often.
As for the kind of inaccuracy already alluded to, my reader will not, I
take it, as a general rule, know, or wish to know, much more about
science than I do, sometimes perhaps even less; so that he and I shall
commonly be wrong in the same places, and our two wrongs will make a
sufficiently satisfactory right for practical purposes.
Of course, if I were a specialist writing a treatise or primer on such
and such a point of detail, I admit that scientific accuracy would be _de
rigueur_; but I have been trying to paint a picture rather than to make a
diagram, and I claim the painter’s license “_quidlibet audendi_.” I have
done my utmost to give the spirit of my subject, but if the letter
interfered with the spirit, I have sacrificed it without remorse.
May not what is commonly called a scientific subject have artistic value
which it is a pity to neglect? But if a subject is to be treated
artistically—that is to say, with a desire to consider not only the
facts, but the way in which the reader will feel concerning those facts,
and the way in which he will wish to see them rendered, thus making his
mind a factor of the intention, over and above the subject itself—then
the writer must not be denied a painter’s license. If one is painting a
hillside at a sufficient distance, and cannot see whether it is covered
with chestnut-trees or walnuts, one is not bound to go across the valley
to see. If one is painting a city, it is not necessary that one should
know the names of the streets. If a house or tree stands inconveniently
for one’s purpose, it must go without more ado; if two important
features, neither of which can be left out, want a little bringing
together or separating before the spirit of the place can be well given,
they must be brought together, or separated. Which is a more truthful
view, of Shrewsbury, for example, from a spot where St. Alkmund’s spire
is in parallax with St. Mary’s—a view which should give only the one
spire which can be seen, or one which should give them both, although the
one is hidden? There would be, I take it, more representation in the
misrepresentation than in the representation—“the half would be greater
than the whole,” unless, that is to say, one expressly told the spectator
that St. Alkmund’s spire was hidden behind St. Mary’s—a sort of
explanation which seldom adds to the poetical value of any work of art.
Do what one may, and no matter how scientific one may be, one cannot
attain absolute truth. The question is rather, how do people like to
have their error? than, will they go without any error at all? All truth
and no error cannot be given by the scientist more than by the artist;
each has to sacrifice truth in one way or another; and even if perfect
truth could be given, it is doubtful whether it would not resolve itself
into unconsciousness pure and simple, consciousness being, as it were,
the clash of small conflicting perceptions, without which there is
neither intelligence nor recollection possible. It is not, then, what a
man has said, nor what he has put down with actual paint upon his
canvass, which speaks to us with living language—_it is what he has
thought to us_ (as is so well put in the letter quoted on page 83), by
which our opinion should be guided;—what has he made us feel that he had
it in him, and wished to do? If he has said or painted enough to make us
feel that he meant and felt as we should wish him to have done, he has
done the utmost that man can hope to do.
I feel sure that no additional amount of technical accuracy would make me
more likely to succeed, in this respect, if I have otherwise failed; and
as this is the only success about which I greatly care, I have left my
scientific inaccuracies uncorrected, even when aware of them. At the
same time, I should say that I have taken all possible pains as regards
anything which I thought could materially affect the argument one way or
another.
It may be said that I have fallen between two stools, and that the
subject is one which, in my hands, has shown neither artistic nor
scientific value. This would be serious. To fall between two stools,
and to be hanged for a lamb, are the two crimes which—
“Nor gods, nor men, nor any schools allow.”
Of the latter, I go in but little danger; about the former, I shall know
better when the public have enlightened me.
The practical value of the views here advanced (if they be admitted as
true at all) would appear to be not inconsiderable, alike as regards
politics or the well-being of the community, and medicine which deals
with that of the individual. In the first case we see the rationale of
compromise, and the equal folly of making experiments upon too large a
scale, and of not making them at all. We see that new ideas cannot be
fused with old, save gradually and by patiently leading up to them in
such a way as to admit of a sense of continued identity between the old
and the new. This should teach us moderation. For even though nature
wishes to travel in a certain direction, she insists on being allowed to
take her own time; she will not be hurried, and will cull a creature out
even more surely for forestalling her wishes too readily, than for
lagging a little behind them. So the greatest musicians, painters, and
poets owe their greatness rather to their fusion and assimilation of all
the good that has been done up to, and especially near about, their own
time, than to any very startling steps they have taken in advance. Such
men will be sure to take some, and important, steps forward; for unless
they have this power, they will not be able to assimilate well what has
been done already, and if they have it, their study of older work will
almost indefinitely assist it; but, on the whole, they owe their
greatness to their completer fusion and assimilation of older ideas; for
nature is distinctly a fairly liberal conservative rather than a
conservative liberal. All which is well said in the old couplet—
“Be not the first by whom the new is tried,
Nor yet the last to throw the old aside.”
_Mutatis mutandis_, the above would seem to hold as truly about medicine
as about politics. We cannot reason with our cells, for they know so
much more than we do that they cannot understand us;—but though we cannot
reason with them, we can find out what they have been most accustomed to,
and what, therefore, they are most likely to expect; we can see that they
get this, as far as it is in our power to give it them, and may then
generally leave the rest to them, only bearing in mind that they will
rebel equally against too sudden a change of treatment, and no change at
all.
Friends have complained to me that they can never tell whether I am in
jest or earnest. I think, however, it should be sufficiently apparent
that I am in very serious earnest, perhaps too much so, from the first
page of my book to the last. I am not aware of a single argument put
forward which is not a _bonâ fide_ argument, although, perhaps, sometimes
admitting of a humorous side. If a grain of corn looks like a piece of
chaff, I confess I prefer it occasionally to something which looks like a
grain, but which turns out to be a piece of chaff only. There is no lack
of matter of this description going about in some very decorous volumes;
I have, therefore, endeavoured, for a third time, to furnish the public
with a book whose fault should lie rather in the direction of seeming
less serious than it is, than of being less so than it seems.
At the same time, I admit that when I began to write upon my subject I
did not seriously believe in it. I saw, as it were, a pebble upon the
ground, with a sheen that pleased me; taking it up, I turned it over and
over for my amusement, and found it always grow brighter and brighter the
more I examined it. At length I became fascinated, and gave loose rein
to self-illusion. The aspect of the world seemed changed; the trifle
which I had picked up idly had proved to be a talisman of inestimable
value, and had opened a door through which I caught glimpses of a strange
and interesting transformation. Then came one who told me that the stone
was not mine, but that it had been dropped by Lamarck, to whom it
belonged rightfully, but who had lost it; whereon I said I cared not who
was the owner, if only I might use it and enjoy it. Now, therefore,
having polished it with what art and care one who is no jeweller could
bestow upon it, I return it, as best I may, to its possessor.
What am I to think or say? That I tried to deceive others till I have
fallen a victim to my own falsehood? Surely this is the most reasonable
conclusion to arrive at. Or that I have really found Lamarck’s talisman,
which had been for some time lost sight of?
Will the reader bid me wake with him to a world of chance and blindness?
Or can I persuade him to dream with me of a more living faith than either
he or I had as yet conceived as possible? As I have said, reason points
remorselessly to an awakening, but faith and hope still beckon to the
dream.
APPENDIX
AUTHOR’S ADDENDA
I
_See Page_ 13
BUT I may say in passing that though articulate speech and the power to
maintain the upright position come much about the same time, yet the
power of making gestures of more or less significance is prior to that of
walking uprightly, and therefore to that of speech. Not only is
gesticulation the earlier faculty in the individual, but it was so also
in the history of our race. Our semi-simious ancestors could gesticulate
long before they could talk articulately. It is significant of this that
gesture is still found easier than speech even by adults, as may be
observed on our river steamers, where the captain moves his hand but does
not speak, a boy interpreting his gesture into language. To develop this
here would complicate the argument; let us be content to note it and pass
on.
II
_See Page_ 18
Nevertheless, the smallness of the effort touches upon the deepest
mystery of organic life—the power to originate, to err, to sport, the
power which differentiates the living organism from the machine, however
complicated. The action and working of this power is found to be like
the action of any other mental and, therefore, physical power (for all
physical action of living beings is but the expression of a mental
action), but I can throw no light upon its origin any more than upon the
origin of life. This, too, must be noted and passed over.
III
_See Page_ 25
How different from the above uncertain sound is the full clear note of
one who truly believes:—
“The Church of England is commonly called a Lutheran church, but whoever
compares it with the Lutheran churches on the Continent will have reason
to congratulate himself on its superiority. It is in fact a church _sui
generis_, yielding in point of dignity, purity and decency of its
doctrines, establishment and ceremonies, to no congregation of christians
in the world; modelled to a certain and considerable extent, but not
entirely, by our great and wise pious reformers on the doctrines of
Luther, so far as they are in conformity with the sure and solid
foundation on which it rests, and we trust for ever will rest—the
authority of the Holy Scriptures, Jesus Christ himself being the chief
corner stone.” (“Sketch of Modern and Ancient Geography,” by Dr. Samuel
Butler, of Shrewsbury. Ed. 1813.)
This is the language of faith, compelled by the exigencies of the
occasion to be for a short time conscious of its own existence, but
surely very little likely to become so to the extent of feeling the need
of any assistance from reason. It is the language of one whose
convictions are securely founded upon the current opinion of those among
whom he has been born and bred; and of all merely post-natal faiths a
faith so founded is the strongest. It is pleasing to see that the only
alterations in the edition of 1838 consist in spelling Christians with a
capital C and the omission of the epithet “wise” as applied to the
reformers, an omission more probably suggested by a desire for euphony
than by any nascent doubts concerning the applicability of the epithet
itself.
IV.
_See Page_ 239
OR take, again, the constitution of the Church of England. The bishops
are the spiritual queens, the clergy are the neuter workers. They differ
widely in structure (for dress must be considered as a part of
structure), in the delicacy of the food they eat and the kind of house
they inhabit, and also in many of their instincts, from the bishops, who
are their spiritual parents. Not only this, but there are two distinct
kinds of neuter workers—priests and deacons; and of the former there are
deans, archdeacons, prebends, canons, rural deans, vicars, rectors,
curates, yet all spiritually sterile. In spite of this sterility,
however, is there anyone who will maintain that the widely differing
structures and instincts of these castes are not due to inherited
spiritual habit? Still less will he be inclined to do so when he
reflects that by such slight modification of treatment as consecration
and endowment any one of them can be rendered spiritually fertile.
FOOTNOTES
{vii} Although the original edition of “Life and Habit” is dated 1878,
the book was actually published in December, 1877.
{13} See Appendix (_note for page_ 13).
{18} See Appendix (_note for page_ 18).
{25} See Appendix (_note for page_ 25).
{239} See Appendix (_note for page_ 239).