Conclusion
AND now I bring this book to a conclusion. So many things requiring
attention have happened since it was begun that I leave it in a very
different shape to the one which it was originally intended to bear. I
have omitted much that I had meant to deal with, and have been tempted
sometimes to introduce matter the connection of which with my subject is
not immediately apparent. Such however, as the book is, it must now go
in the form into which it has grown almost more in spite of me than from
_malice prepense_ on my part. I was afraid that it might thus set me at
defiance, and in an early chapter expressed a doubt whether I should find
it redound greatly to my advantage with men of science; in this
concluding chapter I may say that doubt has deepened into something like
certainty. I regret this, but cannot help it.
Among the points with which it was most incumbent upon me to deal was
that of vegetable intelligence. A reader may well say that unless I give
plants much the same sense of pleasure and pain, memory, power of will,
and intelligent perception of the best way in which to employ their
opportunities that I give to low animals, my argument falls to the
ground. If I declare organic modification to be mainly due to function,
and hence in the closest correlation with mental change, I must give
plants, as well as animals, a mind, and endow them with power to reflect
and reason upon all that most concerns them. Many who will feel little
difficulty about admitting that animal modification is upon the whole
mainly due to the secular cunning of the animals themselves will yet
hesitate before they admit that plants also can have a reason and cunning
of their own.
Unwillingness to concede this is based principally upon the error
concerning intelligence to which I have already referred—I mean to our
regarding intelligence not so much as the power of understanding as that
of being understood by ourselves. Once admit that the evidence in favour
of a plant’s knowing its own business depends more on the efficiency with
which that business is conducted than either on our power of
understanding how it can be conducted, or on any signs on the plant’s
part of a capacity for understanding things that do not concern it, and
there will be no further difficulty about supposing that in its own
sphere a plant is just as intelligent as an animal, and keeps a sharp
look-out upon its own interests, however indifferent it may seem to be to
ours. So strong has been the set of recent opinion in this direction
that with botanists the foregoing now almost goes without saying, though
few five years ago would have accepted it.
To no one of the several workers in this field are we more indebted for
the change which has been brought about in this respect than to my late
valued and lamented friend Mr. Alfred Tylor. Mr. Tylor was not the
discoverer of the protoplasmic continuity that exists in plants, but he
was among the very first to welcome this discovery, and his experiments
at Carshalton in the years 1883 and 1884 demonstrated that, whether there
was protoplasmic continuity in plants or no, they were at any rate
endowed with some measure of reason, forethought, and power of
self-adaptation to varying surroundings. It is not for me to give the
details of these experiments. I had the good fortune to see them more
than once while they were in progress, and was present when they were
made the subject of a paper read by Mr. Sydney B. J. Skertchly before the
Linnean Society, Mr. Tylor being then too ill to read it himself. The
paper has since been edited by Mr. Skertchly, and published. {253a}
Anything that should be said further about it will come best from Mr.
Skertchly; it will be enough here if I give the _résumé_ of it prepared
by Mr. Tylor himself.
In this Mr. Tylor said:—“The principles which underlie this paper are the
individuality of plants, the necessity for some co-ordinating system to
enable the parts to act in concert, and the probability that this also
necessitates the admission that plants have a dim sort of intelligence.
“It is shown that a tree, for example, is something more than an
aggregation of tissues, but is a complex being performing acts as a
whole, and not merely responsive to the direct influence of light, &c.
The tree knows more than its branches, as the species know more than the
individual, the community than the unit.
“Moreover, inasmuch as my experiments show that many plants and trees
possess the power of adapting themselves to unfamiliar circumstances,
such as, for instance, avoiding obstacles by bending aside before
touching, or by altering the leaf arrangement, it seems probable that at
least as much voluntary power must be accorded to such plants as to
certain lowly organised animals.
“Finally, a connecting system by means of which combined movements take
place is found in the threads of protoplasm which unite the various
cells, and which I have now shown to exist even in the wood of trees.
“One of the important facts seems to be the universality of the upward
curvature of the tips of growing branches of trees, and the power
possessed by the tree to straighten its branches afterwards, so that new
growth shall by similar means be able to obtain the necessary light and
air.
“A house, to use a sanitary analogy, is functionally useless without it
obtains a good supply of light and air. The architect strives so to
produce the house as to attain this end, and still leave the house
comfortable. But the house, though dependent upon, is not produced by,
the light and air. So a tree is functionally useless, and cannot even
exist without a proper supply of light and air; but, whereas it has been
the custom to ascribe the heliotropic and other motions to the direct
influence of those agents, I would rather suggest that the movements are
to some extent due to the desire of the plant to acquire its necessaries
of life.”
The more I have reflected upon Mr. Tylor’s Carshalton experiments, the
more convinced I am of their great value. No one, indeed, ought to have
doubted that plants were intelligent, but we all of us do much that we
ought not to do, and Mr. Tylor supplied a demonstration which may be
henceforth authoritatively appealed to.
I will take the present opportunity of insisting upon a suggestion which
I made in “Alps and Sanctuaries” (New edition, pp. 152, 153), with which
Mr. Tylor was much pleased, and which, at his request, I made the subject
of a few words that I ventured to say at the Linnean Society’s rooms
after his paper had been read. “Admitting,” I said, “the common
protoplasmic origin of animals and plants, and setting aside the notion
that plants preceded animals, we are still faced by the problem why
protoplasm should have developed into the organic life of the world,
along two main lines, and only two—the animal and the vegetable. Why, if
there was an early schism—and this there clearly was—should there not
have been many subsequent ones of equal importance? We see innumerable
sub-divisions of animals and plants, but we see no other such great
subdivision of organic life as that whereby it ranges itself, for the
most part readily, as either animal or vegetable. Why any
subdivision?—but if any, why not more than two great classes?”
The two main stems of the tree of life ought, one would think, to have
been formed on the same principle as the boughs which represent genera,
and the twigs which stand for species and varieties. If specific
differences arise mainly from differences of action taken in consequence
of differences of opinion, then, so ultimately do generic; so, therefore,
again, do differences between families; so therefore, by analogy, should
that greatest of differences in virtue of which the world of life is
mainly animal, or vegetable. In this last case as much as in that of
specific difference, we ought to find divergent form the embodiment and
organic expression of divergent opinion. Form is mind made manifest in
flesh through action: shades of mental difference being expressed in
shades of physical difference, while broad fundamental differences of
opinion are expressed in broad fundamental differences of bodily shape.
Or to put it thus:—
If form and habit be regarded as functionally interdependent, that is to
say, if neither form nor habit can vary without corresponding variation
in the other, and if habit and opinion concerning advantage are also
functionally interdependent, it follows self-evidently that form and
opinion concerning advantage (and hence form and cunning) will be
functionally interdependent also, and that there can be no great
modification of the one without corresponding modification of the other.
Let there, then, be a point in respect of which opinion might be early
and easily divided—a point in respect of which two courses involving
different lines of action presented equally-balanced advantages—and there
would be an early subdivision of primordial life, according as the one
view or the other was taken.
It is obvious that the pros and cons for either course must be supposed
very nearly equal, otherwise the course which presented the fewest
advantages would be attended with the probable gradual extinction of the
organised beings that adopted it, but there being supposed two possible
modes of action very evenly balanced as regards advantage and
disadvantages, then the ultimate appearance of two corresponding forms of
life is a _sequitur_ from the admission that form varies as function, and
function as opinion concerning advantage. If there are three, four,
five, or six such opinions tenable, we ought to have three, four, five,
or six main subdivisions of life. As things are, we have two only. Can
we, then, see a matter on which opinion was likely to be easily and early
divided into two, and only two, main divisions—no third course being
conceivable? If so, this should suggest itself as the probable source
from which the two main forms of organic life have been derived.
I submit that we can see such a matter in the question whether it pays
better to sit still and make the best of what comes in one’s way, or to
go about in search of what one can find. Of course we, as animals,
naturally hold that it is better to go about in search of what we can
find than to sit still and make the best of what comes; but there is
still so much to be said on the other side, that many classes of animals
have settled down into sessile habits, while a perhaps even larger number
are, like spiders, habitual liers in wait rather than travellers in
search of food. I would ask my reader, therefore, to see the opinion
that it is better to go in search of prey as formulated, and finding its
organic expression, in animals; and the other—that it is better to be
ever on the look-out to make the best of what chance brings up to them—in
plants. Some few intermediate forms still record to us the long struggle
during which the schism was not yet complete, and the halting between two
opinions which it might be expected that some organisms should exhibit.
“Neither class,” I said in “Alps and Sanctuaries,” “has been quite
consistent. Who ever is or can be? Every extreme—every opinion carried
to its logical end—will prove to be an absurdity. Plants throw out roots
and boughs and leaves; this is a kind of locomotion; and, as Dr. Erasmus
Darwin long since pointed out, they do sometimes approach nearly to what
may be called travelling; a man of consistent character will never look
at a bough, a root, or a tendril without regarding it as a melancholy and
unprincipled compromise” (New edition, p. 153).
Having called attention to this view, and commended it to the
consideration of my readers, I proceed to another which should not have
been left to be touched upon only in a final chapter, and which, indeed,
seems to require a book to itself—I refer to the origin and nature of the
feelings, which those who accept volition as having had a large share in
organic modification must admit to have had a no less large share in the
formation of volition. Volition grows out of ideas, ideas from feelings.
What, then, is feeling, and the subsequent mental images or ideas?
The image of a stone formed in our minds is no representation of the
object which has given rise to it. Not only, as has been often remarked,
is there no resemblance between the particular thought and the particular
thing, but thoughts and things generally are too unlike to be compared.
An idea of a stone may be like an idea of another stone, or two stones
may be like one another; but an idea of a stone is not like a stone; it
cannot be thrown at anything, it occupies no room in space, has no
specific gravity, and when we come to know more about stones, we find our
ideas concerning them to be but rude, epitomised, and highly conventional
renderings of the actual facts, mere hieroglyphics, in fact, or, as it
were, counters or bank-notes, which serve to express and to convey
commodities with which they have no pretence of analogy.
Indeed we daily find that, as the range of our perceptions becomes
enlarged either by invention of new appliances or after use of old ones,
we change our ideas though we have no reason to think that the thing
about which we are thinking has changed. In the case of a stone, for
instance, the rude, unassisted, uneducated senses see it as above all
things motionless, whereas assisted and trained ideas concerning it
represent motion as its most essential characteristic; but the stone has
not changed. So, again, the uneducated idea represents it as above all
things mindless, and is as little able to see mind in connection with it
as it lately was to see motion; it will be no greater change of opinion
than we have most of us undergone already if we come presently to see it
as no less full of elementary mind than of elementary motion, but the
stone will not have changed.
The fact that we modify our opinions suggests that our ideas are formed
not so much in involuntary self-adjusting mimetic correspondence with the
objects that we believe to give rise to them, as by what was in the
outset voluntary, conventional arrangement in whatever way we found
convenient, of sensation and perception-symbols, which had nothing
whatever to do with the objects, and were simply caught hold of as the
only things we could grasp. It would seem as if, in the first instance,
we must have arbitrarily attached some one of the few and vague
sensations which we could alone at first command, to certain motions of
outside things as echoed by our brain, and used them to think and feel
the things with, so as to docket them, and recognise them with greater
force, certainty, and clearness—much as we use words to help us to docket
and grasp our feelings and thoughts, or written characters to help us to
docket and grasp our words.
If this view be taken we stand in much the same attitude towards our
feelings as a dog may be supposed to do towards our own reading and
writing. The dog may be supposed to marvel at the wonderful instinctive
faculty by which we can tell the price of the different railway stocks
merely by looking at a sheet of paper; he supposes this power to be a
part of our nature, to have come of itself by luck and not by cunning,
but a little reflection will show that feeling is not more likely to have
“come by nature” than reading and writing are. Feeling is in all
probability the result of the same kind of slow laborious development as
that which has attended our more recent arts and our bodily organs; its
development must be supposed to have followed the same lines as that of
our other arts, and indeed of the body itself, which is the _ars
artium_—for growth of mind is throughout coincident with growth of
organic resources, and organic resources grow with growing mind.
Feeling is the art the possession of which differentiates the civilised
organic world from that of brute inorganic matter, but still it is an
art; it is the outcome of a mind that is common both to organic and
inorganic, and which the organic has alone cultivated. It is not a part
of mind itself; it is no more this than language and writing are parts of
thought. The organic world can alone feel, just as man can alone speak;
but as speech is only the development of powers the germs of which are
possessed by the lower animals, so feeling is only a sign of the
employment and development of powers the germs of which exist in
inorganic substances. It has all the characteristics of an art, and
though it must probably rank as the oldest of those arts that are
peculiar to the organic world, it is one which is still in process of
development. None of us, indeed, can feel well on more than a very few
subjects, and many can hardly feel at all.
But, however this may be, our sensations and perceptions of material
phenomena are attendant on the excitation of certain motions in the
anterior parts of the brain. Whenever certain motions are excited in
this substance, certain sensations and ideas of resistance, extension,
&c., are either concomitant, or ensue within a period too brief for our
cognisance. It is these sensations and ideas that we directly cognise,
and it is to them that we have attached the idea of the particular kind
of matter we happen to be thinking of. As this idea is not like the
thing itself, so neither is it like the motions in our brain on which it
is attendant. It is no more like these than, say, a stone is like the
individual characters, written or spoken, that form the word “stone,” or
than these last are, in sound, like the word “stone” itself, whereby the
idea of a stone is so immediately and vividly presented to us. True,
this does not involve that our idea shall not resemble the object that
gave rise to it, any more than the fact that a looking-glass bears no
resemblance to the things reflected in it involves that the reflection
shall not resemble the things reflected; the shifting nature, however, of
our ideas and conceptions is enough to show that they must be symbolical,
and conditioned by changes going on within ourselves as much as by those
outside us; and if, going behind the ideas which suffice for daily use,
we extend our inquiries in the direction of the reality underlying our
conception, we find reason to think that the brain-motions which attend
our conception correspond with exciting motions in the object that
occasions it, and that these, rather than anything resembling our
conception itself, should be regarded as the reality.
This leads to a third matter, on which I can only touch with extreme
brevity.
Different modes of motion have long been known as the causes of our
different colour perceptions, or at any rate as associated therewith, and
of late years, more especially since the promulgation of Newlands’ {260a}
law, it has been perceived that what we call the kinds or properties of
matter are not less conditioned by motion than colour is. The substance
or essence of unconditioned matter, as apart from the relations between
its various states (which we believe to be its various conditions of
motion) must remain for ever unknown to us, for it is only the relations
between the conditions of the underlying substance that we cognise at
all, and where there are no conditions, there is nothing for us to seize,
compare, and, hence, cognise; unconditioned matter must, therefore, be as
inconceivable by us as unmattered condition; {261a} but though we can
know nothing about matter as apart from its conditions or states, opinion
has been for some time tending towards the belief that what we call the
different states, or kinds, of matter are only our ways of mentally
characterising and docketing our estimates of the different kinds of
motion going on in this otherwise uncognisable substratum.
Our conception, then, concerning the nature of any matter depends solely
upon its kind and degree of unrest, that is to say, on the
characteristics of the vibrations that are going on within it. The
exterior object vibrating in a certain way imparts some of its vibrations
to our brain—but if the state of the thing itself depends upon its
vibrations, it must be considered as to all intents and purposes the
vibrations themselves—plus, of course, the underlying substance that is
vibrating. If, for example, a pat of butter is a portion of the
unknowable underlying substance in such-and-such a state of molecular
disturbance, and it is only by alteration of the disturbance that the
substance can be altered—the disturbance of the substance is practically
equivalent to the substance: a pat of butter is such-and-such a
disturbance of the unknowable underlying substance, and such-and-such a
disturbance of the underlying substance is a pat of butter. In
communicating its vibrations, therefore, to our brain a substance does
actually communicate what is, as far as we are concerned, a portion of
itself. Our perception of a thing and its attendant feeling are symbols
attaching to an introduction within our brain of a feeble state of the
thing itself. Our recollection of it is occasioned by a feeble
continuance of this feeble state in our brains, becoming less feeble
through the accession of fresh but similar vibrations from without. The
molecular vibrations which make the thing an idea of which is conveyed to
our minds, put within our brain a little feeble emanation from the thing
itself—if we come within their reach. This being once put there, will
remain as it were dust, till dusted out, or till it decay, or till it
receive accession of new vibrations.
The vibrations from a pat of butter do, then, actually put butter into a
man’s head. This is one of the commonest of expressions, and would
hardly be so common if it were not felt to have some foundation in fact.
At first the man does not know what feeling or complex of feelings to
employ so as to docket the vibrations, any more than he knows what word
to employ so as to docket the feelings, or with what written characters
to docket his word; but he gets over this, and henceforward the
vibrations of the exterior object (that is to say, the thing) never set
up their characteristic disturbances, or, in other words, never come into
his head, without the associated feeling presenting itself as readily as
word and characters present themselves, on the presence of the feeling.
The more butter a man sees and handles, the more he gets butter on the
brain—till, though he can never get anything like enough to be strictly
called butter, it only requires the slightest molecular disturbance with
characteristics like those of butter to bring up a vivid and highly
sympathetic idea of butter in the man’s mind.
If this view is adopted, our memory of a thing is our retention within
the brain of a small leaven of the actual thing itself, or of what _quâ_
us is the thing that is remembered, and the ease with which habitual
actions come to be performed is due to the power of the vibrations having
been increased and modified by continual accession from without till they
modify the molecular disturbances of the nervous system, and therefore
its material substance, which we have already settled to be only our way
of docketing molecular disturbances. The same vibrations, therefore,
form the substance remembered, introduce an infinitesimal dose of it
within the brain, modify the substance remembering, and, in the course of
time, create and further modify the mechanism of both the sensory and
motor nerves. Thought and thing are one.
I commend these two last speculations to the reader’s charitable
consideration, as feeling that I am here travelling beyond the ground on
which I can safely venture; nevertheless, as it may be some time before I
have another opportunity of coming before the public, I have thought it,
on the whole, better not to omit them, but to give them thus
provisionally. I believe they are both substantially true, but am by no
means sure that I have expressed them either clearly or accurately; I
cannot, however, further delay the issue of my book.
Returning to the point raised in my title, is luck, I would ask, or
cunning, the more fitting matter to be insisted upon in connection with
organic modification? Do animals and plants grow into conformity with
their surroundings because they and their fathers and mothers take pains,
or because their uncles and aunts go away? For the survival of the
fittest is only the non-survival or going away of the unfittest—in whose
direct line the race is not continued, and who are therefore only uncles
and aunts of the survivors. I can quite understand its being a good
thing for any race that its uncles and aunts should go away, but I do not
believe the accumulation of lucky accidents could result in an eye, no
matter how many uncles and aunts may have gone away during how many
generations.
I would ask the reader to bear in mind the views concerning life and
death expressed in an early chapter. They seem to me not, indeed, to
take away any very considerable part of the sting from death; this should
not be attempted or desired, for with the sting of death the sweets of
life are inseparably bound up so that neither can be weakened without
damaging the other. Weaken the fear of death, and the love of life would
be weakened. Strengthen it, and we should cling to life even more
tenaciously than we do. But though death must always remain as a shock
and change of habits from which we must naturally shrink—still it is not
the utter end of our being, which, until lately, it must have seemed to
those who have been unable to accept the grosser view of the resurrection
with which we were familiarised in childhood. We too now know that
though worms destroy this body, yet in our flesh shall we so far see God
as to be still in Him and of Him—biding our time for a resurrection in a
new and more glorious body; and, moreover, that we shall be to the full
as conscious of this as we are at present of much that concerns us as
closely as anything can concern us.
The thread of life cannot be shorn between successive generations, except
upon grounds which will in equity involve its being shorn between
consecutive seconds, and fractions of seconds. On the other hand, it
cannot be left unshorn between consecutive seconds without necessitating
that it should be left unshorn also beyond the grave, as well as in
successive generations. Death is as salient a feature in what we call
our life as birth was, but it is no more than this. As a salient
feature, it is a convenient epoch for the drawing of a defining line, by
the help of which we may better grasp the conception of life, and think
it more effectually, but it is a _façon de parler_ only; it is, as I said
in “Life and Habit,” {264a} “the most inexorable of all conventions,” but
our idea of it has no correspondence with eternal underlying realities.
Finally, we must have evolution; consent is too spontaneous, instinctive,
and universal among those most able to form an opinion, to admit of
further doubt about this. We must also have mind and design. The
attempt to eliminate intelligence from among the main agencies of the
universe has broken down too signally to be again ventured upon—not until
the recent rout has been forgotten. Nevertheless the old, far-foreseeing
_Deus ex machinâ_ design as from a point outside the universe, which
indeed it directs, but of which it is no part, is negatived by the facts
of organism. What, then, remains, but the view that I have again in this
book endeavoured to uphold—I mean, the supposition that the mind or
cunning of which we see such abundant evidence all round us, is, like the
kingdom of heaven, within us, and within all things at all times
everywhere? There is design, or cunning, but it is a cunning not
despotically fashioning us from without as a potter fashions his clay,
but inhering democratically within the body which is its highest outcome,
as life inheres within an animal or plant.
All animals and plants are corporations, or forms of democracy, and may
be studied by the light of these, as democracies, not infrequently, by
that of animals and plants. The solution of the difficult problem of
reflex action, for example, is thus facilitated, by supposing it to be
departmental in character; that is to say, by supposing it to be action
of which the department that attends to it is alone cognisant, and which
is not referred to the central government so long as things go normally.
As long, therefore, as this is the case, the central government is
unconscious of what is going on, but its being thus unconscious is no
argument that the department is unconscious also.
I know that contradiction in terms lurks within much that I have said,
but the texture of the world is a warp and woof of contradiction in
terms; of continuity in discontinuity, and discontinuity in continuity;
of unity in diversity, and of diversity in unity. As in the development
of a fugue, where, when the subject and counter subject have been
enounced, there must henceforth be nothing new, and yet all must be new,
so throughout organic life—which is as a fugue developed to great length
from a very simple subject—everything is linked on to and grows out of
that which comes next to it in order—errors and omissions excepted. It
crosses and thwarts what comes next to it with difference that involves
resemblance, and resemblance that involves difference, and there is no
juxtaposition of things that differ too widely by omission of necessary
links, or too sudden departure from recognised methods of procedure.
To conclude; bodily form may be almost regarded as idea and memory in a
solidified state—as an accumulation of things each one of them so tenuous
as to be practically without material substance. It is as a million
pounds formed by accumulated millionths of farthings; more compendiously
it arises normally from, and through, action. Action arises normally
from, and through, opinion. Opinion, from, and through, hypothesis.
“Hypothesis,” as the derivation of the word itself shows, is singularly
near akin to “underlying, and only in part knowable, substratum;” and
what is this but “God” translated from the language of Moses into that of
Mr. Herbert Spencer? The conception of God is like nature—it returns to
us in another shape, no matter how often we may expel it. Vulgarised as
it has been by Michael Angelo, Raffaelle, and others who shall be
nameless, it has been like every other _corruptio optimi—pessimum_: used
as a hieroglyph by the help of which we may better acknowledge the height
and depth of our own ignorance, and at the same time express our sense
that there is an unseen world with which we in some mysterious way come
into contact, though the writs of our thoughts do not run within it—used
in this way, the idea and the word have been found enduringly convenient.
The theory that luck is the main means of organic modification is the
most absolute denial of God which it is possible for the human mind to
conceive—while the view that God is in all His creatures, He in them and
they in Him, is only expressed in other words by declaring that the main
means of organic modification is, not luck, but cunning.
Footnotes
{17a} “_Nature_,” Nov. 12, 1885.
{20a} “Hist. Nat. Gén.,” tom. ii. p. 411, 1859.
{23a} “Selections, &c.” Trübner & Co., 1884. [Out of print.]
{29a} “Selections, &c., and Remarks on Romanes’ ‘Mental Intelligence in
Animals,’” Trübner & Co., 1884. pp. 228, 229. [Out of print.]
{35a} Quoted by M. Vianna De Lima in his “Exposé Sommaire,” &c., p. 6.
Paris, Delagrave, 1886.
{40a} I have given the passage in full on p. 254a of my “Selections,”
&c. [Now out of print.] I observe that Canon Kingsley felt exactly the
same difficulty that I had felt myself, and saw also how alone it could
be met. He makes the wood-wren say, “Something told him his mother had
done it before him, and he was flesh of her flesh, life of her life, and
had inherited her instinct (as we call hereditary memory, to avoid the
trouble of finding out what it is and how it comes).”—_Fraser_, June,
1867. Canon Kingsley felt he must insist on the continued personality of
the two generations before he could talk about inherited memory. On the
other hand, though he does indeed speak of this as almost a synonym for
instinct, he seems not to have realised how right he was, and implies
that we should find some fuller and more satisfactory explanation behind
this, only that we are too lazy to look for it.
{44a} 26 Sept., 1877. “Unconscious Memory.” ch. ii.
{52a} This chapter is taken almost entirely from my book, “Selections,
&c.. and Remarks on Romanes’ ‘Mental Evolution in Animals.’” Trübner,
1884. [Now out of print.]
{52b} “Mental Evolution in Animals,” p. 113. Kegan Paul, Nov., 1883.
{52c} Ibid. p. 115.
{52d} Ibid. p. 116.
{53a} “Mental Evolution in Animals.” p. 131. Kegan Paul, Nov., 1883.
{54a} Vol. I, 3rd ed., 1874, p. 141, and Problem I. 21.
{54b} “Mental Evolution in Animals,” pp. 177, 178. Nov., 1883.
{55a} “Mental Evolution in Animals,” p. 192.
{55b} _Ibid._ p. 195.
{55c} _Ibid._ p. 296. Nov., 1883.
{56a} “Mental Evolution in Animals,” p. 33. Nov., 1883.
{56b} _Ibid._, p. 116.
{56c} _Ibid._, p. 178.
{59a} “Evolution Old and New,” pp. 357, 358.
{60a} “Mental Evolution in Animals,” p. 159. Kegan Paul & Co., 1883.
{61a} “Zoonomia,” vol. i. p. 484.
{61b} “Mental Evolution in Animals,” p. 297. Kegan Paul & Co., 1883.
{61c} _Ibid._, p. 201. Kegan Paul & Co., 1883.
{62a} “Mental Evolution in Animals,” p. 301. November, 1883.
{62b} “Origin of Species,” ed. i. p. 209.
{62c} _Ibid._, ed. vi., 1876. p. 206.
{62d} “Formation of Vegetable Mould,” etc., p. 98.
{62e} Quoted by Mr. Romanes as written in the last year of Mr. Darwin’s
life.
{63a} Macmillan, 1883.
{66a} “Nature,” August 5, 1886.
{67a} London, H. K. Lewis, 1886.
{70a} “Charles Darwin.” Longmans, 1885.
{70b} Lectures at the London Institution, Feb., 1886.
{70c} “Charles Darwin.” Leipzig. 1885.
{72a} See Professor Hering’s “Zur Lehre von der Beziehung zwischen Leib
und Seele. Mittheilung über Fechner’s psychophysisches Gesetz.”
{73a} Quoted by M. Vianna De Lima in his “Exposé Sommaire des Théories
Transformistes de Lamarck, Darwin, et Hæckel.” Paris, 1886, p. 23.
{81a} “Origin of Species,” ed. i., p. 6; see also p. 43.
{83a} “I think it can be shown that there is such a power at work in
‘Natural Selection’ (the title of my book).”—“Proceedings of the Linnean
Society for 1858,” vol. iii., p. 51.
{86a} “On Naval Timber and Arboriculture,” 1831, pp. 384, 385. See also
“Evolution Old and New,” pp. 320, 321.
{87a} “Origin of Species,” p. 49, ed. vi.
{92a} “Origin of Species,” ed. i., pp. 188, 189.
{93a} Page 9.
{94a} Page 226.
{96a} “Journal of the Proceedings of the Linnean Society.” Williams and
Norgate, 1858, p. 61.
{102a} “Zoonomia,” vol. i., p. 505.
{104a} See “Evolution Old and New.” p. 122.
{105a} “Phil. Zool.,” i., p. 80.
{105b} _Ibid._, i. 82.
{105c} _Ibid._ vol. i., p. 237.
{107a} See concluding chapter.
{122a} Report, 9, 26.
{135a} Ps. cii. 25–27, Bible version.
{136a} Ps. cxxxix., Prayer-book version.
{140a} _Contemporary Review_, August, 1885, p. 84.
{142a} London, David Bogue, 1881, p. 60.
{144a} August 12, 1886.
{150a} Paris, Delagrave, 1886.
{150b} Page 60.
{150c} “Œuvre complètes,” tom. ix. p. 422. Paris, Garnier frères, 1875.
{150d} “Hist. Nat.,” tom. i., p. 13, 1749, quoted “Evol. Old and New,”
p. 108.
{156a} “Origin of Species,” ed. vi., p. 107.
{156b} _Ibid._, ed. vi., p. 166.
{157a} “Origin of Species,” ed. vi., p. 233.
{157b} _Ibid._
{157c} _Ibid._, ed. vi., p. 109.
{157d} _Ibid._, ed. vi., p. 401.
{158a} “Origin of Species,” ed. i., p. 490.
{161a} “Origin of Species,” ed. vi., 1876, p. 171.
{163a} “Charles Darwin,” p. 113.
{164a} “Animals and Plants under Domestication,” vol. ii., p. 367, ed.
1875.
{168a} Page 3.
{168b} Page 4.
{169a} It should be remembered this was the year in which the “Vestiges
of Creation” appeared.
{173a} “Charles Darwin,” p. 67.
{173b} H. S. King & Co., 1876.
{174a} Page 17.
{195a} “Phil. Zool.,” tom. i., pp. 34, 35.
{202a} “Origin of Species,” p. 381, ed. i.
{203a} Page 454, ed. i.
{205a} “Principles of Geology,” vol. ii., chap. xxxiv., ed. 1872.
{206a} “Natürliche Schöpfungsgeschichte,” p. 3. Berlin, 1868.
{209a} See “Evolution Old and New,” pp. 8, 9.
{216a} “Vestiges,” &c., ed. 1860; Proofs, Illustrations, &c., p. xiv.
{216b} _Examiner_, May 17, 1879, review of “Evolution Old and New.”
{218a} Given in part in “Evolution Old and New.”
{219a} “Mind,” p. 498, Oct., 1883.
{224a} “Degeneration,” 1880, p. 10.
{227a} E.g. the Rev. George Henslow, in “Modern Thought,” vol. ii., No.
5, 1881.
{232a} “Nature,” Aug. 6, 1886.
{234a} See Mr. Darwin’s “Animals and Plants under Domestication,” vol.
i., p. 466, &c., ed. 1875.
{235a} Paris, 1873, Introd., p. vi.
{235b} “Hist. Nat. Gen.,” ii. 404, 1859.
{239a} As these pages are on the point of going to press, I see that the
writer of an article on Liszt in the “Athenæum” makes the same emendation
on Shakespeare’s words that I have done.
{240a} “Voyages of the _Adventure_ and _Beagle_,” vol. iii., p. 373.
London, 1839.
{242a} See Professor Paley, “Fraser,” Jan., 1882, “Science Gossip,” Nos.
162, 163, June and July, 1878, and “Nature,” Jan. 3, Jan. 10, Feb. 28,
and March 27, 1884.
{245a} “Formation of Vegetable Mould,” etc., p. 217. Murray, 1882.
{248a} “Fortnightly Review,” Jan., 1886.
{253a} “On the Growth of Trees and Protoplasmic Continuity.” London,
Stanford, 1886.
{260a} Sometimes called Mendelejeff’s (see “Monthly Journal of Science,”
April, 1884).
{261a} I am aware that attempts have been made to say that we can
conceive a condition of matter, although there is no matter in connection
with it—as, for example, that we can have motion without anything moving
(see “Nature,” March 5, March 12, and April 9, 1885)—but I think it
little likely that this opinion will meet general approbation.
{264a} Page 53.