CONFORMITY TO ENVIRONMENT
We are too prone to think that soil and climate, hill-side or plain,
mountain and shore, temperature and rainfall, constitute the sole or
the most important elements in human environment. Every one of these
elements is doubtless important. Frost, drought, or barrenness of
soil may make a region a desert, or dwarf the development of its
inhabitants. Mountaineer, and the dweller on the plain, and the
fisherman on the shore of the ocean develop different traits through
the influence of their surroundings. In too warm a climate the human
race loses its mental and moral vigor and degenerates. This is
undeniable.
But, though one soil and climate and set of physical surroundings
may be more conducive than another to the development of heroism,
truthfulness, unselfishness, and righteousness, no one is essential
to their production or sure to give rise to them. Moral and
religious character is a feature of man's personality, and our
personality is moulded mainly by the men and women with whom we
associate. A man is not only "known by the company which he keeps;"
he is usually fashioned by and conforms to it. As President Seelye
has well said, "The only motive which can move a will is either a
will itself, or something into which a will enters. It is not a
thought, but only a sentiment, a deed, or a person, by which we
become truly inspired. It is not the intellect, but the heart and
will, through which and by which we are controlled. It is not the
precepts of life, but life itself, by which alone we are begotten
and born unto life.
"Now, there are two ways in which living power, personal power, the
power of a will, may enter a soul and give it life; the one is when
God's will works upon us, and the other when our wills work upon one
another. God's will may directly penetrate ours, enabling us to will
and to do of his good pleasure; and our own wills, thus inspired,
may be the torch to kindle other wills with the same inspiration. It
is in only one of these two ways that a human soul can be truly
inspired; and, without a true inspiration, no amount of instruction,
whether in duty, or life, or anything else, will change a single
moral propensity."[A]
[Footnote A: Seelye: Christian Missions, p. 154.]
Even though a Lincoln may rise above his hereditary position or his
surroundings, they are the school in which he is trained; the
gymnasium in which his mental and moral fibre is strengthened.
Family and social life form thus the element of man's environment by
which he is mostly moulded, and to which he most naturally and
completely conforms. Let us therefore briefly trace the origin of
this new element of man's environment, and then notice the effect
upon him of conformity to its laws, and see whither these would lead
him.
We have already seen that intra-uterine development of the young was
being carried ever farther by mammals, and we found one explanation
of this in the fact that each mammalian egg represented a large
amount of nutriment, and that the mammal had very little material to
spare for reproduction. Very possibly, too, the newly hatched
mammals were exposed to even more numerous and greater dangers than
the young of birds. Even among lower mammals the young is feeble at
birth. But the human infant is absolutely helpless. And the centre
of its helplessness is its brain. Its eyes and ears are
comparatively perfect, but its perceptions are very dim. Its muscles
are all present, but it must very slowly and gradually learn to use
them. Its language is but a cry, its few actions reflex. The
new-born kitten may be just as helpless, but in a few weeks it will
run and play and hunt, and after a few months can care for itself.
Not so the child. It must be cared for during months and years
before it can be given independence. Its brain is so marvellously
complex that it is finished as a thinking and willing and
muscle-controlling mechanism only long after birth. This means a
period of infancy during which the young clings helplessly to the
mother, who is its natural protector. And during this period the
mother and young have to be cared for and protected by the male. And
the period of infancy and the protection of the female and young are
just as truly, though in far less degree, characteristic of the
highest apes as of man.
I can give you only this very condensed and incomplete abstract of
Mr. John Fiske's argument; you must read it for yourself in his
"Destiny of Man." And as he has there shown, this can have but one
result, and that is the family life of man. And we may yet very
possibly have to acknowledge that family life of a very low grade
is just as truly characteristic of the higher apes as of lower man.
And thus the family life of man is the physiological result of, and
rooted in, mammalian structure.
And the benefits of family life are too great and numerous to even
enumerate. First of all the family is the school of unselfishness.
All the love of the parent is drawn out for the helpless and
dependent child, and grows as the parent works and thinks for it.
And the child returns a fraction of his parents' love. Within the
close bond of the family the struggle for place and opportunity is
replaced by mutual helpfulness; and this doing and burden-bearing
with and for each other is a constant exercise in the practice of
love. And with out this mutual love and helpfulness the family
cannot exist.
And slowly man begins to apply the lessons learned in the family to
other relations with partners, neighbors, and friends. Slowly he
discovers that an entirely selfish life defeats its own ends. A
voice within him tells him continually that love is better than
selfishness and ministering better than being ministered unto. It
dawns upon him that it is against the nature of things that other
people should be so selfish and grasping; a few begin to apply the
moral to themselves, and a few of these to act accordingly.
And what a change the few steps which man has taken in this
direction have wrought in his life. Says Professor Huxley: "In place
of ruthless self-assertion it demands self-restraint, in place of
thrusting aside or treading down all competitors, it requires that
the individual shall not merely respect, but shall help his fellows;
its influence is directed not so much to the survival of the
fittest as to the fitting of as many as possible to survive. It
repudiates the gladiatoral theory of existence."
It is a vast change from the "gladiatorial theory" to that of
"mutual helpfulness." Call it a revolution, if you will. Revolutions
are not unheard of in the history of the animal kingdom any more
than in human history. We have seen, first, digestion and
reproduction on the throne of animal organization, then muscle, and
finally brain. Each of these changes is in one sense a revolution.
A little before the summer solstice the earth is whizzing away from
the sun; a few weeks later it is whizzing with equal rapidity in
almost the opposite direction. In the very nature of things it could
not be otherwise. But so silently and gradually does it come about
that we never feel the reversal of the engine; indeed the engine has
not been reversed at all. Very similar is the change of the struggle
of brute against brute to that of man for man. Indeed human
development seems now to be almost at such a solstice where the
power that makes for love is almost exhausted in opposing the
tendency toward selfishness. We shall not always stay at the
solstice; soon we shall make more rapid progress. And unselfishness
like the family relation is firmly rooted in mammalian structure.
And man owes almost everything to family life. First the child gains
the advantage of the parent's experience. He is educated by the
parent. In a few formative and receptive years he gains from the
parent the results of centuries of human experience. The process is
thus cumulative, the investment bears compound interest. And yet
this is peculiar to man only in degree. Have you never watched a
cat train her kittens? And the education of the child in the savage
family is very incomplete.
The family is the first and fundamental of all higher social and
political unities. And without the persistence of the family the
larger social unit would become an inert mass. All the individual
ambition, all desire for family advancement, must be retained as
still a motive for energetic advance. And all the training which
social life can give reaches the individual most effectively, or
solely, through the family. Society without the family would be like
an army without company or regimental organization. Thus the very
existence, not only of training in love and mutual helpfulness, but
even of society itself as a mere organization, depends upon the
existence and improvement of family life. And as so much depended
upon and resulted from it, it could not but be fostered and improved
by natural selection. The tribe or race with the best family life
has apparently survived. But all social animals have some means of
communicating very simple thoughts or perceptions. The simplest
illustrations of this are the calls and warning cries of mammals and
birds. It is not impossible that the higher mammals have something
worthy of the name of language. But man alone, with his better brain
and better anatomical structure of throat and mouth, and the closer
interdependence with his fellows, has attained to articulate speech.
And this again has become the bond to a still closer union.
Now our only question is, How does social life enable and aid man to
conform to environment? We are interested not so much in his
happiness as in his progress. It helps and improves the body by
giving him a better and more constant supply of more suitable food,
and better protection from inclemency of the weather, and in many
other ways. Baths and gymnasia are built, and medical science
prolongs life. Yet make the items as many as you can, and what a
long list of disadvantages to man physically you must set over
against these. Many of these evils will doubtless disappear as
society becomes better organized, but some will always remain to
plague us. We pamper or abuse our stomachs, and dyspepsia results.
We live in hot-houses, and a host of diseases are fostered by them.
Indeed it would be hard to count up the diseases for which social
life is directly or indirectly responsible. Social life becomes more
and more complicated, and our nervous systems cannot bear the
strain. Medical science saves alive thousands who would otherwise
die, and these grow up to bear children as weak as themselves. We
are looking now at the physical side alone; and from this standpoint
the survival of the invalid is a sore evil. Now society will and
must become healthier; we shall not always abuse our bodies as
sinfully as we now do. Still, viewed from the standpoint of the body
alone, the best, as it seems to me, which we can claim, is that
social life does no more harm than good.
What has social life done for man intellectually? Much. It gives him
schools and colleges. But are our systems of education an unmixed
good? How many of our schools and colleges are places where men are
stuffed with facts until they have no time nor inclination to think?
They may turn out learned men; do they produce thinkers? And how
about the spread of knowledge? Is it not a spread of information?
And most of what goes forth from the press is not worthy of even
that name, or is information which a man had better be without. We
are proud of being a nation of readers. And reading is good, if a
man thinks about what he reads; otherwise it is like undigested food
in the stomach, an injury and a curse. A dyspeptic gourmand is
helped by "cutting down his rations." In our mental disease we need
the same course of treatment. Let us read fewer books and papers and
think more about what we do read.
Society may foster original thinking; it is none the less opposed to
it.
"Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look,
He thinks too much; such men are dangerous."
This is the motto of all great parties in Church and State. Still
social life has undoubtedly fostered thought. We think vastly more
and better than primitive man; still we have much to learn. Society
puts the experience of centuries at the service of every individual.
Poor and unsatisfactory as are our modes of education, they are a
great blessing intellectually and will become more helpful.
And, after all, the friction of mind against mind in social
life--provided social intercourse is this, and not the commingling
of two vacua--is a continual education of inestimable advantage. And
all these advantages would without language have been absolutely
impossible. Intellectually our debt to society is inestimable.
And how does social life aid man morally? I cannot help believing
that primitive society was the first school of the human conscience.
It was a rude school, but it taught man some grand lessons.
The primitive clan would seem to have existed as a rude army for
the defence of its members and for offensive operations against
enemies. Individual responsibility on the part of its members was
slight for offences against individuals of other clans, or against
the gods. For any such offence of one of its members the whole clan
was held, or held itself, largely responsible. If one man sinned,
the clan suffered. It could not therefore afford to pardon wilful
disobedience to regulations made by it or its leaders. Its very
existence depended on this strict discipline. And much the same
stern discipline has to be maintained in our modern armies or they
become utterly worthless.
Furthermore, man, as a social being, is very ready to accept the
estimate of his actions placed upon them by his fellows. It is not
easy to resist public opinion now. The tie of class or professional
feeling is a tremendous power for good and evil. It must have been
almost irresistible in that primitive army, which summarily outlawed
or killed the obstinately disobedient. But all obedience was lauded
and rewarded. It had to be so. And if the tribe was worthy to
survive, because its regulations were better than those of its
rivals, or perhaps as nearly just and right as were well possible,
it was altogether best and right it should be so. The voice of the
people was, in a very rude, stammering way, the voice of God. And
those who survived became more and more obedient, and found
themselves, when disobedient, feeling debased, and mean, and
unworthy, as their fellows considered them. And all this feeling
tended to develop a conscience in the individual answering to the
estimates and regulations of the community.
And remember that the primitive religion is a tribal religion. The
gods felt toward a man just as his neighbors did. A public opinion
of this sort is irresistible, and a man's conscience and estimate of
himself and his actions must conform to it. But you may say a man
may grant that this opinion is in a sense irresistible, and find
himself very miserable and unhappy under its condemnation. But he
would not feel remorse; this is a very different feeling. Possibly
it may be. I am not so sure. But what I am interested in maintaining
is that the condemnation of one's fellow-men puts more vividly
before one's eyes, and emphasizes, the condemnation of one's own
self. It may often be a necessary step in self-conviction. And what
is most important, even in our own case, the condemnation of our
fellows often brings with it self-condemnation.
Try the experiment, as you will some day, of following a course of
action which you feel fairly confident is right, but which all your
neighbors think is foolish and wrong. See if you do not feel twinges
within you which you must examine very closely to distinguish from
twinges of conscience. If you do not, I see but one explanation--you
are conscious that God is with you, and content with this majority.
But in the case of primitive man God was always on the side of one's
tribe.
Now this does not explain the origin of man's conception of right;
it presupposes such a conception in some dim form. I do not now know
why right is right or beauty beautiful. I only know they are so.
Where or when either of these perceptions dawned I do not know. But,
given some such dim perception, I believe that primitive human
society gave it its iron grip on every fibre of man's nature.
Before the animal could safely be allowed to govern itself
intelligently it had to serve a long apprenticeship to reflex action
and instinct. And man's moral nature had to undergo a similar
apprenticeship to tribal regulation and tribal conscience. Only
slowly was instinct modified and replaced by intelligent action. And
how this old tribal conscience persists. Often for good, although
there it were better replaced by an individual conscience working
for right. But how slowly you and I learn that there is a higher
responsibility than to party or class. How often my vote and action
are controlled, not by my own conscience, but by the opinion of my
fellows, or the feeling that, if my party suffers defeat, God's work
will suffer at the hands of my opponents. And what is all this but
the survival in a very degenerate form of the old tribal conscience
of primitive man? And he knew, and could know, nothing better: I can
and do.
But society slowly works for unselfishness. The love learned in the
family manifests itself in ever-widening circles; it must do so if
it is the genuine article. It works for neighbors and friends, then
for the poor and helpless of the community. Then it spreads to other
communities and nations. For genuine love recognizes no bounds of
time or place. Slowly we learn that we are our brother's keepers,
and that the brotherhood cannot stop short of the human race.
Goodness and kindness radiate from one, perhaps unknown, member of
the community to his fellows, and thence all over the world. And the
world is the better for his one action.
Primitive society was thus the best possible school of conscience;
and the family and it are the great school of unselfishness. But
society is even more and better than this. It is the medium through
which thought, power, and moral and religious life can spring from
man to man. This is its last and culminating advantage: it is that
for which society really exists.
For, in the close bonds of family and social life, a new possibility
of development has arisen based upon articulate speech. We might
almost call it a new form of heredity, independent of all
blood-relationship. Progress in anatomical structure in the animal
kingdom was slow, because any improvement could be transmitted only
to the direct descendants of its original possessor. But in all
matters pertaining to or based upon mind, a new invention, or idea,
or system becomes the property of him who can best appreciate it.
The torch is always handed on to the swiftest runner. Thus Socrates
is the true father of Plato, and Plato of Aristotle. Whoever can
best understand and appreciate and enter into the spirit of Socrates
and Plato becomes heir to their thoughts and interprets them to us.
And the thought of one man enriches all races and times.
But a great teacher like Socrates is not merely an intellectual
power. "Probe a little deeper, surgeon," said the French soldier,
"and you'll find the emperor." Napoleon may have impressed himself
on the soldier's intellect; he had enthroned himself in his heart.
"Slave," said the old Roman, Marius, to the barbarian who had been
sent into the dungeon to despatch him, "slave, wouldst thou kill
Cains Marius?" And the barbarian, though backed by all the power of
Rome, is said to have fled in dismay. Why did he run away? I do not
know. I only know that I should have done the same. One more
instance. Some thirty years ago the northern army was fleeing, a
disorganized mob, toward Winchester. Early had fallen upon them
suddenly in the gray of the morning, and, while one corps still held
its ground, the rest of the army was melting away in panic. Then a
little red-faced trooper came tearing down the line shouting, "Face
the other way boys; face the other way." And those panic-stricken
men turned and rolled an irresistible avalanche of heroes upon the
Confederate lines. What made them turn about? It was something which
I can neither define nor analyze--the personal power of Sheridan. It
is the secret of every great leader of men. Now Sheridan had
imparted more than information to these men. Is it too much to say
that he put himself into them? From such men power streams out like
electricity from a huge dynamo.
Now society furnishes the medium through which such a man can act.
You have all met such men, though probably not more than one or two
of them. But one such man is a host. They may be men of few words.
But their very presence and look calls out all that is good in you;
and while you are with them evil loses its power. Says the gay and
licentious Alcibiades, in Plato's "Banquet" concerning Socrates:
"When I heard Pericles or any other great orator, I was entertained
and delighted, and I felt that he had spoken well. But no mortal
speech has ever excited in my mind such emotions as are excited by
this magician. Whenever I hear him, I am, as it were, charmed and
fettered. My heart leaps like an inspired Corybant. My inmost soul
is stung by his words as by the bite of a serpent. It is indignant
at its own rude and ignoble character. I often weep tears of regret
and think how vain and inglorious is the life I lead. Nor am I the
only one that weeps like a child and despairs of himself. Many
others are affected in the same way."
These men are the real kings. Their power for good, and sometimes
for evil, is inestimable. And the great advantage of social life, as
a means of conforming to environment, is the medium which it
furnishes to conduct the power of such men. Man's last effort toward
conformity to environment, the struggle for existence in its last
most real form, is the life and death grapple between good and evil.
For here good and evil, righteousness and sin, come face to face in
spiritual form; "we wrestle not with flesh and blood." Life is more
than a game of chess or whist; it is a great battle; every man must,
and does, take sides; he must fight or die. And the real kings of
society are, as a rule, on the side of truth, and aid its triumph.
For one essential condition of such leadership is the power to
inspire confidence in the love of the king for his willing subject.
A suspicion of selfish aims in the leader breaks this bond. The hero
must be self-forgetful. This is one reason for man's hero-worship,
and the magnetic, dominant power of the hero. But evil is
essentially selfish and can gain and hold this kingship only as long
as it can deceive. And these kings "live forever." Dynasties and
empires disappear, but Socrates and Plato, Luther and Huss, Cromwell
and Lincoln, rule an ever-widening kingdom of ever more loyal
subjects.
And society will have leaders; men may set up whatever form of
government they will, they are always searching for a king. And this
is no sign of weakness or credulity. Man's desire for leadership is
only another proof of the vast future which he knows is before him,
and into which he longs to be guided. The wiser a man is, the more
he desires to be taught; the nobler he becomes, the more
whole-souled is the homage which he pays to the noblest. Is it a
sign of weakness or ignorance in students, of adult age and ripe
manhood, to flock to some great university to hear the wisdom and
catch the inspiration of some great master? When Jackson fell Lee
exclaimed, "I have lost my right arm." Was Jackson any the less for
being the right arm to deal, as only he could, the crushing blows
planned by the great strategist?
But is not man to be independent and free? Certainly. But he gains
freedom from the petty tyranny of robber-baron or boss, and from the
very pettiest tyranny of all, the service of self, only as he finds
and enlists under the king. Serve self and it will plunge you in,
and drag you through, the ditch, till your own clothes abhor you.
You are free to choose your teacher and guide and example. But
choose you will and must. I am not propounding theories; I am
telling you facts. Whether for better or worse man always does and
will choose because he must. Look about you, look into yourselves.
Have you no hero whom you admire and strive to resemble? no teacher
to whom you listen? You must and do have your example and teacher.
Is he teaching you to conform to environment, or leading you to be
ground in pieces by its forces all arrayed against you?
The Carpenter of Nazareth stood before Pilate. "And Pilate said
unto him, Art thou a king then? Jesus answered, Thou sayest that I
am a king. To this end was I born, and for this cause came I into
the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth. Every one that
is of the truth heareth my voice." And Pilate would not wait for the
answer to his question, What is truth? and the Jews chose Barabbas.
Would you and I have acted differently? The answer of our Lord to
Pilate contains the essence of Christianity. "You a king," says
Pilate in astonishment; "where is your power to enforce your
authority?" And our Lord's answer seems to me to mean substantially
this: Roman legions shall suffer defeat, rout, and extermination;
and Roman power shall cease to terrify. All its might must decay.
But "everyone that is of the truth" shall attach himself to me with
a love which will brave rack and stake. All your power cannot give a
grain of new life. I can and will infuse my own divine life, my own
divine _self_, into men. And this new life is invincible, immortal,
all-conquering. I have infused myself into a few fishermen, and they
will infuse _me_ into a host of other men. Thus I will transfigure
into my own character every man in the world, who is of the truth,
and therefore will hear my voice. All the power of Rome cannot
prevent it, and whatever opposes it must go down before it.
Christianity is the contagion of a divine life. Society is the
medium through which it could and was to work. Greece had prepared
the language necessary for its spread. Roman power had built its
highways and levelled all obstructions.
"A little leaven leaveneth the whole lump." "Not by might, nor by
power, but by my Spirit, saith the Lord of Hosts."
But, you will object, the grandest kings have had, as a rule, the
fewest loyal subjects. The prophets and seers are stoned. Elijah
stands alone on Carmel and opposed to him are more than a thousand
prophets of Baal, with court and king at their head. Heroism does
not pay, and heroes are few. Right is always in a hopeless minority.
Let us look into this matter carefully, for the objection, even if
overstated, certainly contains a large amount of truth.
Let us go back to two forms having much the same grade of
organization: both worms. One of them sets out to become a
vertebrate, building an internal skeleton. The other forms an
external skeleton and becomes a crab. To form its skeleton the crab
had only to thicken the cuticle already present in the annelid. It
had to modify the already existing parapodia and their muscles,
changing them to legs. The external skeleton gave from the start a
double advantage--protection and better locomotion. Every grain of
thickening aided the animal in the struggle for existence in both
these ways. The very fact that the skeleton was external may have
rendered it more liable to variation, because it was thus exposed to
continual stimuli. And the best were rapidly sifted out by Natural
Selection. The change and development went on with comparative
rapidity. In the mollusk the change was apparently still more easy
and the development still more rapid.
But the development of an internal skeleton was more difficult and
slower. It was of no use for the protection of the animal, and only
gradually did it become of much service in locomotion. Being
deep-seated it very possibly changed all the more slowly.
Furthermore, a cartilaginous rod, like the notochord, even fully
developed, hardly enabled the animal to fight directly with the
mail-clad crab. The internal skeleton had to become far more highly
developed before its great advantages, and freedom from
disadvantages, became apparent. The mollusk and crab were working a
mine rich in surface deposits although soon exhausted. The
vertebrate lead was poor at the surface, and only later showed its
inexhaustible richness. It looked as if the vertebrate were making a
very poor speculation.
Whether this explanation be true or not, a glance at a chart,
showing the geological succession of occurrence of the different
kingdoms, proves that in the oldest palæozoic periods there were
well-developed cuttlefish and crabs before there were any
vertebrates worthy of the name. If any were present, their skeleton
was purely cartilaginous and not preserved.
I think we may go farther, although in this latter consideration we
may very possibly be mistaken. We have already seen that the
progress made by any animal may be measured more or less accurately
by the length of time during which its ancestors maintained a
swimming life. The ancestors of the coelenterates settled to the
bottom first. Then successively those of flatworms, mollusks,
annelids, and crabs. All this time the ancestors of vertebrates were
swimming in the water above. Food was probably more abundant,
certainly more easily and economically obtained by a creeping life,
on the bottom. But thither the vertebrate could not go. There his
mail-clad competitors were too strong for him. Those which settled
and tried to compete in this sort of life perished. We may have to
except the ascidia, but they paid for their success by the loss of
nearly all their vertebrate characteristics. The future progress of
vertebrates depended upon their continual activity in the swimming
life. And they were forced by their environment to maintain this.
Otherwise they might, probably would, never have attained their
present height of organization. Certainly at this time you would
have found it hard to believe that the victory was to fall to these
weaker and smaller vertebrates.
Let us come down to a later period. Reptiles, mammals, and birds are
struggling for supremacy. Of the power and diversity of form of
these old reptiles we have generally no adequate conception. The
forms now living are but feeble remnants. There were huge
sea-serpents, and forms like our present crocodiles, but far more
powerful. Others apparently resembled in form and habit the
herbivorous and carnivorous mammals of to-day. Others strode or
leaped on two legs. And still others flew like bats or birds. They
were terrible forms, with coats of mail and powerful jaws and teeth.
And they were active and swift. When we look at them we see that the
vertebrate, though slow in gaining the lead, is sure to hold it. The
internal skeleton gave fewer advantages at the start; its greatest
superiority had lain in future possibilities.
But which vertebrate is heir to the future? It would have been a
hard choice between reptile and bird. I feel sure that I, for one,
should not have selected the mammal, a small, feeble being, hiding
in holes and ledges, and continually hard put to it to escape
becoming a mouthful for some huge reptile. And yet the persecution,
the impossibility of contending by brute strength, may have forced
the mammal into the line of brain-building and placental
development. The early development of mammals appears to have been
slow. Palæontology proves that they were long surpassed by reptiles
and birds. But the little mammal had the future. The battle was to
go against the strong.
Once again. The arboreal life of higher mammals would seem to be
most easily explained by the view that they were driven to it by
stronger carnivorous mammals having possession of the ground. Brain
was good, for it planned escape from enemies. But it did not give
its possessor immediate victory over muscle, tooth, and claw in the
tiger. That was to come far later with the invention of traps and
guns. Brain gave its possessor a sure hold of the future, and just
enough of the present to enable it to survive by a hard struggle.
And the same appears to have been true of primitive man.
Thus all man's ancestors have had to lead a life of continual
struggle against overwhelming odds and of seeming defeat. It was a
life of hardship, if not of positive suffering. The organ which was
to give them future supremacy, whether it was backbone, placenta, or
brain, could in its earlier stages aid them only to a hardly won
survival. The present apparently, and really as far as freedom from
discomfort and danger is concerned, always belongs to forms
hopelessly doomed to degeneration or stagnation. Crabs, not
primitive vertebrates, were masters of the good things of the sea;
and, in later times, reptiles, not mammals, of those of the land.
Any progressive form has to choose between the present and the
future. It cannot grasp both. I am not propounding to you any
metaphysical theories, but plain, dry, hard facts of palæontology;
explain them as you will.
And here we must add our last word about conformity to environment;
and it is a most important consideration. Conformity to environment
is not such an adaptation as will confer upon an animal the greatest
immunity from discomfort or danger, or will enable it to gain the
greatest amount of food and place, and produce the largest number of
offspring. Indeed, if you will add one element to those mentioned
above, namely, that all these shall be attained with the least
amount of effort, they insure degeneration beyond a doubt. This is
the conformity of the bivalve mollusk. The clam has abundance of
food, enormous powers of reproduction, almost perfect protection
against enemies, and lives a life of almost absolute freedom from
discomfort, and the clam is really lower than most worms.
If an animal is to progress, it must keep such a conformity ever
secondary to a still more important element, namely, conformity or
obedience to the laws of its own structure and being. This second
element the mollusk and every creeping stage neglected, and the
result of this neglect was stagnation or degeneration. Activity was
essential to progress from the very structure and laws of
development of the animal, while a great abundance of food was not.
A life of ease, for the same reason, necessarily results in
degeneration.
But you will ask, What becomes of Mr. Darwin's theory of evolution,
if obedience to the laws of individual being is more important than
conformity to external conditions? Both are evidently necessary, and
they are not so different as they may seem at first sight. They are
really one and the same. Bringing out the best and highest there is
in us, is the only true conformity to that which is deepest and
surest and most enduring in our environment. That in environment
which makes for digestion is almost palpable and tangible, that
which makes for activity less so perhaps; but that which makes for
brain and truth and right is intangible and invisible. We easily
fail to notice it; and, unless we take a careful view of the course
of development in the highest forms of life, we may be inclined to
deny its existence. But it is surely there, if man is a product of
evolution.
Each successive stage of animal life is not the preceding stage on a
higher plane, but the preceding stage modified in conformity to the
environment of that from which it has just arisen. Says Professor
Hertwig[A]: "During the process of organic development the external
is continually becoming an integral part of the individual. The germ
is continually growing and changing at the expense of surrounding
conditions." Every stage thus contains the result of a host of
reactions to a ruder and older portion of environment. And the
higher we go the more has the original protoplasm and structure been
modified as the result of these reactions.
[Footnote A: Hertwig: Zeit- und Streitfragen, p. 82.]
We have seen clearly that environment must be studied through its
effect upon living beings. Viewed from any other standpoint it
appears to be a myriad, almost a chaos, of interacting, apparently
conflicting, forces. The resultant of some of these is shown by the
animal at any stage of its development. And as the animal advances,
the resultant determining its new line, or stage, of advance,
includes new forces, to which it has only lately become sensitive.
And thus the human mind, as the last and highest product of
evolution, mirrors most adequately the resultant of all its forces.
If we would know environment we must study ourselves, not atoms
alone, nor rocks, nor worms.
Extremely sensitive photographic plates, after long exposure, have
proven the existence of stars so dim and far-off as to be invisible
to the best telescopes. Man's mind is just such a sensitive plate;
it is the only valid representation of environment.
The truth would appear to be that the law is present in environment,
but hard to read; but it is stamped upon our structure and being so
deeply and plainly that the dullest of us cannot fail to read it. We
learned the fact of gravitation the first time that we fell down in
learning to walk, long afterward we learned that its law guided
earth and moon. And it is the presence of this law within us, and
our own knowledge that we are conscious of it, that makes man
without excuse. But conformity to that which is deepest in
environment often, always, demands non-conformity to some of the
most palpable of surrounding conditions.
There is no better statement of the ultimate law of conformity than
the words of Paul: "Be not conformed to this world; but be ye
transformed by the renewing of your mind, that ye may prove what is
that good and acceptable and perfect will of God."
And this difference is exactly what I have been trying to put before
you. The mollusk conformed, but the vertebrate conformed in a very
different way, and was transformed, "metamorphosed," to translate
the Greek word literally, into something higher. And let us not
forget that man conforms consciously and voluntarily, if at all; he
is able to read in himself and environment the law to which lower
forms have been compelled unconsciously to conform.
These facts merely illustrate a great law of life. No man's eye,
much less hand, can grasp the whole of the present and at the same
time the future. Rather what we usually call present advantage is
not advantage at all, but the first step in degeneration. If one
will be rich in old age he must deny himself some gratifications in
youth; his present reward is his self-control. If a man will climb
higher than his fellows he must expect to be sometimes solitary; his
reward is the ever-widening view, though the path be rougher and the
air more biting than in their lower altitude. If he point to heights
yet to attain, the majority will disbelieve him or say, "Our present
height was good enough for our ancestors, it is good enough for us.
Why sacrifice a good thing and make yourself ridiculous scrambling
after what in the end may prove unattainable?" If you discover new
truths you will certainly be called a subverter of old ones. And
this is entirely natural. The upward path was never intended to be
easy.
Read the "Gorgias" of Plato, and let us listen to the closing words
of Socrates in that dialogue: "And so, bidding farewell to those
things which most men account honors, and looking onward to the
truth, I shall earnestly endeavor to grow, so far as may be, in
goodness, and thus live, and thus, when the time comes, die. And, to
the best of my power, I exhort all other men also; and you
especially, in my turn, I exhort to this life and contest, which is,
I protest, far above all contests here." You must remember that
Callicles has been taunting Socrates with his lack of worldly wisdom
and the certainty that in any court of justice he would be
absolutely helpless because of his lack of knowledge of the
rhetorician's art: "This way then we will follow, and we will call
upon all other men to do the same, not that which you believe in and
call upon me to follow; for that way, Callicles, is worth nothing."
And Socrates met the end which he expected: death at the hands of
his fellow-citizens.
And here perhaps a little glimmer of light is thrown into one of the
darkest corners of human experience. The wise old author of
Ecclesiastes writes: "There is a just man that perisheth in his
righteousness; and there is a wicked man that prolongeth his life in
his wickedness. There is a vanity which is done upon the earth, that
there be just men unto whom it happeneth according to the work of
the wicked; again, there be wicked men to whom it happeneth
according to the work of the righteous: I said that this also is
vanity." "I returned and saw under the sun that the race is not to
the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the
wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favor to men
of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all" (Eccles. viii.
14; ix. 11). It is this element of chance that threatens to make a
mockery of effort, and sometimes seems to make life but a travesty.
The terrible feature of Tennyson's description of Arthur's last, dim
battle in the west is not the "crash of battle-axe on shattered
helm," but the all-engulfing mist.
Perhaps this is all intended to teach us that riches and favor, and
even bread, are not the essentials of life, and that failure to
attain these is not such ruin as we often think. But no man ever
struggled for wisdom, righteousness, unselfishness, and heroism
without attaining them; even though the more he attained the more
dissatisfied he became with all previous attainment. And if our
slight attainments in wisdom and knowledge always brought wealth and
favor, we might rest satisfied with the latter, instead of clearly
recognizing that wisdom must be its own reward. Uncertainty and
deprivation are the best and only training for a hero, not sure
reward paid in popular plaudits.
Political economists speak of the productiveness and prospectiveness
of capital. We may well borrow these terms, using them in a somewhat
modified sense. In our sense capital is productive in so far as it
gives an immediate return; it is prospective in proportion as the
return is expected largely in the future. A "pocket" may yield an
immediate very large return of gold nuggets at a very slight expense
of labor and appliances, but it is soon exhausted. In a mine the ore
may be poor near the surface, but grow richer as the shaft deepens;
the vein is narrow above, but widens below. The returns are at first
small, its inexhaustible richness becomes apparent only after
considerable time and labor. The value of the "pocket" is purely
productive, that of the mine largely or purely prospective. Indeed
it may be opened at a loss. But even a rich mine may be worked
purely for its productive value; it may be "skinned."
Let us apply this thought to the development of a species; although
what is true of the species will generally be true of the individual
also, for the development of the two is, in the main, parallel. In
the animal all functions are to a certain extent productive, and all
directly or indirectly prospective. When we examine the sequence of
functions we cannot but notice how largely their value is
prospective. As long as a lower function is rising to supremacy in
the animal, it appears to be retained purely for its productive
value; thus digestion in hydra or gastræa. But after a time animals
appeared which had some muscle and nerve. And, by the process of
natural selection, those animals which used digestion as an end for
its productive value became food for, and gave place to, those using
it as a means of supporting muscle and nerve of greater prospective
value. And similarly, those animals which used muscle, or even mind,
productively gave place to others using these prospectively.
In other words, the functions and capacities of any animal, the
extent of its conformity to environment, may be regarded as its
capital. The animal may use this capital productively or
prospectively. It may spend its income, and more too; it may
increase its capital. Now social capital will always fall sooner or
later to those communities whose members use it most prospectively,
who are willing to forego, to quite an extent, present enjoyment,
and look for future return. The same is true of all development.
Sessile forms and mollusks, and, in a less degree, crabs and
reptiles, worked for immediate return. They are like extravagant
heirs who draw on their capital and sooner or later come to poverty.
The primitive vertebrate, the mammal, and the other ancestors of man
used their capital prospectively, and it increased, as if at
compound interest.
The spendthrift appears at first sight to have the greatest
enjoyment in life, the rising business man works hard and foregoes
much. I believe that the latter is really by far the happier of the
two. But, if you can spend only a day or two in a city, and your
examination is superficial, you may easily make the mistake of
considering the spendthrift as the most successful man in the
community. So, in our brief visit to the world in times past, we
picked out the crab, the reptile, and the carnivore as its rising
members.
Once more, capital can be spent very quickly; to use it
prospectively requires time. This is a truism; but it does no harm
to call attention to truisms which have been neglected. Organs and
powers of great prospective value are slow and difficult of
development. If their increase is to be at all rapid, they must
start early. If their development and culture is deferred, there
will be little or no advance, but probably degeneration.
Extravagance grows rapidly and soon becomes irresistible; habits of
saving must be formed early. The same is true of the development of
all other virtues.
There is in the child an orderly sequence of development of mental
traits. While these powers are in their earlier, so to speak
embryonic, stages of development, they can be fostered and increased
or retarded. They are still plastic. Very early in a child's life
acquisitiveness shows itself; he begins to say "I," and "mine," and
desires things to be his "very own." And this can be fostered so
that the child will grow up a "covetous machine." Or he may be
taught to share with others.
Not so much later, while the child is still in the lower grades of
his school life, comes the period of moral development. If, during
this period, these powers are fostered and cultivated, they may, and
probably will, be dominant throughout his life. And herein lies the
dignity and glory of the unappreciated, underpaid, and overworked
teachers of our "lower" schools, that they have the opportunity to
cultivate these moral powers of the child during these most critical
years of his life. Repression or neglect here works life-long and
irreparable harm. The young man goes out into the world. Here
"practical" men continually instruct him by precept upon precept,
line upon line, that he cannot afford to be generous until he has
acquired wealth; that he must first win success for himself, and
that he can then help others. And, unless his character is like
pasture-grown oak, he follows and improves upon their teachings. _He
reverses the sequence of functions._ He puts acquisitiveness first
and right and sterling honesty and unselfishness second. For a score
or more of years he labors. At first he honestly intends to build up
a strong character and a generous nature just as soon as he can
afford to; but for the present he cannot afford it. If he is to
succeed, he must do as others do and walk in the beaten track. He
wins wealth and position, or learning and fame. He now has the
ability and means to help others, but he no longer cares to do so.
Loyalty to truth, sterling honesty--the genuine, not the
conventional counterfeit--unselfishness, in one word, character,
these are plants of slow growth. They require cultivation by habit
through long years. In his case they have become aborted and
incapable of rejuvenescence. But his rudiment of a moral nature
feels twinges of remorse. He ought not to have reversed the sequence
of functions, and he knows it. But he cannot retrace his steps. He
made the development of character impossible when he made wealth his
first and chief aim. If he has a million dollars he tries to insure
his soul by leaving in his will one-tenth to build a church, or,
possibly, one-half for foreign missions. In the latter case he will
be held up as a shining example to all the youth of the land, and
the churches will ring with his praises. But what has been the
effect of his life on the moral, social capital of the community? Is
the world better or worse for his life? He has all his life been
disseminating the germs of a soul-blight more infectious and deadly
than any bodily disease.
If he has made learning or fame his chief aim, he probably has not
the money to buy soul-insurance. He takes refuge in agnosticism,
like an ostrich in a bush. His agnosticism is in his will; he does
not wish to see. Or its cause is atrophy, through disuse, of moral
vision. He cannot see. There are agnostics of quite another stamp,
whom we must respect and honor for their sterling honesty and
high character, though we may have little respect for their
philosophical tenets. But how much has our scholar advanced the
morality of the community? He has probably done even more harm than
the business man, who is a mere "covetous machine."
The "practical" man has reversed the sequence of functions.
Character is, and must be, first; and wealth, learning, power, and
fame are the materials, often exceedingly refractory, which it must
subjugate to its growth and use. And this subjugation is anything
but easy. The reversal of the sequence results in a moral
degradation and poverty indefinitely more dangerous to the community
than the slums of our great cities. For these may be controlled and
cleansed; but the moral slum floods our legislatures and positions
of honor and trust, and invades the churches. The mental and moral
water-supply of the community is loaded with disease-germs.
The social wealth of a community is the sum total of the wealth of
its individual members. And a community is truly wealthy only when
this wealth is, to a certain extent, diffused. If there is any truth
in our argument that the sequence of functions culminates in
righteousness and unselfishness, the real social wealth of a
community consists in its moral character, not in its money, or even
in its intelligence. We may rest assured that character, resulting
in industry and economy, will bring sufficient means of subsistence,
so that all its members will be fed and housed and clothed. And art
and culture, of the most ennobling and inspiring sort, will surely
follow. And even if such literature failed as largely composes our
present _fin-de-siècle_ garbage-heap, we would not regret its
absence. That community will and must survive in which the largest
proportion of members make the accumulation of character their chief
and first aim. And to this community every rival must in time yield
its place and power, and all its acquisitions. And in every
advancing community the position of any class or profession will in
time be determined by its moral wealth.
But this moral wealth is intangible. The rewards and penalties of
moral law easily escape notice in our hasty and superficial study of
life. The God immanent in our environment often seems to hide
himself. The altar of Jehovah is fallen down, and Baal's temples are
crowded with loud-mouthed worshippers. The bribes of present
enjoyment and of immediate success loom up before us, and we doubt
if any other success is possible.
But the law of progress, even now so dimly discernible in
environment, is written in our minds in letters of fire. For we have
already seen that environment can be understood only by tracing its
effects in the development of life. What is best and highest in us
is the record of the working of what is best and highest in
environment. And the personal God so dimly seen in environment is
revealed in man's soul. Man must study himself, if he is to know
what environment requires of him. And if the knowledge of himself
and of the laws of his being is the highest knowledge, is not the
vision of, and struggle toward, higher attainments, not yet realized
and hence necessarily foreseen, the only mode of farther progress?
And what is this pursuit of, and devotion to, ideals not yet
realized and but dimly foreseen, if it is not Faith, "the substance
of things hoped for, and evidence of things not seen?" By it alone
can man "obtain a good report." Man must "walk by faith, not by
sight." "For the things which are seen are temporal, but the things
which are not seen are eternal."