THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
My previous lecture was occupied with the comparison of the
nature-poetry of the romantic movement in England with the materialistic
scientific philosophy inherited from the eighteenth century. It noted
the entire disagreement of the two movements of thought. The lecture
also continued the endeavour to outline an objectivist philosophy,
capable of bridging the gap between science and that fundamental
intuition of mankind which finds its expression in poetry and its
practical exemplification in the presuppositions of daily life. As the
nineteenth century passed on, the romantic movement died down. It did
not die away, but it lost its clear unity of tidal stream, and dispersed
itself into many estuaries as it coalesced with other human interests.
The faith of the century was derived from three sources: one source was
the romantic movement, showing itself in religious revival, in art, and
in political aspiration: another source was the gathering advance of
science which opened avenues of thought: the third source was the
advance in technology which completely changed the conditions of human
life.
Each of these springs of faith had its origin in the previous period.
The French Revolution itself was the first child of romanticism in the
form in which it tinged Rousseau. James Watt obtained his patent for his
steam-engine in 1769. The scientific advance was the glory of France and
of French influence, throughout the same century.
Also even during this earlier period, the streams interacted, coalesced,
and antagonised each other. But it was not until the nineteenth century
that the threefold movement came to that full development and peculiar
balance characteristic of the sixty years following the battle of
Waterloo.
What is peculiar and new to the century, differentiating it from all its
predecessors, is its technology. It was not merely the introduction of
some great isolated inventions. It is impossible not to feel that
something more than that was involved. For example, writing was a
greater invention than the steam-engine. But in tracing the continuous
history of the growth of writing we find an immense difference from that
of the steam-engine. We must, of course, put aside minor and sporadic
anticipations of both; and confine attention to the periods of their
effective elaboration. The scale of time is so absolutely disparate. For
the steam-engine, we may give about a hundred years; for writing, the
time period is of the order of a thousand years. Further, when writing
was finally popularised, the world was not then expecting the next step
in technology. The process of change was slow, unconscious, and
unexpected.
In the nineteenth century, the process became quick, conscious, and
expected. The earlier half of the century was the period in which this
new attitude to change was first established and enjoyed. It was a
peculiar period of hope, in the sense in which, sixty or seventy years
later, we can now detect a note of disillusionment, or at least of
anxiety.
The greatest invention of the nineteenth century was the invention of
the method of invention. A new method entered into life. In order to
understand our epoch, we can neglect all the details of change, such as
railways, telegraphs, radios, spinning machines, synthetic dyes. We must
concentrate on the method in itself; that is the real novelty, which has
broken up the foundations of the old civilisation. The prophecy of
Francis Bacon has now been fulfilled; and man, who at times dreamt of
himself as a little lower than the angels, has submitted to become the
servant and the minister of nature. It still remains to be seen whether
the same actor can play both parts.
The whole change has arisen from the new scientific information.
Science, conceived not so much in its principles as in its results, is
an obvious storehouse of ideas for utilisation. But, if we are to
understand what happened during the century, the analogy of a mine is
better than that of a storehouse. Also, it is a great mistake to think
that the bare scientific idea is the required invention, so that it has
only to be picked up and used. An intense period of imaginative design
lies between. One element in the new method is just the discovery of how
to set about bridging the gap between the scientific ideas, and the
ultimate product. It is a process of disciplined attack upon one
difficulty after another.
The possibilities of modern technology were first in practice realised
in England, by the energy of a prosperous middle class. Accordingly, the
industrial revolution started there. But the Germans explicitly realised
the methods by which the deeper veins in the mine of science could be
reached. They abolished haphazard methods of scholarship. In their
technological schools and universities progress did not have to wait for
the occasional genius, or the occasional lucky thought. Their feats of
scholarship during the nineteenth century were the admiration of the
world. This discipline of knowledge applies beyond technology to pure
science, and beyond science to general scholarship. It represents the
change from amateurs to professionals.
There have always been people who devoted their lives to definite
regions of thought. In particular, lawyers and the clergy of the
Christian churches form obvious examples of such specialism. But the
full self-conscious realisation of the power of professionalism in
knowledge in all its departments, and of the way to produce the
professionals, and of the importance of knowledge to the advance of
technology, and of the methods by which abstract knowledge can be
connected with technology, and of the boundless possibilities of
technological advance,—the realisation of all these things was first
completely attained in the nineteenth century; and among the various
countries, chiefly in Germany.
In the past human life was lived in a bullock cart; in the future it
will be lived in an aeroplane; and the change of speed amounts to a
difference in quality.
The transformation of the field of knowledge, which has been thus
effected, has not been wholly a gain. At least, there are dangers
implicit in it, although the increase of efficiency is undeniable. The
discussion of various effects on social life arising from the new
situation is reserved for my last lecture. For the present it is
sufficient to note that this novel situation of disciplined progress is
the setting within which the thought of the century developed.
In the period considered four great novel ideas were introduced into
theoretical science. Of course, it is possible to show good cause for
increasing my list far beyond the number _four_. But I am keeping to
ideas which, if taken in their broadest signification, are vital to
modern attempts at reconstructing the foundations of physical science.
Two of these ideas are antithetical, and I will consider them together.
We are not concerned with details, but with ultimate influences on
thought. One of the ideas is that of a field of physical activity
pervading all space, even where there is an apparent vacuum. This notion
had occurred to many people, under many forms. We remember the medieval
axiom, nature abhors a vacuum. Also, Descartes’ vortices at one time, in
the seventeenth century, seemed as if established among scientific
assumptions. Newton believed that gravitation was caused by something
happening in a medium. But, on the whole, in the eighteenth century
nothing was made of any of these ideas. The passage of light was
explained in Newton’s fashion by the flight of minute corpuscles, which
of course left room for a vacuum. Mathematical physicists were far too
busy deducing the consequences of the theory of gravitation to bother
much about the causes; nor did they know where to look, if they had
troubled themselves over the question. There were speculations, but
their importance was not great. Accordingly, when the nineteenth century
opened, the notion of physical occurrences pervading all space held no
effective place in science. It was revived from two sources. The
undulatory theory of light triumphed, thanks to Thomas Young and
Fresnel. This demands that there shall be something throughout space
which can undulate. Accordingly, the ether was produced, as a sort of
all pervading subtle material. Again the theory of electromagnetism
finally, in Clerk Maxwell’s hands, assumed a shape in which it demanded
that there should be electromagnetic occurrences throughout all space.
Maxwell’s complete theory was not shaped until the eighteen-seventies.
But it had been prepared for by many great men, Ampère, Oersted,
Faraday. In accordance with the current materialistic outlook, these
electromagnetic occurrences also required a material in which to happen.
So again the ether was requisitioned. Then Maxwell, as the immediate
first-fruits of his theory, demonstrated that the waves of light were
merely waves of his electromagnetic occurrences. Accordingly, the theory
of electromagnetism swallowed up the theory of light. It was a great
simplification, and no one doubts its truth. But it had one unfortunate
effect so far as materialism was concerned. For, whereas quite a simple
sort of elastic ether sufficed for light when taken by itself, the
electromagnetic ether has to be endowed with just those properties
necessary for the production of the electromagnetic occurrences. In
fact, it becomes a mere name for the material which is postulated to
underlie these occurrences. If you do not happen to hold the
metaphysical theory which makes you postulate such an ether, you can
discard it. For it has no independent vitality.
Thus in the seventies of the last century, some main physical sciences
were established on a basis which presupposed the idea of _continuity_.
On the other hand, the idea of _atomicity_ had been introduced by John
Dalton, to complete Lavoisier’s work on the foundation of chemistry.
This is the second great notion. Ordinary matter was conceived as
atomic: electromagnetic effects were conceived as arising from a
continuous field.
There was no contradiction. In the first place, the notions are
antithetical; but, apart from special embodiments, are not logically
contradictory. Secondly, they were applied to different regions of
science, one to chemistry, and the other to electromagnetism. And, as
yet, there were but faint signs of coalescence between the two.
The notion of matter as atomic has a long history. Democritus and
Lucretius will at once occur to your minds. In speaking of these ideas
as novel, I merely mean _relatively novel_, having regard to the
settlement of ideas which formed the efficient basis of science
throughout the eighteenth century. In considering the history of
thought, it is necessary to distinguish the real stream, determining a
period, from ineffectual thoughts casually entertained. In the
eighteenth century every well-educated man read Lucretius, and
entertained ideas about atoms. But John Dalton made them efficient in
the stream of science; and in this function of efficiency atomicity was
a new idea.
The influence of atomicity was not limited to chemistry. The living cell
is to biology what the electron and the proton are to physics. Apart
from cells and from aggregates of cells there are no biological
phenomena. The cell theory was introduced into biology contemporaneously
with, and independently of, Dalton’s atomic theory. The two theories are
independent exemplifications of the same idea of ‘atomism.’ The
biological cell theory was a gradual growth, and a mere list of dates
and names illustrates the fact that the biological sciences, as
effective schemes of thought, are barely one hundred years old. Bichât
in 1801 elaborated a tissue theory: Johannes Müller in 1835 described
‘cells’ and demonstrated facts concerning their nature and relations:
Schleiden in 1838 and Schwann in 1839 finally established their
fundamental character. Thus by 1840 both biology and chemistry were
established on an atomic basis. The final triumph of atomism had to wait
for the arrival of electrons at the end of the century. The importance
of the imaginative background is illustrated by the fact that nearly
half a century after Dalton had done his work, another chemist, Louis
Pasteur, carried over these same ideas of atomicity still further into
the region of biology. The cell theory and Pasteur’s work were in some
respects more revolutionary than that of Dalton. For they introduced the
notion of _organism_ into the world of minute beings. There had been a
tendency to treat the atom as an ultimate entity, capable only of
external relations. This attitude of mind was breaking down under the
influence of Mendeleef’s periodic law. But Pasteur showed the decisive
importance of the idea of organism at the stage of infinitesimal
magnitude. The astronomers had shown us how big is the universe. The
chemists and biologists teach us how small it is. There is in modern
scientific practice a famous standard of length. It is rather small: to
obtain it, you must divide a centimetre into one hundred million parts,
and take one of them. Pasteur’s organisms are a good deal bigger than
this length. In connection with atoms, we now know that there are
organisms for which such distances are uncomfortably great.
The remaining pair of new ideas to be ascribed to this epoch are both of
them connected with the notion of transition or change. They are the
doctrine of the conservation of energy, and the doctrine of evolution.
The doctrine of energy has to do with the notion of quantitative
permanence underlying change. The doctrine of evolution has to do with
the emergence of novel organisms as the outcome of change. The theory of
energy lies in the province of physics. The theory of evolution lies
mainly in the province of biology, although it had previously been
touched upon by Kant and Laplace in connection with the formation of
suns and planets.
The convergent effect of the new power for scientific advance, which
resulted from these four ideas, transformed the middle period of the
century into an orgy of scientific triumph. Clear-sighted men, of the
sort who are so clearly wrong, now proclaimed that the secrets of the
physical universe were finally disclosed. If only you ignored everything
which refused to come into line, your powers of explanation were
unlimited. On the other side, muddle-headed men muddled themselves into
the most indefensible positions. Learned dogmatism, conjoined with
ignorance of the crucial facts, suffered a heavy defeat from the
scientific advocates of new ways. Thus to the excitement derived from
technological revolution, there was now added the excitement arising
from the vistas disclosed by scientific theory. Both the material and
the spiritual bases of social life were in process of transformation.
When the century entered upon its last quarter, its three sources of
inspiration, the romantic, the technological, and the scientific had
done their work.
Then, almost suddenly, a pause occurred; and in its last twenty years
the century closed with one of the dullest stages of thought since the
time of the First Crusade. It was an echo of the eighteenth century,
lacking Voltaire and the reckless grace of the French aristocrats. The
period was efficient, dull, and half-hearted. It celebrated the triumph
of the professional man.
But looking backwards upon this time of pause, we can now discern signs
of change. In the first place, the modern conditions of systematic
research prevent absolute stagnation. In every branch of science, there
was effective progress, indeed rapid progress, although it was confined
somewhat strictly within the accepted ideas of each branch. It was an
age of successful scientific orthodoxy, undisturbed by much thought
beyond the conventions.
In the second place, we can now see that the adequacy of scientific
materialism as a scheme of thought for the use of science was
endangered. The conservation of energy provided a new type of
quantitative permanence. It is true that energy could be construed as
something subsidiary to matter. But, anyhow, the notion of _mass_ was
losing its unique preeminence as being the one final permanent quantity.
Later on, we find the relations of mass and energy inverted; so that
mass now becomes the name for a quantity of energy considered in
relation to some of its dynamical effects. This train of thought leads
to the notion of energy being fundamental, thus displacing matter from
that position. But energy is merely the name for the quantitative aspect
of a structure of happenings; in short, it depends on the notion of the
functioning of an organism. The question is, can we define an organism
without recurrence to the concept of matter in simple location? We must,
later on, consider this point in more detail.
The same relegation of matter to the background occurs in connection
with the electromagnetic fields. The modern theory presupposes
happenings in that field which are divorced from immediate dependence
upon matter. It is usual to provide an ether as a substratum. But the
ether does not really enter into the theory. Thus again the notion of
material loses its fundamental position. Also, the atom is transforming
itself into an organism; and finally the evolution theory is nothing
else than the analysis of the conditions for the formation and survival
of various types of organisms. In truth, one most significant fact of
this later period is the advance in biological sciences. These sciences
are essentially sciences concerning organisms. During the epoch in
question, and indeed also at the present moment, the prestige of the
more perfect scientific form belongs to the physical sciences.
Accordingly, biology apes the manners of physics. It is orthodox to
hold, that there is nothing in biology but what is physical mechanism
under somewhat complex circumstances.
One difficulty in this position is the present confusion as to the
foundational concepts of physical science. This same difficulty also
attaches to the opposed doctrine of vitalism. For, in this later theory,
the fact of mechanism is accepted—I mean, mechanism based upon
materialism—and an additional vital control is introduced to explain the
actions of living bodies. It cannot be too clearly understood that the
various physical laws which appear to apply to the behaviour of atoms
are not mutually consistent as at present formulated. The appeal to
mechanism on behalf of biology was in its origin an appeal to the
well-attested self-consistent physical concepts as expressing the basis
of all natural phenomena. But at present there is no such system of
concepts.
Science is taking on a new aspect which is neither purely physical, nor
purely biological. It is becoming the study of organisms. Biology is the
study of the larger organisms; whereas physics is the study of the
smaller organisms. There is another difference between the two divisions
of science. The organisms of biology include as ingredients the smaller
organisms of physics; but there is at present no evidence that the
smaller of the physical organisms can be analysed into component
organisms. It may be so. But anyhow we are faced with the question as to
whether there are not primary organisms which are incapable of further
analysis. It seems very unlikely that there should be any infinite
regress in nature. Accordingly, a theory of science which discards
materialism must answer the question as to the character of these
primary entities. There can be only one answer on this basis. We must
start with the event as the ultimate unit of natural occurrence. An
event has to do with all that there is, and in particular with all other
events. This interfusion of events is effected by the aspects of those
eternal objects, such as colours, sounds, scents, geometrical
characters, which are required for nature and are not emergent from it.
Such an eternal object will be an ingredient of one event under the
guise, or aspect, of qualifying another event. There is a reciprocity of
aspects, and there are patterns of aspects. Each event corresponds to
two such patterns; namely, the pattern of aspects of other events which
it grasps into its own unity, and the pattern of its aspects which other
events severally grasp into their unities. Accordingly, a
non-materialistic philosophy of nature will identify a primary organism
as being the emergence of some particular pattern as grasped in the
unity of a real event. Such a pattern will also include the aspects of
the event in question as grasped in other events, whereby those other
events receive a modification, or partial determination. There is thus
an intrinsic and an extrinsic reality of an event, namely, the event as
in its own prehension, and the event as in the prehension of other
events. The concept of an organism includes, therefore, the concept of
the interaction of organisms. The ordinary scientific ideas of
transmission and continuity are, relatively speaking, details concerning
the empirically observed characters of these patterns throughout space
and time. The position here maintained is that the relationships of an
event are internal, so far as concerns the event itself; that is to say,
that they are constitutive of what the event is in itself.
Also in the previous lecture, we arrived at the notion that an actual
event is an achievement for its own sake, a grasping of diverse
entities into a value by reason of their real togetherness in that
pattern, to the exclusion of other entities. It is not the mere
logical togetherness of merely diverse things. For in that case, to
modify Bacon’s words, “all eternal objects would be alike one to
another.” This reality means that each intrinsic essence, that is to
say, what each eternal object is in itself, becomes relevant to the
one limited value emergent in the guise of the event. But values
differ in importance. Thus though each event is necessary for the
community of events, the weight of its contribution is determined by
something intrinsic in itself. We have now to discuss what that
property is. Empirical observation shows that it is the property which
we may call indifferently _retention_, _endurance_ or _reiteration_.
This property amounts to the recovery, on behalf of value amid the
transitoriness of reality, of the self-identity which is also enjoyed
by the primary eternal objects. The reiteration of a particular shape
(or formation) of value within an event occurs when the event as a
whole repeats some shape which is also exhibited by each one of a
succession of its parts. Thus however you analyse the event according
to the flux of its parts through time, there is the same
thing-for-its-own-sake standing before you. Thus the event, in its own
intrinsic reality, mirrors in itself, as derived from its own parts,
aspects of the same patterned value as it realises in its complete
self. It thus realises itself under the guise of an enduring
individual entity, with a life history contained within itself.
Furthermore, the extrinsic reality of such an event, as mirrored in
other events, takes this same form of an enduring individuality; only
in this case, the individuality is implanted as a reiteration of
aspects of itself in the alien events composing the environment.
The total temporal duration of such an event bearing an enduring
pattern, constitutes its specious present. Within this specious present
the event realises itself as a totality, and also in so doing realises
itself as grouping together a number of aspects of its own temporal
parts. One and the same pattern is realised in the total event, and is
exhibited by each of these various parts through an aspect of each part
grasped into the togetherness of the total event. Also, the earlier
life-history of the same pattern is exhibited by its aspects in this
total event. There is, thus, in this event a memory of the antecedent
life-history of its own dominant pattern, as having formed an element of
value in its own antecedent environment. This concrete prehension, from
within, of the life-history of an enduring fact is analysable into two
abstractions, of which one is the enduring entity which has emerged as a
real matter of fact to be taken account of by other things, and the
other is the individualised embodiment of the underlying energy of
realisation.
The consideration of the general flux of events leads to this analysis
into an underlying eternal energy in whose nature there stands an
envisagement of the realm of all eternal objects. Such an envisagement
is the ground of the individualised thoughts which emerge as
thought-aspects grasped within the life-history of the subtler and more
complex enduring patterns. Also in the nature of the eternal activity
there must stand an envisagement of all values to be obtained by a real
togetherness of eternal objects, as envisaged in ideal situations. Such
ideal situations, apart from any reality, are devoid of intrinsic value,
but are valuable as elements in purpose. The individualised prehension
into individual events of aspects of these ideal situations takes the
form of individualised thoughts, and as such has intrinsic value. Thus
value arises because there is now a real togetherness of the ideal
aspects, as in thought, with the actual aspects, as in process of
occurrence. Accordingly no value is to be ascribed to the underlying
activity as divorced from the matter-of-fact events of the real world.
Finally, to sum up this train of thought, the underlying activity, as
conceived apart from the fact of realisation, has three types of
envisagement. These are: first, the envisagement of eternal objects;
secondly, the envisagement of possibilities of value in respect to the
synthesis of eternal objects; and lastly, the envisagement of the actual
matter of fact which must enter into the total situation which is
achievable by the addition of the future. But in abstraction from
actuality, the eternal activity is divorced from value. For the
actuality is the value. The individual perception arising from enduring
objects will vary in its individual depth and width according to the way
in which the pattern dominates its own route. It may represent the
faintest ripple differentiating the general substrate energy; or, in the
other extreme, it may rise to conscious thought, which includes poising
before self-conscious judgment the abstract possibilities of value
inherent in various situations of ideal togetherness. The intermediate
cases will group round the individual perception as envisaging (without
self-consciousness) that one immediate possibility of attainment which
represents the closest analogy to its own immediate past, having regard
to the actual aspects which are there for prehension. The laws of
physics represent the harmonised adjustment of development which results
from this unique principle of determination. Thus dynamics is dominated
by a principle of least action, whose detailed character has to be
learnt from observation.
The atomic material entities which are considered in physical science
are merely these individual enduring entities, conceived in abstraction
from everything except what concerns their mutual interplay in
determining each other’s historical routes of life-history. Such
entities are partially formed by the inheritance of aspects from their
own past. But they are also partially formed by the aspects of other
events forming their environments. The laws of physics are the laws
declaring how the entities mutually react among themselves. For physics
these laws are arbitrary, because that science has abstracted from what
the entities are in themselves. We have seen that this fact of what the
entities are in themselves is liable to modification by their
environments. Accordingly, the assumption that no modification of these
laws is to be looked for in environments, which have any striking
difference from the environments for which the laws have been observed
to hold, is very unsafe. The physical entities may be modified in very
essential ways, so far as these laws are concerned. It is even possible
that they may be developed into individualities of more fundamental
types, with wider embodiment of envisagement. Such envisagement might
reach to the attainment of the poising of alternative values with
exercise of choice lying outside the physical laws, and expressible only
in terms of purpose. Apart from such remote possibilities, it remains an
immediate deduction that an individual entity, whose own life-history is
a part within the life-history of some larger, deeper, more complete
pattern, is liable to have aspects of that larger pattern dominating its
own being, and to experience modifications of that larger pattern
reflected in itself as modifications of its own being. This is the
theory of organic mechanism.
According to this theory the evolution of laws of nature is concurrent
with the evolution of enduring pattern. For the general state of the
universe, as it now is, partly determines the very essences of the
entities whose modes of functioning these laws express. The general
principle is that in a new environment there is an evolution of the old
entities into new forms.
This rapid outline of a thoroughgoing organic theory of nature enables
us to understand the chief requisites of the doctrine of evolution. The
main work, proceeding during this pause at the end of the nineteenth
century, was the absorption of this doctrine as guiding the methodology
of all branches of science. By a blindness which is almost judicial as
being a penalty affixed to hasty, superficial thinking, many religious
thinkers opposed the new doctrine; although, in truth, a thoroughgoing
evolutionary philosophy is inconsistent with materialism. The aboriginal
stuff, or material, from which a materialistic philosophy starts is
incapable of evolution. This material is in itself the ultimate
substance. Evolution, on the materialistic theory, is reduced to the
rôle of being another word for the description of the changes of the
external relations between portions of matter. There is nothing to
evolve, because one set of external relations is as good as any other
set of external relations. There can merely be change, purposeless and
unprogressive. But the whole point of the modern doctrine is the
evolution of the complex organisms from antecedent states of less
complex organisms. The doctrine thus cries aloud for a conception of
organism as fundamental for nature. It also requires an underlying
activity—a substantial activity—expressing itself in individual
embodiments, and evolving in achievements of organism. The organism is a
unit of emergent value, a real fusion of the characters of eternal
objects, emerging for its own sake.
Thus in the process of analysing the character of nature in itself, we
find that the emergence of organisms depends on a selective activity
which is akin to purpose. The point is that the enduring organisms are
now the outcome of evolution; and that, beyond these organisms, there is
nothing else that endures. On the materialistic theory, there is
material—such as matter or electricity—which endures. On the organic
theory, the only endurances are structures of activity, and the
structures are evolved.
Enduring things are thus the outcome of a temporal process; whereas
eternal things are the elements required for the very being of the
process. We can give a precise definition of endurance in this way: Let
an event A be pervaded by an enduring structural pattern. Then A can be
exhaustively subdivided into a temporal succession of events. Let B be
any part of A, which is obtained by picking out any one of the events
belonging to a series which thus subdivides A. Then the enduring pattern
is a pattern of aspects within the complete pattern prehended into the
unity of A, and it is also a pattern within the complete pattern
prehended into the unity of any temporal slice of A, such as B. For
example, a molecule is a pattern exhibited in an event of one minute,
and of any second of that minute. It is obvious that such an enduring
pattern may be of more, or of less, importance. It may express some
slight fact connecting the underlying activities thus individualised; or
it may express some very close connection. If the pattern which endures
is merely derived from the direct aspects of the external environment,
mirrored in the standpoints of the various parts, then the endurance is
an extrinsic fact of slight importance. But if the enduring pattern is
wholly derived from the direct aspects of the various temporal sections
of the event in question, then the endurance is an important intrinsic
fact. It expresses a certain unity of character uniting the underlying
individualised activities. There is then an enduring object with a
certain unity for itself and for the rest of nature. Let us use the term
physical endurance to express endurance of this type. Then physical
endurance is the process of continuously inheriting a certain identity
of character transmitted throughout a historical route of events. This
character belongs to the whole route, and to every event of the route.
This is the exact property of material. If it has existed for ten
minutes, it has existed during every minute of the ten minutes, and
during every second of every minute. Only if you take _material_ to be
fundamental, this property of endurance is an arbitrary fact at the base
of the order of nature; but if you take _organism_ to be fundamental,
this property is the result of evolution.
It looks at first sight, as if a physical object, with its process of
inheritance from itself, were independent of the environment. But such a
conclusion is not justified. For let B and C be two successive slices in
the life of such an object, such that C succeeds B. Then the enduring
pattern in C is inherited from B, and from other analogous antecedent
parts of its life. It is transmitted through B to C. But what is
transmitted to C is the complete pattern of aspects derived from such
events as B. These complete patterns include the influence of the
environment on B, and on the other antecedent parts of the life of the
object. Thus the complete aspects of the antecedent life are inherited
as the partial pattern which endures throughout all the various periods
of the life. Thus a favourable environment is essential to the
maintenance of a physical object.
Nature, as we know it, comprises enormous permanences. There are the
permanences of ordinary matter. The molecules within the oldest rocks
known to geologists may have existed unchanged for over a thousand
million years, not only unchanged in themselves, but unchanged in their
relative dispositions to each other. In that length of time the number
of pulsations of a molecule vibrating with the frequency of yellow
sodium light would be about 16.3 × 10^{22} = 163,000 × (10^6)³. Until
recently, an atom was apparently indestructible. We know better now. But
the indestructible atom has been succeeded by the apparently
indestructible electron and the indestructible proton.
Another fact to be explained is the great similarity of these
practically indestructible objects. All electrons are very similar to
each other. We need not outrun the evidence, and say that they are
identical; but our powers of observation cannot detect any differences.
Analogously, all hydrogen nuclei are alike. Also we note the great
numbers of these analogous objects. There are throngs of them. It seems
as though a certain similarity were a favourable condition for
endurance. Common sense also suggests this conclusion. If organisms are
to survive, they must work together.
Accordingly, the key to the mechanism of evolution is the necessity for
the evolution of a favourable environment, conjointly with the evolution
of any specific type of enduring organisms of great permanence. Any
physical object which by its influence deteriorates its environment,
commits suicide.
One of the simplest ways of evolving a favourable environment
concurrently with the development of the individual organism, is that
the influence of each organism on the environment should be favourable
to the _endurance_ of other organisms of the same type. Further, if the
organism also favours the _development_ of other organisms of the same
type, you have then obtained a mechanism of evolution adapted to produce
the observed state of large multitudes of analogous entities, with high
powers of endurance. For the environment automatically develops with the
species, and the species with the environment.
The first question to ask is, whether there is any direct evidence for
such a mechanism for the evolution of enduring organisms. In surveying
nature, we must remember that there are not only basic organisms whose
ingredients are merely aspects of eternal objects. There are also
organisms of organisms. Suppose for the moment and for the sake of
simplicity, we assume, without any evidence, that electrons and hydrogen
nuclei are such basic organisms. Then the atoms, and the molecules, are
organisms of a higher type, which also represent a compact definite
organic unity. But when we come to the larger aggregations of matter,
the organic unity fades into the background. It appears to be but faint
and elementary. It is there; but the pattern is vague and indecisive. It
is a mere aggregation of effects. When we come to living beings, the
definiteness of pattern is recovered, and the organic character again
rises into prominence. Accordingly, the characteristic laws of inorganic
matter are mainly the statistical averages resulting from confused
aggregates. So far are they from throwing light on the ultimate nature
of things, that they blur and obliterate the individual characters of
the individual organisms. If we wish to throw light upon the facts
relating to organisms, we must study either the individual molecules and
electrons, or the individual living beings. In between we find
comparative confusion. Now the difficulty of studying the individual
molecule is that we know so little about its life history. We cannot
keep an individual under continuous observation. In general, we deal
with them in large aggregates. So far as individuals are concerned,
sometimes with difficulty a great experimenter throws, so to speak, a
flash light on one of them, and just observes one type of instantaneous
effect. Accordingly, the history of the functioning of individual
molecules, or electrons, is largely hidden from us.
But in the case of living beings, we can trace the history of
individuals. We now find exactly the mechanism which is here demanded.
In the first place, there is the propagation of the species from members
of the same species. There is also the careful provision of the
favourable environment for the endurance of the family, the race, or the
seed in the fruit.
It is evident, however, that I have explained the evolutionary mechanism
in terms which are far too simple. We find associated species of living
things, providing for each other a favourable environment. Thus just as
the members of the same species mutually favour each other, so do
members of associated species. We find the rudimentary fact of
association in the existence of the two species, electrons and hydrogen
nuclei. The simplicity of the dual association, and the apparent absence
of competition from other antagonistic species accounts for the massive
endurance which we find among them.
There are thus two sides to the machinery involved in the development of
nature. On one side, there is a given environment with organisms
adapting themselves to it. The scientific materialism of the epoch in
question emphasised this aspect. From this point of view, there is a
given amount of material, and only a limited number of organisms can
take advantage of it. The givenness of the environment dominates
everything. Accordingly, the last words of science appeared to be the
Struggle for Existence, and Natural Selection. Darwin’s own writings are
for all time a model of refusal to go beyond the direct evidence, and of
careful retention of every possible hypothesis. But those virtues were
not so conspicuous in his followers, and still less in his
camp-followers. The imagination of European sociologists and publicists
was stained by exclusive attention to this aspect of conflicting
interests. The idea prevailed that there was a peculiar strong-minded
realism in discarding ethical considerations in the determination of the
conduct of commercial and national interests.
The other side of the evolutionary machinery, the neglected side, is
expressed by the word _creativeness_. The organisms can create their own
environment. For this purpose, the single organism is almost helpless.
The adequate forces require societies of coöperating organisms. But with
such coöperation and in proportion to the effort put forward, the
environment has a plasticity which alters the whole ethical aspect of
evolution.
In the immediate past, and at present, a muddled state of mind is
prevalent. The increased plasticity of the environment for mankind,
resulting from the advances in scientific technology, is being construed
in terms of habits of thought which find their justification in the
theory of a fixed environment.
The riddle of the universe is not so simple. There is the aspect of
permanence in which a given type of attainment is endlessly repeated for
its own sake; and there is the aspect of transition to other things,—it
may be of higher worth, and it may be of lower worth. Also there are its
aspects of struggle and of friendly help. But romantic ruthlessness is
no nearer to real politics, than is romantic self-abnegation.