The Meaning of Evolution
by Samuel Christian Schmucker
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Set up and electrotyped. Published June, 1913


















Before my window lies an enchanting landscape. It embraces a stretch of open rolling country, beautiful as the eye could wish to rest upon. The sun with its slanting rays is not giving it heat enough in these winter months to make it blossom in its radiant beauty, but the mind goes easily back through the few brown months to the time when the field not far away was waving with its rich yellow grain so soon to be food for those who planted it. Beyond this field lies an orchard where, in regular and orderly rows, stand the apple trees whose bright blossoms in the spring make the landscape so beautiful and whose fruit in the fall serves so richly for our enjoyment. A little farther on, a pasture is filled with sleek-coated cows, feeding quietly and patiently until the evening when they will return to their stalls to yield their rich milk. Still farther on lies a tract of forest. The varied shades of the beeches, the tulip poplars and the chestnuts make an exquisite contrast and give to the landscape its attractive background framed in by a distant hill. Behind this hill flows a mighty river carrying on its breast the ships by which we share the over-abundance of our own blessings with our brothers on the other side of the sea, from whom in turn we receive of their overplus. Beyond this teeming river lies a level stretch of fertile land and then the mighty ocean. On one side of the scene runs a busy highway. Along this men pass and repass, some on foot, others drawn by their patient and submissive horses. Still others are carried by the new-found power of the sunshine imprisoned beneath the rocks in the oil that has been forming ever since the sun shone down upon the great forests of the far distant past.

In a pathway to one side, some children are playing. One of them has laid upon the ground a rectangle of stones divided into four and her little mind sees before her the house which is teaching her to get ready for the work that shall come to her in later life. Meanwhile her short-haired companion is prancing around astride a stick; he too, little as he suspects it, is getting ready for life.

It needs little reflection to realize that the scene has not always been what it is. The underlying ground has surely been there longest, its age vying only with that of the bounding ocean that beats upon the shore and works the sand into fantastic stretches. The forest has been there long and so has the stream; the road perhaps ranks next in age; then come the orchard trees, and most recent of all the waving grain. People come and go but form no stable part of this landscape. We know how the grain came to be there, and we understand the orderly arrangement of the orchard trees; the road too we can explain. How came the stream there, and how the forest trees? Have they always been there, or did they too have a beginning? Was there a time when there was no ocean? When was this time? How came they there?

When the lisping lips of my young child asked me, "Papa, who made me?" I told him "God," and he knew enough and was content with his knowledge. After a while he grew older and his inquisitive spirit began to puzzle with the question of how God had made him. When his growing mind was ready for the new knowledge I took him to my side and told him the great mystery of life. I told him how he owed to his father and to his mother the beginnings of his life, how God gave him to us. Now a new era opened in his childish mind. As he grows on to greater maturity he cannot help wondering how the first man was made, how the trees, and the world came to be. He is no longer satisfied with the simple statement that God made them. His eager mind wants to know, if may be, how God made them.

So, in the distant past, in the childhood of our race, the question was asked, "Who made us?" and the answer was "God." Men formed their simple conception at that time of how He did it. As the centuries rolled by and the children of men have learned from creation the story of its origin a riper and richer knowledge has given them a broader and finer conception. No less does the reverent student believe that God created the earth, but he no longer thinks of God as working, as man works. He no longer feels that it is impious to attempt to read God's plan in His work; to see how this work has arisen, to see, if may be, what there is ahead.

This is one of the tasks to which science is now giving itself. The answer is uncertain and halting. A few things seem clear; others seem to be nearly certain; of still others we can only say that for the present we must be content with the knowledge we have. But if we take the best we have and work over it thoughtfully and carefully, the better will slowly come, and in time we shall know far more than we now suspect. Meanwhile, it is the attempt of this book to give to people whose training is other than scientific some conception of this great story of creation. Without dogmatic certainty but without indecision it tries to tell what modern science thinks as to the great problems of life. It tries to describe the possible origin of animals and plants, their slow advance, the length of their steady uplift, the forces that brought it about. It tries to tell a little of the men who have helped to develop the great idea of evolution, of the great men who persuaded the scientific world of its truth, and of the later minds that are modifying and enlarging the idea of the master evolutionist. It tries to tell what science perhaps vaguely hopes as to the future. What are we to be? Can we help the great advance?

The Meaning of Evolution



Ever since men have been able to think they must have puzzled out for themselves some way of accounting for their own beginnings. Every savage tribe with whom we have any intimate acquaintance has some story that accounts for the origin of the tribe at least, and often for the beginning of the world. These stories are handed down from generation to generation and are scarcely questioned in the thought of most men. In early Greece there was a succession of men whom the world calls philosophers. These men thought earnestly and deeply on all kinds of questions. Their method was not our method. The plan of making a long series of observations, before coming to any conclusion, was not the habit of their minds. They reasoned out on general principles what seemed to them must have been the origin of the world. It is not strange that among these should come, now and then, some one who in some passage or other should show that there had come to his mind at least a glimmer of the thought that was later to develop into the great idea which the modern world calls evolution.

Among the earliest of these was Anaximander, who lived 600 years before Christ. He thought that the earth was at first a fluid. Gradually this fluid began to dry and grow thicker, and here and there, where it thickened most, dry land appeared. When this dry land had become firm enough to serve as his home, man came up from the water in the form of a fish. Slowly and gradually the fish, struggling about on the land, gained for himself the limbs and members he needed for his new situation and developed into a man. After him other animals came up in much the same fashion, then the plants, until the whole world was clothed with its present inhabitants.

One hundred and fifty years later Empedocles announced a new thought. He said that in the beginnings there were all sorts of strange, incomplete, and misjointed monsters which swarmed upon the earth, having sprung up out of the earth itself. Each was a chaos of the limbs which afterward were to belong to other animals which needed them more. Slowly and gradually an interchanging came about by which appropriate limbs fastened themselves to the proper animals. The last of these misjointed creatures is the one known as the centaur, half-man—half-horse. After a while, when all the members had found their proper places, the animals were complete. In one respect this opinion foreshadowed our later idea. It suggested that the more perfect animals had arisen out of the less perfect and that the change came gradually.

Then came Anaxagoras, who was the first to believe that there was intelligent design back of the creation of animals and of plants. He thought there had originally been a slime in which were the germs of all the later plants, animals, and minerals, mixed in a chaos. Slowly order arose. Out of the mixture settled first the minerals forming the earth, with the air floating above it, and above the air was the ether. Out of the air the germs of plants settled upon the earth, and vegetation covered the mineral floor. Then from the ether came the germs of animals and of men. These settled among the plants and sprang up into the animals of the world, as well as the people.

The greatest scientific thinker of early Greece was Aristotle. He had lived by the seashore and knew better than any other man of his times the exquisite seaweeds and the still more beautiful marine animals. He was the first to think of them as a linked series, the higher developing out of the lower under the pressure of what he called a perfecting principle. Out of the inanimate rocks had sprung the marine plants—the seaweeds. From these had developed first "plant animals" like the sea anemones and the sponges. These grew attached to the rocks, as plants do. With higher development came locomotion, with ever-increasing energy. At last man arose, the crown of all creation. Presiding over all this advance is the "efficient cause," God. Aristotle rejected entirely the earlier ideas that any of this work came about by chance. He was certain of the existence of plan and purpose in the development.

Just a little before the time of Christ the Latin poet, Lucretius, wrote a poem on "The Nature of Things." Here he describes how in the early years the beginnings of things in small, disjointed fashion moved about among each other at first in utter confusion, each trying itself with the other. After many trials the proper members came together. When they had been thus placed the warmth of the sun shining down upon the earth helped the earth to reproduce the same sort of creatures. So living things came up and flourished. The poem expresses many beautiful ideas, but the underlying conceptions lack the unity and grandeur that marked Aristotle's work, which later was the potent influence in shaping men's minds. It died out after a while, only to awake in the Renaissance with marvelous vitality, starting the world to think afresh great thoughts that would not die, but would grow from that time on with ever-widening scope.

Among the Jews and early Christians the stately and beautiful account in Genesis sufficed for all the needs of minds fully occupied with other questions. With the growth of philosophy among Christian minds again came the need of a satisfactory solution. St. Augustine was probably the greatest of the so-called "Fathers" of the church. His mind was eminently philosophical, and he was learned in the writings of the older Greeks. He believed the language of Genesis to mean that in the beginning God planted in chaos the seed that afterward sprang up into the heavens and the earth. He further says that the six days of creation were not days of time, but a series of causes, and that, in the order described as these six days, God planted in chaos the various beginnings of things. These in the fullness of time sprang up into the world as we know it now. The problem was not a question about which the church cared to trouble itself, and with the oncoming of the Dark Ages the whole matter dropped nearly out of the thoughts of men.

When the times began to lighten we find the schoolmen, among the greatest of whom was Thomas Aquinas. Referring especially to the authority of his master, St. Augustine, he says that it would be easy mistakenly to believe that the author of Genesis meant to convey the idea that on each of the six days certain acts of creation were performed. It is quite evident, thinks Aquinas, that in those early times God only created the germs of things and put into the earth powers which should later become active. After the Creator had thus endowed the earth he rested from the work, which proceeded to develop under the influence of these first germs.

Nearly four hundred years later, when Europe had finally awakened out of the deep and refreshing sleep in which it had fortunately forgotten much of the past, a new era dawned and modern thought began. Immediately men commenced to busy their minds with broader problems than they had been discussing since the time of the Greek philosophers. The hand of tradition, however, was heavy on them still. They dreaded to run counter to authority, and did not dare think unrestrainedly. Descartes shows us how we can understand things better if we will imagine a few principles by which it will be easy to account for things as they are. Then he carefully elaborates these principles as they occur to him; but he has no sooner done so than he takes care to add, "Of course, we know the earth was not made in this way."

A little later the philosopher, Leibnitz, believed in an orderly creation that had advanced by regular degrees, and that the lower animals had thus developed into the higher. He adds interestingly that there are probably on some other planets animals midway between the ape and man, but that nature has kindly removed such animals from the earth in order that man's superiority to the apes should be entirely beyond question.

By the middle of the eighteenth century men had begun to think more fearlessly. The great Emanuel Kant wrote in his younger and less timid years, "The General History of Nature and Theory of the Heavens." The great Newton had by his law of gravitation brought order into the heavens. Kant looked longingly for a greater Newton, who should find a similar unity in the animal world. He saw the wonderful likenesses between animals that the anatomist, Buffon, had recently pointed out. He believed there must somehow be blood relationship between all animals. He tried hard to conceive of some underlying natural cause by which all could have come about. As he grew older and his mind became more cautious he came to think the matter deeper than the human mind could ever fathom. He gave up the hope and believed the problem of animal origin and derivation would forever remain insoluble. He feared there was not in man the power to conceive his own origin.

If we ever wonder why it took so long before the thought of evolution should have fully dawned upon the world, the answer is not far to seek. No student of Natural History in ancient or medieval times had the faintest conception of the enormous number of animals and of plants in the world. The old Greek or Roman student of Natural History gives no evidence of knowing more than a few hundred animals. Men have named to-day, with systematic Latin names, hundreds of animals for every one that Pliny ever knew, and he knew more than any other man of early times of whom record has come to us.

In early days men who traveled into foreign countries brought back accounts of what they saw. The whole Natural History of ancient times was filled with the most absurd and ludicrous stories of all sorts of things to be seen in distant lands. Sir John Mandeville tells tales almost as imaginative and quite as amusing as those attributed to Baron Munchausen.

Upon the great awakening of the fifteenth century, with its new study and its wide-ranging travel, an entire change came over the human mind. Men who journeyed into far countries brought back with them not only accounts of what they saw, but, so far as might be, the things themselves. Collections of plants and of such parts of animals as could be readily preserved soon began to accumulate in every great center of Europe. It was only a question of time when such acquisitions must be arranged and classified, but as yet there was no system by which this could be done. The great Swedish botanist, Linnaeus, who lived in the eighteenth century, first taught us to give to each animal and plant two Latin names, the first of these to be the name of the group, known as a genus, to which it belongs, the second to be the name of that sort, or species, of animal. The cat, for instance, is Felis catus, the lion Felis leo, the tiger Felis tigris, and so on. Linnaeus then arranged the genera (plural of genus) into families, and these families into orders and so classified the animal and plant world as far as he knew it. In his earlier years Linnaeus thought of each species as being utterly apart and distant from any other. He believed it had been so from the first, each species having sprung in its complete form from the creative hand of God. In later life he came to show some evidence of the belief in development, but his great work is all built on the idea of the entire fixity of species.

About this time we find in the writings of Buffon, the French naturalist, many indications of an idea approaching our modern conceptions of evolution. He felt sure the pig could not have been a special creation, because he had four toes, two of which, with all their bones and their hoofs, are quite useless to him. We now call these toes "vestigial," and know the pig's ancestors used them, walking on four toes and not on two, as at present. Buffon believed there were degenerations as well as developments, and considered the ape a degenerate man. He conceived these changes to be brought about by what he called the favors and disfavors of nature. He varied much in his opinions in various parts of his career and occasionally is smitten either with conscience or with fear of authority. Then he goes back and says it is all a mistake and each animal is the product of a special act on the part of the Creator.

A little later, in England, Erasmus Darwin, the grandfather of Charles Darwin, who was subsequently to establish the evolution theory, wrote a long and elaborate poem called the "Temple of Nature." In this we find a remarkable prevision of many of the principles which were afterward to be warmly advocated and disputed during the growth of the idea of evolution.

"Hence without parents by spontaneous growth, Rise the first specks of animated life.

* * * * * * *

Thus as successive generations bloom New powers acquire and larger limbs assume."

Erasmus Darwin recognized the struggle for existence, but he saw in it only a check against overcrowding, and not an active factor in the development as his grandson Charles came to see it. It is possible the elder Darwin's views might have been taken more seriously had he not clothed them with the form of verse. In these days it seems quite ludicrous to think of giving to the world a new scientific concept or a new phase of philosophy in verse.

The beginning of the nineteenth century gives us the first really great contribution to the idea of evolution. Under more favorable surroundings, this idea would have budded and become the parent stock of our modern theories. The chill frosts of adverse criticism by those in authority in science nipped the budding idea and so set it back that only of late years have men come to realize its strength and power. The Chevalier de Lamarck, serving in Monaco, was attracted by its rich flora to the study of botany. Coming later to Paris, he became acquainted with Buffon and was led by him to publish a Flora of France, using the Linnaean system of classification. He was appointed to the chair of zooelogy in the Jardin des Plantes, and was given especial charge of the invertebrate animals, comprising all the members of the animal kingdom except those with backbones. After seventeen years of work over these forms, during which he wrote several books describing them, he finally published the great work on which his fame depends. This was the "Philosophie Zooelogique." In this treatise he taught that the animal kingdom is a unit and that all its members are blood relations; that the members vary with varying conditions; that this variation results in continued advance. In all of these points Lamarck is at one with modern thought. His idea of the method by which the variation comes about has been accepted and rejected; modified, reaccepted, and again rejected.

Lamarck's conception of the cause of progress was somewhat as follows: The desire for any action on the part of an animal leads to efforts to accomplish that desire. From these efforts came gradually the organ and its accompanying powers. With every exercise of these powers the organ and its corresponding function became better developed. Every gain either in function or in organ was transmitted to those of the next generation, who were thus enabled to start where their parents left off. The general environment constantly gave the stimuli that led to the adaptive changes.

American zooelogists have been especially inclined toward Lamarck's ideas. Until Weissmann startled the scientific world with his sharp denial of the possibility of transmitting to offspring any growth acquired by the parents, all seemed well. There is a tendency now to insist once more that slowly and gradually, in some perhaps as yet unexplained way, external factors do influence even egg cells, and gradually acquired characters do reappear in the offspring.

The blighting setback these views suffered came from the criticisms of Baron Cuvier. This genuinely remarkable man had built up the study of comparative anatomy. To him students flocked from all sides. Among these one of the most brilliant was Agassiz, the Swiss naturalist, who later came to this country, filled with Cuvier's ideas. This great teacher believed that species are fixed. He knew better than any man of his times the wonderful similarity in structure between animals of a given class. He attributed this not to any real blood relationship between the animals. They were alike because they had been made by the same Creator. This great Artificer worked along four main lines, and hence animals could be divided into four groups. Many who have studied text books on zooelogy written in this country by Agassiz and his followers will remember the four classes—Radiates, Articulates, Mollusks, and Vertebrates. Agassiz was such a wonderful teacher and so genial and so lovable a man that his opposition to evolution held back the advance of the Darwinian idea in America as Cuvier's influence had held back the Lamarckian idea in Europe. For the brilliant Cuvier simply laughed before his students at each "new folly" of Buffon and of Lamarck. Under this ridicule the influence of both men withered and died.

A little later the great poet, Goethe, turned his attention to the problem of evolution, giving an interesting account of the metamorphoses of plants. He declared, also, that the human skull is a continuation of the backbones of the neck, and that these bones have been transformed into the present skull. But his great genius as a poet drew his attention into other fields. Haeckel points out that if Goethe had known Lamarck's work his genius would have gained for the "Philosophie Zooelogique" the interest and respect of the reading world. But Cuvier laughed it out of court, and only in comparatively modern times, since Darwin's work has set the world thinking anew, is Lamarck's career recognized at its true value. Lamarck should have been the founder of the evolution theory. But the time was not quite ripe, and it remained for Charles Darwin to announce his idea, sustained and fortified by years of careful observation and thoughtful reflection.



We have seen in the last chapter that whenever men have actively thought they have attempted to explain the origin of plants and animals as well as of themselves. No one who wrote previous to the time of Charles Darwin had expressed any idea concerning this matter with force enough to convince any large portion of the thinking world. If Lamarck had fallen on better times, if the great Cuvier had not laughed him to scorn, if Goethe had found him out and made him known to the world, evolution might have come into its own sooner. None of these conditions arose, and it remained for Charles Darwin to give to the world in clear and cogent form the thought of evolution. He gathered so much material before he expressed his opinions, and looked at the matter from so many sides that, when he published his results, he had foreseen most of the objections which were subsequently to arise in opposition to his announcement. Charles Darwin is recognized to-day as the father of the evolutionary movement.

It has been sometimes said in recent years that Darwinism is dead, and there is a sense in which this is true. Unmodified and unassisted natural selection is not to-day considered by most scientists a sufficient agent for producing evolution. But everyone connected with the subject acknowledges Darwin as the master, and says that it was his work which converted the world to a belief in evolution. We can have no better preparation for an intelligent understanding of this subject than to consider carefully the life of this remarkable man and the circumstances under which he came to his epoch-making conclusions.

Evolution has taught us to attempt as far as may be to account for man on the basis of his heredity or of his environment. It is interesting to note that both of these factors in Darwin's case were entirely favorable. In the latter part of the eighteenth century Erasmus Darwin had given to the world an astonishing poem in which he anticipated not a little of the thought which his more famous grandson was to make so widely known. Josiah Wedgwood had learned to make for England her most famous pottery, no quality of which was more widely recognized than the sterling patience with which it was made. Erasmus Darwin, with his scientific proclivities, and Josiah Wedgwood, with his sturdy common sense and patient workmanship, united to give Charles Darwin his inherited tastes, for he was a grandson of both. Born in 1809, on the banks of the Severn in England, Charles Darwin was the delicate son of a practicing physician of modest but sufficient means. Owing to his lack of early vigor, Darwin spent much time in the open air, and in his excursions about his home was chiefly interested in collecting beetles. This taste, which lasted through all his young manhood, is the one early indication of the traits that were later to develop. At first in the day-school and later in the preparatory school Charles Darwin was anything but a satisfactory student. Even a kindly desire later to make the most of him makes it impossible to find traces of any especial fondness for earnest study. He himself believed his education to have been nearly useless, although he doubtless under-estimated its value. At the age of sixteen he went to Edinburgh at his father's desire, to study medicine. The sight of the dissecting-room nauseated him completely, and he refused to continue working in it. Later an operation which he witnessed in a clinic at the hospital sickened him so thoroughly that he declined to attend further operations. It became evident that the young man was not adapted to the life of a physician. The next move was to educate him for the church, and for this purpose, at the age of nineteen, he went to Cambridge. Here it soon appeared that he was no better adapted to the ministry than he was to the practice of medicine, and his university career went on in very desultory fashion. Most of his work was distinctly neglected, but two of the men he met there were to influence largely his future life. Henslow, the botanist, was unusually fond, for a professor in those days, of work in the field. Charles Darwin's tastes coincided with those of Henslow, with whom he formed an intimate friendship. He was always welcomed as a companion on the field trips. Though he studied little of botany in the classroom or laboratory, he was constantly with Henslow or with Sedgwick in the field. Sedgwick was the professor of geology, and of him Darwin was particularly fond, and under him did much the largest amount of his study. When he came up for graduation he ranked tenth of those who "did not go in for honors," a not very remarkable class standing. He was still required to put in two years of residence, and during this interval he spent most of his time with Sedgwick in the study of geology in the field. Returning to his home after a geological trip into Wales, Darwin found awaiting him a letter from Henslow, offering him an appointment that opened to his ardent mind the door to a career after his own heart.

The British nation, being the greatest commercial nation of the globe, has the greatest need for accurate charts of all the seas. Frequently she has sent out great charting expeditions to various parts of the world. One of these was to go out in Her Majesty's ship, Beagle, for a voyage around the world. Captain Fitzroy was in command, and he was especially commissioned to map the coast of South America from La Plata to Cape Horn and up the western side. In addition to this work, by carrying a set of accurate chronometers, he was to check up the longitude of the various ports to be visited in this circumnavigation of the globe. It was customary on such expeditions to carry a young man whose duty it was to study the natural history of the countries visited on the trip. The salary of such a naturalist was so small that an experienced man could scarcely afford to take the place. Therefore the appointment usually went to a man rather of promise than of achievement. Through Henslow's influence, Charles Darwin was offered this position in 1831. Darwin hastened to obtain his father's permission, but the elder Darwin at first declined to consider the matter. He felt that his son had not made such use of his time at the university as warranted the hope that much could be expected of such a journey. He believed it necessary that Charles should have some means of earning an adequate living before he could think of devoting his time to science. Charles found an efficient advocate in the person of his uncle, Josiah Wedgwood, Jr. Together they persuaded the father of the propriety of giving to Charles this opportunity to follow out his real tastes and ambitions. Accordingly, at the age of twenty-two, we find him embarked on a journey around the world. In the cabin of the Beagle he had abundant time, in his long sail across the Atlantic, to read the two volumes of Lyell's "Elements of Geology," which Henslow had handed him, with the suggestion that he read it, but on no account believe it. Filled with the love of geology as Darwin was, this epoch-making book was exactly the stimulus needed. Lyell had just begun to persuade the world that to understand the past we must study the present. In the forces now at work he saw cause enough to account for all the history of the past of the earth.

There is little doubt that this book was one of the most potent factors in determining the bent of Darwin's mind. His entire educational experience had failed to appeal to him. It is fortunate, we now know, that this was the case. If the university course of the time had really seized him it would have made but one more student like hundreds it was turning out each year. For most of us this is the happy event. Now and then comes the rare spirit to whom all of this fails to appeal because he is ready for something better. Such was the spirit of Charles Darwin. He started on his journey with a mind singularly free from prepossessions. In the long hours of this sailing voyage across the Atlantic Ocean Darwin had time to read and ponder Lyell's weighty words. By the time he reached the Brazilian shore he was filled with Lyell's conception that the present is the child of the past, developing out of it in orderly sequence. Lyell expressly denied that this is true of the animal and plant world. He applied it only to the face of the earth, with its mountains of uplift and its valleys of erosion. But the underlying principle of an orderly development under the action of natural causes was there. In Darwin's mind this at once found acceptance, and was destined to a fruition its author had expressly disclaimed.

The narrative of this voyage, as subsequently written, describes the islands visited by the Beagle in crossing the Atlantic Ocean. The contrast between the simple and general interest in these islands and the care with which Darwin described the Galapagos and the Keeling Atoll visited later in the voyage are speaking evidence of the rapid development going on in the mind of the young naturalist.

Reaching the shore of South America, Darwin first turns to its geology. But before long the animal life attracts his attention. In the Brazilian forest Darwin had his first experience of the wealth of animal and plant life in the tropics, and, like all naturalists, he was very enthusiastic over it. Among the animals that particularly attracted his attention was the sloth, a peculiar creature climbing slowly about the trees, small of size and sluggish of habit. Another animal that interested him greatly was the little armadillo with its interesting habit of curling up in its plated skin.

Captain Fitzroy soon finished what work he was required to do in this neighborhood, and Darwin was called back to the Beagle to continue his voyage. When they arrived at the mouth of La Plata their most serious work began. Here there was much tedious charting for Fitzroy, and Darwin could now leave the vessel for a lengthy trip on shore. This was doubly welcome. Seasickness was nearly constant with Darwin while on this entire voyage and every opportunity to work on land was eagerly seized. This region, too, was rich in objects of interest and in strange people. While exploring the pampas, beyond Buenos Ayres, Darwin came across the skeletons of the great mammals some of which Cuvier had previously described. He studied these bones with much care, and recognized at once in the megatherium a great similarity in structure to the sloth he had seen in Brazil. The enormous skeletons of the glyptodons struck him also as strangely similar to that of the armadillo. One evening, seated alone in the broad expanse of the pampas, the idea suddenly swept over him, stimulated, of course, by his study of Lyell: "Can it be that the little armadillo and the sloth of to-day are the degenerate descendants of the enormous megatherium and glyptodon of the past?" But his mind was not yet ready to accept so bold an idea and he swept it aside.

The people of this wild neighborhood interested Darwin very greatly, and he describes them with care. In this connection a charming trait of Darwin's character comes beautifully in evidence. The absolute purity of his mind, his utter freedom from grossness, shows clearly in his account of the first really semi-civilized people he had ever seen.

A little later, while exploring Patagonia, Darwin noticed the terrace-like formation of that desolate country. A flat near the sea was succeeded by a rapid rise, then came another flat. Three of these terraces in succession stretch back toward the Andes. At the base of the high terraces Darwin found marine shells, largely similar to those of the ocean beach so many miles to the east. His study of Lyell led him to suspect at once that this portion of South America had been raised in successive stages out of the bed of the Pacific. When they passed around Cape Horn and up the western coast he hunted for similar beach marks on the sheer western face of the Andes, and found them without difficulty, confirming his idea of the recent rise of this end of the Andean chain.

The Beagle continued its voyage up the western coast of South America until it reached Peru. Once more the abundance of tropical life is under Darwin's eyes, but now it is the life of an entirely different section. The dry climate of Peru furnished him with an environment distinctly unlike that of the moist Brazilian forest. He collects now with avidity, gathering especially insects and birds. Then the ship turned its prow westward across the Pacific, only to stop five hundred miles out at the Galapagos Islands. This little group he studied intensely, collecting large numbers of insects and birds. He had not worked over his collection long before he realized that each island in the group had peculiarities which marked its animals from those of any other island. Whenever two islands were close together in the group the differences in their fauna were found to be comparatively slight. If, however, he examined the animals from two islands lying at opposite ends of the group, the differences were always considerably greater. There was, however, a strong general resemblance among them all and a distant though not so strong resemblance to the corresponding animals of the Peruvian coast. On leaving the Galapagos group, Charles Darwin writes in his diary the suggestive observation that this little group of rocky islands seems to be one of the greatest centers of creative activity. It was this interesting resemblance of the animals of these islands to each other and to those of the Peruvian coast that finally persuaded Darwin that they were all related and were all descended from those of Peru. For the rest of his life, with an intensity which increased with each year, Darwin persisted in a patient search for the possible agencies by which such change could have been brought about. The problem, however, was temporarily eclipsed by a pressing geological question aroused by his visit to the Keeling Atoll. Here his investigation of coral reef formation absolutely captivated him. In the case of most coral islands in the Pacific Ocean the reef exists as a circle of coral enclosing a lagoon of water. In the center of this lagoon stands commonly a rocky island. It is plain that this is the foundation on which the coral built. But, in the case of the Atoll, the coral ring was present and so was the internal lagoon, but there was no rocky island. The key to the solution came with an interesting discovery. Darwin began to put down a grappling iron on the outer side of the reef and to drag up coral. The farther away from the reef he went the deeper was the water from whose bottom he pulled the coral. What at first puzzled him was the fact that so long as he dragged up his coral from depths of a hundred feet or less the coral was alive. Whenever he went to depths of much more than a hundred feet, his coral was always dead, though he was evidently pulling it from situations in which it had grown. Then Darwin remembered the rising Andes, lifting themselves out of the bed of the Pacific. Here was the correlated movement. The bottom of the ocean here was sinking. As it sank it dragged down the corals with it. But the descent was so slow that new corals could build on top of the others fast enough to keep the reef up to the surface of the water. At the rate of growth of coral, this would seem to mean that the bottom could be sinking at a rate of only a few feet a century. But while the reef could keep up to the surface, the rocky island must slowly sink. Darwin inferred that there must be a rocky summit within the lagoon, below the surface of the water. A little sounding soon discovered this island, and the verification of Darwin's theory of coral reef formation was at hand. The description of this Atoll and of his theory of its formation won for Darwin the esteem of geologists when he later presented it in book form.

The voyage was continued around the Cape of Good Hope. Pursuing the usual course of sailing vessels, the Beagle touched once more at Brazil, returning home to England in 1836, after an absence of five years. Charles Darwin himself believed this trip to have been both his education and his opportunity. He had started on it a rather careless and indifferent student. He returned from it the most painstaking and patient naturalist the world has ever known. His father, who had hardly consented to his going because he believed him not stable enough to be intrusted to his own devices for so long a period, was profoundly moved at the sight of him on his return. Believing in phrenology, as did many of the physicians of his time, his father turned to his mother and said, "Look at the shape of his head; it is quite altered"; which, translated into the language of to-day, would read, "How wonderfully the young man has developed."

A part of Charles Darwin's duty to the British Government was to write a narrative of the voyage, and this account of his trip upon the Beagle is one of the great classics of travel in the English language. It won the confidence and respect of a wide circle of readers. In his next book he published his observations made at the Keeling Atoll and announced his theory of the formation of coral islands. This was a distinctly scientific investigation, and it won such immediate favor among geologists as to increase materially the young man's reputation. No one man is ever widely enough acquainted with the animal world to classify all the specimens gathered on such an expedition. In accordance with custom, Darwin began distributing his collections among specialists. Each of these was to identify and describe, to name, if necessary, the kind of material he knew best. Among others, Darwin had a considerable collection of barnacles gathered from boats and wharves in all parts of the world. As he could find no one sufficiently acquainted with these creatures to classify them he decided reluctantly to work them up himself. For about eight years much of his spare time was given to this painfully exacting work. He expresses himself as fearing it was a waste of time. Few systematic workers will agree with him. He did his work so well that it has been unnecessary for anyone to do it again. In addition it gained him the esteem of a new circle of scientists and that a decidedly exclusive circle.

The publication of these books did much for Darwin. His narrative of the voyage gained the good will of cultured England in general. The book on coral reefs won the geologists. His "Manual of the Cirrhipedia" (as the barnacle book was called) secured the attention of systematic zooelogists. The time was not far distant when he would need every aid possible toward gaining and keeping the regard of men; for he was to promulgate a theory that would arouse the bitterest opposition and the keenest scorn.

All the while Darwin was working on these books his mind was quietly busying itself with what he called the species question. The more he studied the material collected on his long tour, the more confident he became that the animals of the present are the altered descendants of the animals of the past. He tried patiently to work out every conceivable hypothesis to see whether he could account for the alteration. He felt quite sure animals changed, but how they changed, and why, he could not for a long time conceive. He knew that gardeners were constantly producing new varieties of plants, and that animals of various breeds were clearly the descendants of other and familiar varieties. Accordingly he began to study the methods of animal and plant breeders, to visit their farms, to open correspondence with them and read all their trade journals, to undertake experiments in the breeding of plants. The longer he worked the more confident he became of the reality of the change; but for a long time no glimmer of the cause by which it could be brought about came to his mind. In 1838 he came across a book by Malthus called "An Essay on Population," in which the author shows that, whereas man increases by a geometric ratio, he cannot hope to increase his food supply in more than an arithmetic ratio. That is, while the food might increase like the series 2-4-6-8-10, the population would increase like the series 2-4-8-16-32. On this basis it is only a question of time when the earth will be too full of people for it to be possible for the food to sustain them. Malthus added many observations and suggestions, but this is as much of the book as interests us in this connection. Here was the idea that suggested to Darwin his agency for producing the change of the animals of the past into those of the present.

The number of animals of any particular species remains practically the same. There may be a few more one year, and a few less another, but on the average, year by year, the number of toads, the number of blacksnakes, the number of field mice, remains sensibly the same. Sometimes the rise of man brings an end to the wild population, and so in the past animals have dropped out of the race. Yet in the long run and for a considerable time the number of any species is constant. But each animal produces offspring in quantities sufficient to far more than replace himself as he dies out. In other words, animals increase not by addition but by multiplication. Too many are born for all of them to live. What becomes of the great mass of them? The answer is they die; most of them die young. Only a few fortunate individuals, favored by being a little stronger, a little more cunning, a little more attractively colored than their mates, survive to carry on the race.

The skillful gardener, looking over his flowers, finds a plant of more than ordinary beauty and thrift of growth. When it comes to maturity he keeps its seeds separate from those of the rest and next year plants them by themselves. As they come up he weeds out all unthrifty plants, only allowing the strongest to come to maturity. As they break into bloom he plucks away all whose flowers do not come up to the high standard he has set for himself. After a while he has but a few plants left, but these are the thriftiest and bear the most beautiful flowers. Again he allows these to mature and selects the seed of the very finest. Next year the process is repeated. After a few generations, usually three if the man is skillful enough, he has a definite strain of flowers that will thereafter come true. This is the process of artificial selection as carried on by man.

Darwin saw that Nature is constantly carrying on a similar process. She produces seeds enough on almost any plant to clothe the world in a few years if all of them could fall into proper ground and thrive like their parents. A friend of mine found a mullein stalk that bore more than seven hundred seed pods and averaged more than nine hundred seeds to the pod, a total of more than six hundred and thirty thousand seeds. If each of these could find lodgment on a plot eighteen inches square, produce a similar number of seeds and plant them all, the result would be overwhelming. The fourth generation would cover land and sea, from pole to pole, one hundred layers deep. But there is no such danger. Year by year the mulleins hold their own and no more. Any particular field may have more or less, but in the long run the average for a district is about the same. Some of the seeds are poor and thin. These scarcely sprout. Others spring up into thin-skinned plants, and the first frost nips them. Still others lack the woolly coating in its finest abundance, and the browsing animals eat these. Others lack power to put out a wide-ranging root supply and the first drought kills these. Still others fail to send up a vigorous stem and the passing animal knocks them over and they die. Of the few that are still surviving, some produce such small and inconspicuous blossoms that the insects scarcely see them, and they go unfertilized. In the end only the aristocrats of the group are left, aristocrats in the best sense of the word. These are strong, thrifty, and beautiful, and are provided with every defense known to the mullein world. From these the mulleins of the next generation will spring. Again Nature will select the best of these, by a repetition of the same process. Thus year by year the stock is improved. Any new feature that is favorable helps its possessor to survive, and, if happily mated, will show itself after a while in the entire group. This, in brief, is the underlying idea of Natural Selection, as Darwin conceived it.

In 1842, at Lyell's suggestion, Darwin wrote a short sketch of his ideas which he, two years later, expanded into a somewhat larger account. The manuscript of these early views of the theory was completely lost and has only been recovered within the last few years. It was recently published under the editorship of Charles Darwin's son, Francis. It is astonishing to see how clearly the first short sketch states the underlying conception which all of Darwin's subsequent work amplifies. Hooker was constantly urging Darwin to write out his whole theory in the form of a book, and Darwin had begun to do so in 1856.

Meanwhile, down in the Moluccas, Alfred Russell Wallace had been lying sick of a fever contracted during his exploring expedition in that neighborhood. He had been studying the distribution of the animal life of the Malay Archipelago. Overcome by sickness, as he lay in bed, he began to think over a book which he had read not long before, "Malthus on Population." Wallace had been pondering on the question of the origin of the animals of the Malay Archipelago. He had not the faintest knowledge of what Darwin was doing, but was influenced, of course, like Darwin, by what he read in Malthus. Interesting to relate, he had come to exactly the same conclusions, writing his opinions in the form of an essay. By the strangest sort of coincidence, he sent this essay to Charles Darwin, asking him to read it, and, if he thought it was not altogether too foolish, to send it to Lyell for publication by the Linnaean Society. Darwin read with utter astonishment this essay containing views so absolutely like those that had come to him from his own long series of observations and reflections. With uncommon magnanimity his first impulse was to withhold his own publication entirely, but to this Lyell and Hooker would not for a moment consent. They were determined that Darwin should give them his long series of notebooks as evidence of the independence of his work and that he present to the Linnaean Society, simultaneously with Wallace's paper, one of his own upon the same subject. In this manly form both essays were read at the next meeting of the society. The joint papers provoked instant discussion and prompt opposition. The world at large scarcely admitted a possible doubt of the fixity of species. Men generally believed the idea to be absolutely irreconcilable with their religious faith. Any question of the fact that the species of to-day exist practically as they had been handed down to the earth in the beginning by the Creator himself seemed to most men a direct blow at religion. At this time a very large number of natural scientists were clergymen, hence the opposition had abundant and influential support. The storm grew fiercer and more widespread. The publication in 1859 of Darwin's great book on "The Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection or the Preservation of Favored Races in the Struggle for Life" added fuel to the flame.

In 1860 the British Association met in Oxford, and Bishop Wilberforce, the retiring president, in accordance with the custom of the society, gave a summary of the advance of science, especially during the preceding year. Everyone knew perfectly that the bishop would deal with the species question, and that he would handle it severely. Darwin was prevented by his usual ill health from being present at this meeting, but Huxley was there to see that their side of the question received proper attention. The bishop made a lengthy address, in the major portion of which he brought forward entirely worthy objections to Darwin's theories. Toward its close his feelings overmastered him and he departed from his manuscript and unburdened his mind. The lack of stenographers in those days and the tenseness of the moment, which made everyone forget to take down what was said, make it impossible to tell exactly what happened. It seems that Bishop Wilberforce, appealing to the prejudices of his audience, said, in language that now seems ludicrous but then was terribly bitter: "However, any of us might be willing to consider ourselves descended from an ape upon his father's side, no one would so demean his mother's memory as to imagine that she could possibly have shared in this descent." Huxley, who had waited patiently for the close of the bishop's address, saw immediately the fatal mistake. Turning to his companion beside him, he said, "The Lord has delivered the Philistine into my hands," and, rising, he hurled back at the bishop the indignant reply, "I should far rather owe my origin to an ape than I would owe it to a man who would use great gifts to obscure the truth." The bishop had made the mistake, and the struggle was on. Year by year it raged. One by one the scientists, first of England, and then of Germany, took their stand by Darwin. Huxley in England and Haeckel in Germany were the foremost advocates of the Darwinian idea. Long and fiercely the battle raged; slowly and gradually men began to see that, instead of undermining religion, the idea of evolution uplifted creation and made it not a strange happening in the distant past, but a divine activity through all time. But the battle had by no means subsided when one day came the sad news that Darwin's heart, so long feeble, so serious a hindrance to his work, had beaten its last on April 19, 1882.

His own people wished to bury Darwin quietly at his home in Down, but Darwin now belonged to the nation. A petition signed by many public men was sent to the Dean of Westminster, asking that his body might be granted burial in the Abbey. Probably no greater honor can come to man to-day, and fortunately Dean Bradbury was broad-minded enough to acquiesce. So it came to pass that the church that had so long believed him her enemy, that had first so bitterly fought him, came at length to see that he added a new dignity and worth to her faith, and took him to her bosom. Darwin's body lies buried in the Abbey.

In all the glorious company of immortal dead whose earthly frames are gathered in England's great mausoleum, there is no other one who has done so much to modify the mind of thinking man.



We have seen in the preceding chapters how the idea of evolution worked its way through the minds of men. Man after man got a glimpse of the idea, even among the ancient philosophers. But no one could speak convincingly on the subject before modern times, when a wider acquaintance with the animal world gave a body of facts on which it was safe to base conclusions. Even then the idea eluded men, until there came a worker trained by a long voyage around the world in which he had nothing to do except to study nature. He finally gathered in his mind material sufficient to convince himself not only of the truth of evolution but of the process by which this evolution was brought about. Every scientific principle is simple in its basal idea. In actual life the action of the principle may be so bound up with others as to need a skillful mind for its detection. But under all the complexities and modifications, like a silver thread woven into a cloth, runs the basal idea. Until a master has detected it the presence of it may be unsuspected. But once discovered and expounded, thereafter anyone may follow out its workings. So it is with the Darwinian idea of selection. It waited long for a discoverer, but, once found, we cannot but wonder why men did not see it earlier, it is so simple.

Mr. Darwin's mind, while slow and cautious, had a wonderful perseverance. When he had finished his work he had not only given a clear account of the process of evolution, but he had foreseen almost all the valid objections that were afterward to be brought against his theory. Some of them he had explained quite fully; of others he indicated a possible explanation; of still other questions he confessed that as yet they were not plain. But the whole theory is so simple in its fundamental ideas that it has completely revolutionized the whole aspect of modern biology and, indeed, of modern thinking in many lines.

There are four underlying conceptions, each simple in itself, which must be clearly perceived before one can understand Mr. Darwin's theory of "Natural Selection." The first of these is known under the name of Heredity. It is a matter of common observation that every animal or plant produces offspring after its own kind. Under no conditions would we expect a duck to lay an egg from which could hatch anything but a duck. No Plymouth Rock chicken mated with another of her own kind will ever lay an egg that will produce a Rhode Island Red. We may believe that the dog has descended from some form of wolf, but it is not meant that at any particular time in the past any wolf mated with a wolf ever produced pups that were anything but wolves.

Why this should be so is one of the most profound problems of biology. Nothing but the fact that the process has gone on under our eyes for so long a time could blind us to its marvelous character. To open the egg of a chicken and examine it by the most refined methods known to science is to find in it absolutely nothing that could be by the widest stretch of the imagination considered anything like a chicken. The biologist who has examined such eggs before and knows them in all stages of the process may recognize in an egg which had been incubated for a short time something which his previous experience tells him will become a chicken. But it has not the faintest resemblance to a chicken until later in its development. In early spring one may gather pond snails from any country stream and place them in an aquarium. The change from the cold water on the outside to the warmer water of the aquarium and the temperate climate of the room hastens the process which in the stream would not take place until later. In a short time one may find fastened to the glass side of the aquarium the little mass of transparent jelly which surrounds and protects the delicate eggs of these creatures. Fastened as they are it is easy to direct a magnifying glass so as to observe the change which goes on within these transparent eggs. It is even possible to apply a microscope in such a way as to watch the transformation under the low power of the glass. At first the eggs are as clear as water, having at the center a slightly yellowish spot. This central mass divides and subdivides until the separated sections grow so small and numerous as to lose individuality. Then the mass begins to press out here and dent in there. After a little while a double line of fine, hairlike projections runs around the creature. These hairs wave in such fashion as to make the embryo snail revolve slowly in its egg. A little later and swellings become more pronounced over the surface. One side flattens; the rotary motion stops; eyes appear at the front of the animal; a hump on the back begins to be covered with a shell, and the little creatures, pushing from the jelly, start their life journey on the side of the aquarium. Why did it happen? How did it happen? Here we have seen creation at work. Here surely the hand of the Creator is working in the only sense in which the Creator may be properly said to have a hand. How the history of the substance out of which the egg was produced provides for the future development of that egg no man has yet clearly said. This is not to say that we shall never know, still less is it to say that this can never be known. Ralph Waldo Emerson has said that there is no question propounded by the order of nature which the order of nature will not at some time solve. If he is right, and I believe he is, we shall at some time know how it is that this egg produces this snail. But, as I said before, nothing but the frequency with which the process goes on under our eyes could possibly blind us to the marvel of it.

The regularity with which each animal reproduces its kind is no more surprising than the faithfulness of that reproduction. Some of our birds have wonderful markings on their plumage. It is astonishing to see with what fidelity the feather of a bird may reproduce the corresponding feather of its parent. It will occur to everyone how, in the human family to which he belongs, there is some little peculiarity which, while not appearing in every member of the family, when it does appear is remarkably uniform. It may be only the droop of an eyelid, it may be a tendency to lift one side of the lip more than the other, it may be the peculiar shape of a certain tooth in the set, and yet when it appears it comes with astonishing similarity in all who possess it. So much for the principle of Heredity.

The second great underlying idea is known by the name of Variation. We have just been dwelling on the regularity with which parents produce offspring like themselves. We must now draw attention to the fact that, while it is true animals must absolutely belong to the same genus or species, even to the same variety, none the less no animal is exactly like his parents. Furthermore, in a group of animals produced at the same time from the same parent each one will have at least some small point in which he differs from every other one in the group. Two animals may look alike at first to the undiscerning eye, but a keen analysis of the measurements of the various parts of their bodies will show distinct differences. This is quite as true among lower animals. A toad may lay a double string of four hundred eggs which may be fertilized by the same male at the same time. These eggs may develop into tadpoles in the same pool not over a foot square. Within a few weeks these little toads may have gained their legs, lost their tails, and all may have left the water and taken to the ground upon the same day. Already the careful observer will notice differences among them. Some are larger than others, having grown more rapidly even though their surroundings were exactly the same; others are more skillful in their peculiar method of throwing the tongue at an insect they wish to catch. Still others will be differently colored. They might be arranged to show a considerable gradation between the lightest and the darkest of the group, though there may not be anywhere in the row a considerable gap. It is variation in animals of the same parentage and same surroundings which in the mind of Mr. Darwin made evolution possible. He always favored the idea that it was the continuous accumulation of these small variations that finally produced the profound changes which mark the new species. He admitted the possibility of the occasional appearance of those more distinct leaps in variation on which the present school of mutationists so strongly insists; but he believed them to be less influential, in the general trend of evolution, than the slower but much more frequent variations.

One of the most complicated and perplexing problems in the biology of to-day is the question of the origin of these variations. It is quite as hard to understand as is the method by which animals produce their own kind. No problem is being more earnestly studied. Suppositions we have in considerable number, and two of these at least may reasonably be mentioned. We will consider first the less certain theory. There is nothing in the egg that in the remotest degree resembles its parent. The old idea that every acorn had in it a miniature oak which only needed to unfold itself, or that the hen's egg had within it a miniature chick which only needed the warming process in order to make it evident, could not possibly survive the invention of the microscope. We may not, and we certainly do not, know everything that is in one of these eggs, but we do know most certainly that what is there has no resemblance to what it will be in time. The biologist finds in the nucleus or central core of every growing and reproducing cell certain minute bodies which Weissmann believes do much to determine the growth of the rest of the cell. He believes also that there are many more such "determinants" than are necessary for the reproduction of the cell. Each of these determinants may be fitted to produce slightly different results, but what decides which of them shall have its own way is quite uncertain. It may be that one determinant happens to be more favorably placed than others in the cell and that it has consequently secured more of the nourishment that comes to the cell in the blood of its parent. If this is true it would certainly be favored in the competition. We are becoming quite certain that whatever variations arise really start in the egg. The simplest conception as to the cause of variation would seem to be varied experience. One man trains his brain, another his hand; and in each case the organ so trained develops. But science is strongly of the mind that such influence does not reach the next generation.

A musician may have taught his fingers to be nimble; may have given them speed of motion and precision in their action. No child of his born after he acquired this wonderful facility of execution is any more likely to be a skilled musician than a child born before he had ever practiced enough to be anything more than a crude performer. Science is nearly certain that his children are just as likely to be talented along musical lines if he himself never had become a musician, simply because he had it in him to be a musician. In other words, they may inherit the talent which he developed, but they inherited it not because he developed it, but because it was in him to be developed. This is in accordance with the famous principle that there is no inheritance of acquired characters. We shall touch this question a little more fully in a later chapter, in speaking of the development of the evolution theory since Darwin's time.

If we are right in this matter, and we certainly are nearly right, variation must take place for the most part in the germ. These variations may not show until the animal has grown up, but they must have taken place among the determinants in the germ cell or they would not reappear in subsequent generations.

There is another process by which new variations may arise and which is more easily understood. It is the method of double parentage. The Barred Plymouth Rock chicken had its origin in such a double ancestry. The one parent was a Black Java whose color has disappeared entirely in the cross, but whose single comb with its few large points comes out clearly in the newly produced fowl. The other parent was a Barred Dominique. It is to this parent that the Plymouth Rock owes the interesting cross markings on its feathers. The comb on the head of the Barred Dominique is of the type known as the rose-comb, having many rows of slight projections. This has completely disappeared from the Plymouth Rock fowls. I am told that the skilled chicken fancier can tell, concerning many points in this fowl, to which of the crossed ancestors each quality is due. To a certain extent it is undoubtedly true that here we have the secret of the origin of many of those interesting people whom we are pleased to call geniuses. They may not possess any qualities not clearly discernible in various of their near ancestors, but in them we find what we, for the lack of a better understanding, call chance combination in one individual of the finer qualities of many ancestors, and this individual is so placed in life as to have these qualities developed and strengthened.

Charles Darwin, humanly speaking, may be accounted for as the happy combination of a double heredity and a favorable environment. He inherited the scientific inclinations of his grandfather, Erasmus Darwin, and the patient, sturdy honesty of his other grandfather, Josiah Wedgwood. These developed under the stimulus of the long five-year voyage, face to face with the world of nature. This happy complex produced the master biologist. To believe that he came about purely by chance requires a great stretch of the imagination. "There's a divinity that shapes our ends."

We have endeavored to make clear two of the basal ideas underlying evolution. One of these is responsible for the continued production of animals or plants of the same kind, preventing the world from becoming a wild kaleidoscopic and fantastic dream. Heredity is the conservative force of nature. The other idea underlies the development of new departures which keep the world from being a dull, dead, unending repetition of the same monotonous material. Variation is the progressive tendency in nature.

The third basal idea is that of Multiplication. Animals and plants multiply; they do not simply increase, they increase in a geometrical ratio. Anyone who has worked out one of these geometrical ratios knows how wondrously they mount up. There is an old familiar story of the blacksmith who asked the price at which the stranger would sell the horse he was shoeing. The owner of the horse replied that, if the blacksmith would give him one penny for the first nail he drove into the shoe, two for the second, four for the third, and so on, he might have the horse. No hundred horses in the world taken together have ever brought such a price as the blacksmith would have had to pay for the animal on which he was working. This is no circumstance to the awful story of what would happen to the earth if any animal could multiply unrestricted. The usual number of eggs laid by a mother robin for a single brood is four, and she may produce two broods in one season. This would mean that the original pair had produced eight offspring, four times their own number. If we can imagine these mating the next year and producing their kind in the same proportion; and, if we further suppose that each robin needs a space one hundred feet square from which to gather his food, we realize the astonishing fact that in fifteen years every patch one hundred feet square in Pennsylvania and New York would each have its resident robin, while the following season would find a robin on every similar patch from Maine to the Carolinas. Of course this could never happen, this is simply what would happen if all the robins could grow to maturity and reproduce at the normal ratio. But the robin is a comparatively slow producer.

Our turtles are more prolific. Twenty eggs would probably not be an unusual number. If we could imagine a turtle to live in the sea and to produce at this rate; and, if each turtle should need as much room each way as the robin, and a depth of water equal to its width, before the robins had spread over New York and Pennsylvania the turtles would have filled all the seas of the globe. Frogs are even more remarkable in this respect. Two hundred eggs is not an uncommon number. If each frog required a space twenty-five feet square on which to subsist, the entire earth would be more than covered with them within six years. It is ludicrous to think of such numbers, especially when we realize the hundreds of thousands of kinds of animals there are in the world, each of which is also multiplying, and it becomes evident at once that only an infinitely small proportion of all these creatures can possibly survive. This, then, is multiplication.

Here comes into play the fourth basal idea in Mr. Darwin's explanation. This is the part of Selection. When man produces new varieties of animals he does it by picking out from his flocks or his herds such as conform most nearly to his idea of what is desirable. These he mates, and from their progeny he selects the ones that suit him best. Generation by generation he gets his domesticated animals to conform more nearly to the standard of his desires. Natural selection works in exactly similar fashion. Of all the eggs that are produced by the animals at large in nature an overwhelming proportion never develop at all. They dry up, are eaten by their enemies, find no suitable place or time for development and decay, or are overtaken by some other calamity. Of the animals which emerge from the remainder an overwhelming majority come to an untimely end within the first few days of life. Each has countless enemies which prey upon him, and these have scarcely devoured him before they themselves become the prey of some stronger creature. Until Mr. Darwin gave us his elemental idea it was taken for granted that it was a matter of pure accident which survived and which yielded in the struggle and cares of life. It was Darwin who showed us that in this tremendous struggle against those of his own kind in the search for the same food, against the elements, in securing a mate, any animals possessing a superiority, however slight, must have some little advantage in the battle. Certainly, where so many must utterly fail, only those could possibly succeed who were well fitted to the circumstances in which they must live. We used to think animals were destroyed by the "accidents" of life and no one could foretell accidents. Mr. Darwin made clear that it was not a question of chance. That which might happen to any individual animal might be what we, not knowing the process, called accident, and yet there could be no possible doubt that those who succeeded were better fitted to battle with life than those who failed, and that their success was due primarily to their being thus advantaged. Consequently, if generation by generation the so-called accidents of life are constantly eliminating the unfit in overwhelming proportions, not only must the positively unfit disappear, but even the less fit. The more keen the struggle, the fewer could survive and the fitter they must be to survive at all. This is Selection. These, then, are Darwin's four great factors of evolution: Heredity, Variation, Multiplication, Selection.

From these it results that the animals and plants naturally become better adapted to the situation in which they are placed. When, as is constantly happening through the history of the earth, a change occurs in the physical geography of any region, when a plain is lifted to be a plateau, or a mountain chain is submerged until it becomes a row of small islands, this alteration will produce uncommon hardships among animals, even though they were well fitted to the old conditions. Any animal or any species of animals which meets such a calamity has before it only three possible outcomes of the struggle. First it may be plastic enough and it may vary enough in the right direction to adjust itself to the changed conditions. In this case it and a favored few like it will occupy the altered territory. The second possibility is that it may migrate while the actual change is going on, thus remaining in the sort of situation suited to it and its kind. The third possibility is the one which overtakes a great majority of animals—they die. Even the entire line dies out, and the strata of the rocks are filled with the bones, shells, and teeth of such as have met this fate. They have become extinct.

Thus far in this chapter we have been considering the influences under which it is conceivable that animals should advance. There is no question whatever that there are too many animals born, nor is there any possible question that a very large proportion of them must certainly die. There is equally no doubt that every animal produces after its own kind, and that its offspring, while they resemble it closely, still vary a little from it and from each other. This fact is perfectly plain to the most superficial observer who thinks on the matter at all. It is not so plain, nor is it easily demonstrated, that all of these acting together do surely, even if slowly, alter the form and behavior of the animal world. It is difficult to prove that there is going on under our eyes a steady and real improvement in the adaptation of the animals and plants around us to the situation in which they are placed. As far back as man's memory runs they seem to have been about what they now are; as far even as man's historical record runs they seem to have suffered no great alteration. The Egyptian of the old tombs is much like the Egyptian of the same rank to-day. The African of the tombs has the African features of to-day. Under such circumstances it is hard to prove that there is a steady and undoubted advance. For the most part the balance of the animal world is fairly even, and any species does not ordinarily change rapidly enough or migrate widely enough to show us its new features. It is difficult to see the struggle which we are so sure is going on. The life of animals is so hidden in many of its details that their joys and sorrows, if such we may call them, scarcely fall under our observation. Now and then an opportunity comes to see the process of adaptation work itself out. The struggle for existence begins anew and is carried on with special vigor, with victory, temporary or permanent, to one of the participants in the struggle.

The opportunity to observe such a change is presented in the United States by the introduction of the so-called English sparrow. This little creature, received at first with such joy, soon became the object of an almost bitter hatred on the part of very many people. This is really due to the fact that this bird is one of nature's darlings and thoroughly succeeds where it has an even chance.

The number of birds of any particular species which a region will support seems to be fairly definite. If a species is especially protected until it becomes unusually abundant, the removal of the protection commonly brings it down promptly to its original numbers. On the other hand, an accident of severe character or a special persecution may much diminish the number of the species, and still it will, within a comparatively few years, return to its previous abundance.

The inhabitants of Florida who own orange groves will never forget the winter of '94-5. A bitter cold wave swept along the coast and killed such large numbers of orange trees as almost to cut Florida out of the orange market and to open the gate to California, who was eagerly offering her fruit. This same frost caught the migrating blue birds and killed them by the thousands. When spring came bird-lovers throughout the eastern United States found an astonishing scarcity of these favorites. It was feared that with numbers so small they could not possibly compete with their enemies and with whatever untoward circumstances should be their lot. But there is room in this environment for a definite number of bluebirds. When this number was suddenly reduced the chances to make a bluebird's living were so wondrously multiplied that young bluebirds had such an opportunity in life as their fellows had not had for many long years. Accordingly they thrived as never before, and, of their progeny, a larger proportion lived to the following year. It was only a few years before the number of bluebirds had risen. Now we probably have as many as we have had for a long time past. I cite this simply to show that a region can support a certain number of animals of any one particular kind, and that the animal is likely to multiply, if given a fair chance, until it has reached such proportions. Now to my story of the rapid development of a newcomer.

In the year 1850 a resident of Brooklyn came home from a trip to Europe. He was a lover of birds, and while in Europe had been particularly attracted, no one now knows quite why, to the common House Sparrow, as it should be called. It is no more abundant in England than in many parts of the continent of Europe. A name that has been used for a long time is very hard to cast aside, and we shall probably continue to mistakenly call him the English Sparrow to the end. Our Brooklyn traveler brought home with him from Europe eight of these interesting little birds and succeeded in inducing his colleagues in a scientific society to share his interest in them. Not wishing to commit the newcomers suddenly to the rigors of the American winter, these men built a large cage for the sparrows, meaning to set them free in the spring. For some reason or other when the winter was over the birds were all dead, and this first attempt to introduce the sparrow into America failed entirely. The little bird had won so many friends that his success was now sure. Finding a favorable opportunity, these Brooklyn men dispatched an order to a man in Europe, asking him to supply them with one hundred English sparrows. The consignment came in good shape and the birds were liberated on the edge of Brooklyn. This was the first of a number of introductions. A little later New York City sent for two hundred and twenty of these interesting creatures and turned them loose in her parks, while Rochester, with what was then considered great public spirit, purchased one hundred for herself. But the most progressive city in this respect was Philadelphia. She had long been troubled with the spanworm on her trees. This detestable larva had the unpleasant fashion of lowering itself by a long silken thread from the shade trees then so abundant in that beautiful city. The spanworms traveling around over the clothing of the passersby were so objectionable to everybody that it was with greatest delight that Philadelphia heard of the new birds which ate the pest. One wonders why some ornithologist did not look at the bird long enough to see that it had the sort of a bill characteristic of birds that eat seeds. It is true that most birds feed their young on insects, hence there is a time when any bird is apt to be insectivorous. But the structure of the sparrow's bill, like that of all finches, should have warned these bird-lovers that the sparrow was not to be depended upon to earn his living by catching worms. It is easy, however, to be wise after the event. Philadelphia believed she was engaging in a particularly advanced movement when she imported from England one thousand English sparrows, nearly as many as were liberated by all other cities together. These birds were turned loose among the shady streets and wide spreading parks of the City of Brotherly Love.

It is a serious matter lightly to disturb the balance of nature by the introduction of a new species. It is true that the sparrow did eat some spanworms and for a while enthusiastic bird-lovers hoped that here was the solution of the difficulty. Philadelphians will also remember that, with the spanworm removed from competition, the tussock moth, whose caterpillar carries on his back a series of yellow, red, and black paint brushes, at once become the permanent parasite of the long-suffering shade trees. This caterpillar is covered with bristling hairs, very closely set. Almost any bird objects to hair in his victuals; and this particular larva has hair more than ordinarily objectionable, for it irritates wherever it pricks the sensitive skin. This coating seems to protect the caterpillar from the sparrow, with the result that Philadelphia's trees were soon nearly defoliated by this comparatively new pest, worse than the spanworm. With the paving of the city's highways and the consequent shutting off of the air from the roots, the trees have largely disappeared from the streets of Philadelphia. With them have gone a fair portion of the tussock worms, but the sparrow holds his own. Here is a new bird in the field, and the struggle for existence on the part of every other kind of bird is now more complicated and severe. The sparrow can live where the rest of the birds have no possible chance. He throve so well in this country that by 1875 he had spread over five hundred square miles in the neighborhood of our larger Eastern cities. Thus far almost everybody was pleased with the new introduction. Within the next five years he had spread over more than fifteen thousand square miles, and wise men were beginning to feel doubtful of the virtues of their aforetime friend. When by 1885 more than five hundred thousand square miles had been occupied by the enterprising little fellow, there remained no longer a doubt in the minds of most people that the sparrow was an unmitigated nuisance and great fears were entertained that he had multiplied to such an extent as to be a serious menace. Here, then, is a modern instance under our own eyes of a victory in the struggle. If the sparrow has multiplied rapidly, while all the other birds have either only held their own or even have diminished in numbers, it is quite evident he must be better fitted to the conditions than they are. What are his fit points? Why does he succeed while others fail? The thoughtful bird-lover will have little trouble in understanding at least some of his victory-winning characteristics. How did he come to be almost the only bird who can live in large numbers in our great cities, without losing his ability to get along in less crowded situations?

In the first place this interesting bird is a clannish fellow. He has lost the ordinary sparrow habit and has come to like to live in crowded groups. Seclusion is not at all to his taste, and if there are only a few sparrows in the neighborhood those few will most certainly be found living near each other. One of the early adaptations of the sparrow to his city surroundings was the ability to find for himself a considerable proportion of his food in the undigested seed that could be picked up from the droppings of the horses. This naturally led the surplus sparrows out through the many thoroughfares leading from any large city. Where horses went sparrows could follow. Accordingly along the great lines of travel this bird found the simple path by which he could enter new territory. Meanwhile box-cars came into our large cities with freight. Sometimes they had carried grain, sometimes cattle. In either case it was not unlikely that a certain amount of grain should be found scattered over the floor of such cars. The sparrow visited these cars for the grain, and it must have been no infrequent accident that a door should be shut upon a group of sparrows, especially in inclement weather, when they were apt to be huddled in a dark corner of the car. These prisoners would be carried to the destination of the car and there liberated, thus producing a new center of what we are now inclined to call infestation. By such means the English sparrow has spread over much the larger portion of the American continent. Few birds are bold enough to visit a railroad car. Of the few who might be tempted, most are timid enough to fly on the first approach of man. Hence they fail to gain this chance of spreading. They must remain in the old crowded home. Meanwhile the sparrow, thus transported, finds a new home with fewer or no sparrows. The struggle is less keen. More of his kind can live. His boldness has been here a fit quality and has helped him in the race.

Man is only slowly coming to be a city-dwelling animal. Although it is a voluntary process with him, he still usually visits the country with much enjoyment. He has not as yet learned to adapt himself thoroughly to the city, for somehow city life kills him. Families that move into the city gradually have a smaller number of children in each generation until shortly the family is wiped out. The population of the city must constantly be replenished from the country. But the English sparrow is more adaptable than are the people. He has made himself at home in the heart of the biggest city. The Wall Street canyon is not deep enough, nor contracted enough, nor free enough of food to blot out the life of the English sparrow. At the heart of the deepest gully among the skyscrapers of our biggest cities we find this little bird hopping between the horses' feet, darting out from under the wheel of the push-cart, fluttering only a few yards to a place of safety, to return at once to his scanty meal upon the pavement as soon as opportunity offers. He is a typical city dweller and has learned to thrive there. Again in this matter he has distanced other birds to whom the city is more deadly than it is to people.

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