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I am not now alluding to such phænomena, at once rare and
conspicuous,
as those exhibited by the leaflets of the sensitive plants, or
the
stamens of the barberry, but to much more widely spread, and at the
same
time, more subtle and hidden, manifestations of vegetable
contractility.
You are doubtless aware that the common nettle owes its
stinging
property to the innumerable stiff and needle-like, though
exquisitely
delicate, hairs which cover its surface. Each stinging-needle
tapers
from a broad base to a slender summit, which, though rounded at the
end,
is of such microscopic fineness that it readily penetrates, and
breaks
off in, the skin. The whole hair consists of a very delicate outer
case
of wood, closely applied to the inner surface of which is a layer
of
semi-fluid matter, full of innumerable granules of extreme
minuteness.
This semi-fluid lining is protoplasm, which thus constitutes a
kind of
bag, full of a limpid liquid, and roughly corresponding in form with
the
interior of the hair which it fills. When viewed with a
sufficiently
high magnifying power, the protoplasmic layer of the nettle hair
is seen
to be in a condition of unceasing activity. Local contractions of
the
whole thickness of its substance pass slowly and gradually from point
to
point, and give rise to the appearance of progressive waves, just as
the
bending of successive stalks of corn by a breeze produces the
apparent
billows of a cornfield.
But, in addition to these movements,
and independently of them, the
granules are driven, in relatively rapid
streams, through channels in
the protoplasm which seem to have a considerable
amount of persistence.
Most commonly, the currents in adjacent parts of the
protoplasm take
similar directions; and, thus, there is a general stream up
one side of
the hair and down the other. But this does not prevent the
existence of
partial currents which take different routes; and sometimes
trains of
granules may be seen coursing swiftly in opposite directions within
a
twenty-thousandth of an inch of one another; while,
occasionally,
opposite streams come into direct collision, and, after a
longer or
shorter struggle, one predominates. The cause of these currents
seems to
lie in contractions of the protoplasm which bounds the channels in
which
they flow, but which are so minute that the best microscopes show
only
their effects, and not themselves.
The spectacle afforded by the
wonderful energies prisoned within the
compass of the microscopic hair of a
plant, which we commonly regard as
a merely passive organism, is not easily
forgotten by one who has
watched its display, continued hour after hour,
without pause or sign of
weakening. The possible complexity of many other
organic forms,
seemingly as simple as the protoplasm of the nettle, dawns
upon one; and
the comparison of such a protoplasm to a body with an
internal
circulation, which has been put forward by an eminent
physiologist,
loses much of its startling character. Currents similar to
those of the
hairs of the nettle have been observed in a great multitude of
very
different plants, and weighty authorities have suggested that
they
probably occur, in more or less perfection, in all young
vegetable
cells. If such be the case, the wonderful noonday silence of a
tropical
forest is, after all, due only to the dulness of our hearing; and
could
our ears catch the murmur of these tiny Maelstroms, as they whirl in
the
innumerable myriads of living cells which constitute each tree,
we
should be stunned, as with the roar of a great city.
Among the
lower plants, it is the rule rather than the exception, that
contractility
should be still more openly manifested at some periods of
their existence.
The protoplasm of _Algæ_ and _Fungi_ becomes, under
many circumstances,
partially, or completely, freed from its woody case,
and exhibits movements
of its whole mass, or is propelled by the
contractility of one, or more,
hair-like prolongations of its body,
which are called vibratile cilia. And,
so far as the conditions of the
manifestation of the phænomena of
contractility have yet been studied,
they are the same for the plant as for
the animal. Heat and electric
shocks influence both, and in the same way,
though it may be in
different degrees. It is by no means my intention to
suggest that there
is no difference in faculty between the lowest plant and
the highest, or
between plants and animals. But the difference between the
powers of the
lowest plant, or animal, and those of the highest, is one of
degree, not
of kind, and depends, as Milne-Edwards long ago so well pointed
out,
upon the extent to which the principle of the division of labour
is
carried out in the living economy. In the lowest organism all parts
are
competent to perform all functions, and one and the same portion
of
protoplasm may successfully take on the function of feeding, moving,
or
reproducing apparatus. In the highest, on the contrary, a great
number
of parts combine to perform each function, each part doing its
allotted
share of the work with great accuracy and efficiency, but being
useless
for any other purpose.
On the other hand, notwithstanding all
the fundamental resemblances
which exist between the powers of the protoplasm
in plants and in
animals, they present a striking difference (to which I
shall advert
more at length presently), in the fact that plants can
manufacture fresh
protoplasm out of mineral compounds, whereas animals are
obliged to
procure it ready made, and hence, in the long run, depend upon
plants.
Upon what condition this difference in the powers of the two
great
divisions of the world of life depends, nothing is at present
known.
With such qualification as arises out of the last-mentioned fact,
it may
be truly said that the acts of all living things are fundamentally
one.
Is any such unity predicable of their forms? Let us seek in
easily
verified facts for a reply to this question. If a drop of blood be
drawn
by pricking one's finger, and viewed with proper precautions, and
under
a sufficiently high microscopic power, there will be seen, among
the
innumerable multitude of little, circular, discoidal bodies,
or
corpuscles, which float in it and give it its colour, a
comparatively
small number of colourless corpuscles, of somewhat larger size
and very
irregular shape. If the drop of blood be kept at the temperature of
the
body, these colourless corpuscles will be seen to exhibit a
marvellous
activity, changing their forms with great rapidity, drawing in
and
thrusting out prolongations of their substance, and creeping about as
if
they were independent organisms.
The substance which is thus active
is a mass of protoplasm, and its
activity differs in detail, rather than in
principle, from that of the
protoplasm of the nettle. Under sundry
circumstances the corpuscle dies
and becomes distended into a round mass, in
the midst of which is seen a
smaller spherical body, which existed, but was
more or less hidden, in
the living corpuscle, and is called its _nucleus_.
Corpuscles of
essentially similar structure are to be found in the skin, in
the lining
of the mouth, and scattered through the whole framework of the
body.
Nay, more; in the earliest condition of the human organism, in
that
state in which it has but just become distinguishable from the egg
in
which it arises, it is nothing but an aggregation of such
corpuscles,
and every organ of the body was, once, no more than such an
aggregation.
Thus a nucleated mass of protoplasm turns out to be what may
be termed
the structural unit of the human body. As a matter of fact, the
body, in
its earliest state, is a mere multiple of such units; and in its
perfect
condition, it is a multiple of such units, variously
modified.
But does the formula which expresses the essential structural
character
of the highest animal cover all the rest, as the statement of its
powers
and faculties covered that of all others? Very nearly. Beast and
fowl,
reptile and fish, mollusk, worm, and polype, are all composed
of
structural units of the same character, namely, masses of
protoplasm
with a nucleus. There are sundry very low animals, each of
which,
structurally, is a mere colourless blood-corpuscle, leading
an
independent life. But at the very bottom of the animal scale, even
this
simplicity becomes simplified, and all the phænomena of life
are
manifested by a particle of protoplasm without a nucleus. Nor are
such
organisms insignificant by reason of their want of complexity. It is
a
fair question whether the protoplasm of those simplest forms of
life,
which people an immense extent of the bottom of the sea, would
not
outweigh that of all the higher living beings which inhabit the land
put
together. And in ancient times, no less than at the present day,
such
living beings as these have been the greatest of rock
builders.
What has been said of the animal world is no less true of
plants.
Embedded in the protoplasm at the broad, or attached, end of the
nettle
hair, there lies a spheroidal nucleus. Careful examination
further
proves that the whole substance of the nettle is made up of a
repetition
of such masses of nucleated protoplasm, each contained in a wooden
case,
which is modified in form, sometimes into a woody fibre, sometimes
into
a duct or spiral vessel, sometimes into a pollen grain, or an
ovule.
Traced back to its earliest state, the nettle arises as the man does,
in
a particle of nucleated protoplasm. And in the lowest plants, as in
the
lowest animals, a single mass of such protoplasm may constitute
the
whole plant, or the protoplasm may exist without a nucleus.
Under
these circumstances it may well be asked, how is one mass of
non-nucleated
protoplasm to be distinguished from another? why call one
"plant" and the
other "animal"?
The only reply is that, so far as form is concerned,
plants and animals
are not separable, and that, in many cases, it is a mere
matter of
convention whether we call a given organism an animal or a plant.
There
is a living body called _Æthalium septicum_, which appears upon
decaying
vegetable substances, and, in one of its forms, is common upon
the
surfaces of tan-pits. In this condition it is, to all intents
and
purposes, a fungus, and formerly was always regarded as such; but
the
remarkable investigations of De Bary have shown that, in
another
condition, the _Æthalium_ is an actively locomotive creature, and
takes
in solid matters, upon which, apparently, it feeds, thus exhibiting
the
most characteristic feature of animality. Is this a plant; or is it
an
animal? Is it both; or is it neither? Some decide in favour of the
last
supposition, and establish an intermediate kingdom, a sort of
biological
No Man's Land for all these questionable forms. But, as it is
admittedly
impossible to draw any distinct boundary line between this no
man's land
and the vegetable world, on the one hand, or the animal, on the
other,
it appears to me that this proceeding merely doubles the
difficulty
which, before, was single.
Protoplasm, simple or nucleated,
is the formal basis of all life. It is
the clay of the potter: which, bake it
and paint it as he will, remains
clay, separated by artifice, and not by
nature, from the commonest brick
or sun-dried clod.
Thus it becomes
clear that all living powers are cognate, and that all
living forms are
fundamentally of one character. The researches of the
chemist have revealed a
no less striking uniformity of material
composition in living
matter.
In perfect strictness, it is true that chemical investigation can
tell
us little or nothing, directly, of the composition of living
matter,
inasmuch as such matter must needs die in the act of analysis,--and
upon
this very obvious ground, objections, which I confess seem to me to
be
somewhat frivolous, have been raised to the drawing of any
conclusions
whatever respecting the composition of actually living matter,
from that
of the dead matter of life, which alone is accessible to us.
But
objectors of this class do not seem to reflect that it is also,
in
strictness, true that we know nothing about the composition of any
body
whatever, as it is. The statement that a crystal of calc-spar
consists
of carbonate of lime, is quite true, if we only mean that,
by
appropriate processes, it may be resolved into carbonic acid
and
quicklime. If you pass the same carbonic acid over the very
quicklime
thus obtained, you will obtain carbonate of lime again; but it will
not
be calc-spar, nor anything like it. Can it, therefore, be said
that
chemical analysis teaches nothing about the chemical composition
of
calc-spar? Such a statement would be absurd; but it is hardly more
so
than the talk one occasionally hears about the uselessness of
applying
the results of chemical analysis to the living bodies which have
yielded
them.
One fact, at any rate, is out of reach of such
refinements, and this is,
that all the forms of protoplasm which have yet
been examined contain
the four elements, carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and
nitrogen, in very
complex union, and that they behave similarly towards
several reagents.
To this complex combination, the nature of which has never
been
determined with exactness, the name of Protein has been applied. And
if
we use this term with such caution as may properly arise out of
our
comparative ignorance of the things for which it stands, it may be
truly
said, that all protoplasm is proteinaceous, or, as the white,
or
albumen, of an egg is one of the commonest examples of a nearly
pure
proteine matter, we may say that all living matter is more or
less
albuminoid.
Perhaps it would not yet be safe to say that all
forms of protoplasm are
affected by the direct action of electric shocks; and
yet the number of
cases in which the contraction of protoplasm is shown to be
affected by
this agency increases every day.
Nor can it be affirmed
with perfect confidence, that all forms of
protoplasm are liable to undergo
that peculiar coagulation at a
temperature of 40°-50° centigrade, which has
been called
"heat-stiffening," though Kuhne's beautiful researches have
proved this
occurrence to take place in so many and such diverse living
beings, that
it is hardly rash to expect that the law holds good for
all.
* * * * *
Enough has, perhaps,
been said to prove the existence of a general
uniformity in the character of
the protoplasm, or physical basis, of
life, in whatever group of living
beings it may be studied. But it will
be understood that this general
uniformity by no means excludes any
amount of special modifications of the
fundamental substance. The
mineral, carbonate of lime, assumes an immense
diversity of characters,
though no one doubts that, under all these Protean
changes, it is one
and the same thing.
And now, what is the ultimate
fate, and what the origin, of the matter
of life?
Is it, as some of
the older naturalists supposed, diffused throughout
the universe in
molecules, which are indestructible and unchangeable in
themselves; but, in
endless transmigration, unite in innumerable
permutations, into the
diversified forms of life we know? Or, is the
matter of life composed of
ordinary matter, differing from it only in
the manner in which its atoms are
aggregated? Is it built up of ordinary
matter, and again resolved into
ordinary matter when its work is done?
Modern science does not hesitate a
moment between these alternatives.
Physiology writes, over the portals of
life--
"Debemur morti nos nostraque,"
with a profounder
meaning than the Roman poet attached to that
melancholy line. Under whatever
disguise it takes refuge, whether fungus
or oak; worm or man, the living
protoplasm not only ultimately dies and
is resolved into its mineral and
lifeless constituents, but is always
dying, and, strange as the paradox may
sound, could not live unless it
died.
In the wonderful story of the
"Peau de Chagrin," the hero becomes
possessed of a magical wild ass' skin,
which yields him the means of
gratifying all his wishes. But its surface
represents the duration of
the proprietor's life; and for every satisfied
desire the skin shrinks
in proportion to the intensity of fruition, until at
length life and the
last hand-breadth of the _peau de chagrin_, disappear
with the
gratification of a last wish.
Balzac's studies had led him
over a wide range of thought and
speculation, and his shadowing forth of
physiological truth in this
strange story may have been intentional. At any
rate, the matter of life
is a veritable _peau de chagrin_, and for every
vital act it is somewhat
the smaller. All work implies waste, and the work of
life results,
directly or indirectly, in the waste of
protoplasm.
Every word uttered by a speaker costs him some physical loss;
and, in
the strictest sense, he burns that others may have light--so
much
eloquence, so much of his body resolved into carbonic acid, water,
and
urea. It is clear that this process of expenditure cannot go on
for
ever. But, happily, the protoplasmic _peau de chagrin_ differs
from
Balzac's in its capacity of being repaired, and brought back to its
full
size, after every exertion.
For example, this present lecture,
whatever its intellectual worth to
you, has a certain physical value to me,
which is, conceivably,
expressible by the number of grains of protoplasm and
other bodily
substance wasted in maintaining my vital processes during its
delivery.
My _peau de chagrin_ will be distinctly smaller at the end of
the
discourse than it was at the beginning. By and by, I shall probably
have
recourse to the substance commonly called mutton, for the purpose
of
stretching it back to its original size. Now this mutton was once
the
living protoplasm, more or less modified, of another animal--a sheep.
As
I shall eat it, it is the same matter altered, not only by death, but
by
exposure to sundry artificial operations in the process of
cooking.
But these changes, whatever be their extent, have not rendered
it
incompetent to resume its old functions as matter of life. A
singular
inward laboratory, which I possess, will dissolve a certain portion
of
the modified protoplasm; the solution so formed will pass into my
veins;
and the subtle influences to which it will then be subjected
will
convert the dead protoplasm into living protoplasm, and
transubstantiate
sheep into man.
Nor is this all. If digestion were a
thing to be trifled with, I might
sup upon lobster, and the matter of life of
the crustacean would undergo
the same wonderful metamorphosis into humanity.
And were I to return to
my own place by sea, and undergo shipwreck, the
crustacean might, and
probably would, return the compliment, and demonstrate
our common nature
by turning my protoplasm into living lobster. Or, if
nothing better were
to be had, I might supply my wants with mere bread, and I
should find
the protoplasm of the wheat-plant to be convertible into man,
with no
more trouble than that of the sheep, and with far less, I fancy,
than
that of the lobster.
Hence it appears to be a matter of no great
moment what animal, or what
plant, I lay under contribution for protoplasm,
and the fact speaks
volumes for the general identity of that substance in all
living beings.
I share this catholicity of assimilation with other animals,
all of
which, so far as we know, could thrive equally well on the protoplasm
of
any of their fellows, or of any plant; but here the assimilative
powers
of the animal world cease. A solution of smelling-salts in water,
with
an infinitesimal proportion of some other saline matters, contains
all
the elementary bodies which enter into the composition of
protoplasm;
but, as I need hardly say, a hogshead of that fluid would not
keep a
hungry man from starving, nor would it save any animal whatever from
a
like fate. An animal cannot make protoplasm, but must take it
ready-made
from some other animal, or some plant--the animal's highest feat
of
constructive chemistry being to convert dead protoplasm into that
living
matter of life which is appropriate to itself.
Therefore, in
seeking for the origin of protoplasm, we must eventually
turn to the
vegetable world. A fluid containing carbonic acid, water,
and nitrogenous
salts, which offers such a Barmecide feast to the
animal, is a table richly
spread to multitudes of plants; and, with a
due supply of only such
materials, many a plant will not only maintain
itself in vigour, but grow and
multiply until it has increased a
million-fold, or a million million-fold,
the quantity of protoplasm
which it originally possessed; in this way
building up the matter of
life, to an indefinite extent, from the common
matter of the universe.
Thus, the animal can only raise the complex
substance of dead protoplasm
to the higher power, as one may say, of living
protoplasm; while the
plant can raise the less complex substances--carbonic
acid, water, and
nitrogenous salts--to the same stage of living protoplasm,
if not to the
same level. But the plant also has its limitations. Some of the
fungi,
for example, appear to need higher compounds to start with; and no
known
plant can live upon the uncompounded elements of protoplasm. A
plant
supplied with pure carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and nitrogen,
phosphorus,
sulphur, and the like, would as infallibly die as the animal in
his bath
of smelling-salts, though it would be surrounded by all
the
constituents of protoplasm. Nor, indeed, need the process
of
simplification of vegetable food be carried so far as this, in order
to
arrive at the limit of the plant's thaumaturgy. Let water,
carbonic
acid, and all the other needful constituents be supplied
except
nitrogenous salts, and an ordinary plant will still be unable
to
manufacture protoplasm.
Thus the matter of life, so far as we know
it (and we have no right to
speculate on any other), breaks up, in
consequence of that continual
death which is the condition of its manifesting
vitality, into carbonic
acid, water, and nitrogenous compounds, which
certainly possess no
properties but those of ordinary matter. And out of
these same forms of
ordinary matter, and from none which are simpler, the
vegetable world
builds up all the protoplasm which keeps the animal world
a-going.
Plants are the accumulators of the power which animals distribute
and
disperse.
But it will be observed, that the existence of the
matter of life
depends on the pre-existence of certain compounds; namely,
carbonic
acid, water, and certain nitrogenous bodies. Withdraw any one of
these
three from the world, and all vital phænomena come to an end. They
are
as necessary to the protoplasm of the plant as the protoplasm of
the
plant is to that of the animal. Carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, and
nitrogen
are all lifeless bodies. Of these, carbon and oxygen unite in
certain
proportions and under certain conditions, to give rise to carbonic
acid;
hydrogen and oxygen produce water; nitrogen and other elements give
rise
to nitrogenous salts. These new compounds, like the elementary bodies
of
which they are composed, are lifeless. But when they are
brought
together, under certain conditions, they give rise to the still
more
complex body, protoplasm, and this protoplasm exhibits the phænomena
of
life.
I see no break in this series of steps in molecular
complication, and I
am unable to understand why the language which is
applicable to any one
term of the series may not be used to any of the
others. We think fit to
call different kinds of matter carbon, oxygen,
hydrogen, and nitrogen,
and to speak of the various powers and activities of
these substances as
the properties of the matter of which they are
composed.
When hydrogen and oxygen are mixed in a certain proportion, and
an
electric spark is passed through them, they disappear, and a quantity
of
water, equal in weight to the sum of their weights, appears in
their
place. There is not the slightest parity between the passive and
active
powers of the water and those of the oxygen and hydrogen which
have
given rise to it. At 32° Fahrenheit, and far below that
temperature,
oxygen and hydrogen are elastic gaseous bodies, whose particles
tend to
rush away from one another with great force. Water, at the
same
temperature, is a strong though brittle solid, whose particles tend
to
cohere into definite geometrical shapes, and sometimes build up
frosty
imitations of the most complex forms of vegetable
foliage.
Nevertheless we call these, and many other strange phænomena,
the
properties of the water, and we do not hesitate to believe that, in
some
way or another, they result from the properties of the
component
elements of the water. We do not assume that a something
called
"aquosity" entered into and took possession of the oxidated hydrogen
as
soon as it was formed, and then guided the aqueous particles to
their
places in the facets of the crystal, or amongst the leaflets of
the
hoarfrost. On the contrary, we live in the hope and in the faith
that,
by the advance of molecular physics, we shall by and by be able to
see
our way as clearly from the constituents of water to the properties
of
water, as we are now able to deduce the operations of a watch from
the
form of its parts and the manner in which they are put
together.
Is the case in any way changed when carbonic acid, water,
and
nitrogenous salts disappear, and in their place, under the influence
of
pre-existing living protoplasm, an equivalent weight of the matter
of
life makes its appearance?
It is true that there is no sort of
parity between the properties of the
components and the properties of the
resultant, but neither was there in
the case of the water. It is also true
that what I have spoken of as the
influence of pre-existing living matter is
something quite
unintelligible; but does anybody quite comprehend the _modus
operandi_
of an electric spark, which traverses a mixture of oxygen and
hydrogen?
What justification is there, then, for the assumption of the
existence
in the living matter of a something which has no representative,
or
correlative, in the not living matter which gave rise to it? What
better
philosophical status has "vitality" than "aquosity"? And why
should
"vitality" hope for a better fate than the other "itys" which
have
disappeared since Martinus Scriblerus accounted for the operation of
the
meat-jack by its inherent "meat-roasting quality," and scorned
the
"materialism" of those who explained the turning of the spit by
a
certain mechanism worked by the draught of the chimney.
If
scientific language is to possess a definite and constant
signification
whenever it is employed, it seems to me that we are
logically bound to apply
to the protoplasm, or physical basis of life,
the same conceptions as those
which are held to be legitimate elsewhere.
If the phenomena exhibited by
water are its properties, so are those
presented by protoplasm, living or
dead, its properties.
If the properties of water may be properly said to
result from the
nature and disposition of its component molecules, I can find
no
intelligible ground for refusing to say that the properties
of
protoplasm result from the nature and disposition of its
molecules.
But I bid you beware that, in accepting these conclusions, you
are
placing your feet on the first rung of a ladder which, in most
people's
estimation, is the reverse of Jacob's, and leads to the antipodes
of
heaven. It may seem a small thing to admit that the dull vital
actions
of a fungus, or a foraminifer, are the properties of their
protoplasm,
and are the direct results of the nature of the matter of which
they are
composed. But if, as I have endeavoured to prove to you,
their
protoplasm is essentially identical with, and most readily
converted
into, that of any animal, I can discover no logical
halting-place
between the admission that such is the case, and the further
concession
that all vital action may, with equal propriety, be said to be
the
result of the molecular forces of the protoplasm which displays it.
And
if so, it must be true, in the same sense and to the same extent,
that
the thoughts to which I am now giving utterance, and your
thoughts
regarding them, are the expression of molecular changes in that
matter
of life which is the source of our other vital phænomena.
Past
experience leads me to be tolerably certain that, when the
propositions I
have just placed before you are accessible to public
comment and criticism,
they will be condemned by many zealous persons,
and perhaps by some few of
the wise and thoughtful. I should not wonder
if "gross and brutal
materialism" were the mildest phrase applied to
them in certain quarters.
And, most undoubtedly, the terms of the
propositions are distinctly
materialistic. Nevertheless two things are
certain; the one, that I hold the
statements to be substantially true;
the other, that I, individually, am no
materialist, but, on the
contrary, believe materialism to involve grave
philosophical error.
This union of materialistic terminology with the
repudiation of
materialistic philosophy I share with some of the most
thoughtful men
with whom I am acquainted. And, when I first undertook to
deliver the
present discourse, it appeared to me to be a fitting opportunity
to
explain how such a union is not only consistent with, but
necessitated
by, sound logic. I purposed to lead you through the territory of
vital
phænomena to the materialistic slough in which you find yourselves
now
plunged, and then to point out to you the sole path by which, in
my
judgment, extrication is possible.
An occurrence of which I was
unaware until my arrival here last night
renders this line of argument
singularly opportune. I found in your
papers the eloquent address "On the
Limits of Philosophical Inquiry,"
which a distinguished prelate of the
English Church delivered before the
members of the Philosophical Institution
on the previous day. My
argument, also, turns upon this very point of the
limits of
philosophical inquiry; and I cannot bring out my own views better
than
by contrasting them with those so plainly and, in the main,
fairly
stated by the Archbishop of York.
But I may be permitted to
make a preliminary comment upon an occurrence
that greatly astonished me.
Applying the name of the "New Philosophy" to
that estimate of the limits of
philosophical inquiry which I, in common
with many other men of science, hold
to be just, the Archbishop opens
his address by identifying this "New
Philosophy" with the Positive
Philosophy of M. Comte (of whom he speaks as
its "founder"); and then
proceeds to attack that philosopher and his
doctrines vigorously.
Now, so far as I am concerned, the most reverend
prelate might
dialectically hew M. Comte in pieces, as a modern Agag, and I
should not
attempt to stay his hand. In so far as my study of what
specially
characterises the Positive Philosophy has led me, I find therein
little
or nothing of any scientific value, and a great deal which is
as
thoroughly antagonistic to the very essence of science as anything
in
ultramontane Catholicism. In fact, M. Comte's philosophy, in
practice,
might be compendiously described as Catholicism _minus_
Christianity.
But what has Comtism to do with the "New Philosophy," as
the Archbishop,
defines it in the following passage?
"Let me
briefly remind you of the leading principles of this new
philosophy.
"All knowledge is experience of facts acquired by the
senses. The
traditions of older philosophies have obscured our
experience by
mixing with it much that the senses cannot observe, and
until these
additions are discarded our knowledge is impure. Thus
metaphysics
tell us that one fact which we observe is a cause, and
another is
the effect of that cause; but, upon a rigid analysis, we find
that
our senses observe nothing of cause or effect: they observe,
first,
that one fact succeeds another, and, after some opportunity,
that
this fact has never failed to follow--that for cause and effect
we
should substitute invariable succession. An older philosophy
teaches us to define an object by distinguishing its essential from
its
accidental qualities: but experience knows nothing of essential
and
accidental; she sees only that, certain marks attach to an
object, and,
after many observations, that some of them attach
invariably, whilst
others may at times be absent.... As all
knowledge is relative, the
notion of anything being necessary must
be banished with other
traditions." [5]
There is much here that expresses the spirit of the "New
Philosophy," if
by that term be meant the spirit of modern science; but I
cannot but
marvel that the assembled wisdom and learning of Edinburgh should
have
uttered no sign of dissent, when Comte was declared to be the founder
of
these doctrines. No one will accuse Scotchmen of habitually
forgetting
their great countrymen; but it was enough to make David Hume turn
in his
grave, that here, almost within ear-shot of his house, an
instructed
audience should have listened, without a murmur, while his
most
characteristic doctrines were attributed to a French writer of
fifty
years later date, in whose dreary and verbose pages we miss alike
the
vigour of thought and the exquisite clearness of style of the man whom
I
make bold to term the most acute thinker of the eighteenth
century--even
though that century produced Kant.
But I did not come to
Scotland to vindicate the honour of one of the
neatest men she has ever
produced. My business is to point out to you
that the only way of escape out
of the "crass materialism" in which we
just now landed, is the adoption and
strict working out of the very
principles which the Archbishop holds up to
reprobation.
Let us suppose that knowledge is absolute, and not relative,
and
therefore, that our conception of matter represents that which it
really
is. Let us suppose, further, that we do know more of cause and
effect
than a certain definite order of succession among facts, and that
we
have a knowledge of the necessity of that succession--and hence,
of
necessary laws--and I, for my part, do not see what escape there is
from
utter materialism and necessarianism. For it is obvious that
our
knowledge of what we call the material world is, to begin with, at
least
as certain and definite as that of the spiritual world, and that
our
acquaintance with law is of as old a date as our knowledge
of
spontaneity. Further, I take it to be demonstrable that it is
utterly
impossible to prove that anything whatever may not be the effect of
a
material and necessary cause, and that human logic is
equally
incompetent to prove that any act is really spontaneous. A
really
spontaneous act is one which, by the assumption, has no cause; and
the
attempt to prove such a negative as this is, on the face of the
matter,
absurd. And while it is thus a philosophical impossibility
to
demonstrate that any given phænomenon is not the effect of a
material
cause, any one who is acquainted with the history of science will
admit,
that its progress has, in all ages, meant, and now, more than
ever,
means, the extension of the province of what we call matter
and
causation, and the concomitant gradual banishment from all regions
of
human thought of what we call spirit and spontaneity.
I have
endeavoured, in the first part of this discourse, to give you a
conception of
the direction towards which modern physiology is tending;
and I ask you, what
is the difference between the conception of life as
the product of a certain
disposition of material molecules, and the old
notion of an Archæus governing
and directing blind matter within each
living body, except this--that here,
as elsewhere, matter and law have
devoured spirit and spontaneity? And as
surely as every future grows out
of past and present, so will the physiology
of the future gradually
extend the realm of matter and law until it is
co-extensive with
knowledge, with feeling, and with action.
The
consciousness of this great truth weighs like a nightmare, I
believe, upon
many of the best minds of these days. They watch what they
conceive to be the
progress of materialism, in such fear and powerless
anger as a savage feels,
when, during an eclipse, the great shadow
creeps over the face of the sun.
The advancing tide of matter threatens
to drown their souls; the tightening
grasp of law impedes their freedom;
they are alarmed lest man's moral nature
be debased by the increase of
his wisdom.
If the "New Philosophy" be
worthy of the reprobation with which it is
visited, I confess their fears
seem to me to be well founded. While, on
the contrary, could David Hume be
consulted, I think he would smile at
their perplexities, and chide them for
doing even as the heathen, and
falling down in terror before the hideous
idols their own hands have
raised.
For, after all, what do we know of
this terrible "matter," except as a
name for the unknown and hypothetical
cause of states of our own
consciousness? And what do we know of that
"spirit" over whose
threatened extinction by matter a great lamentation is
arising, like
that which was heard at the death of Pan, except that it is
also a name
for an unknown and hypothetical cause, or condition, of states
of
consciousness? In other words, matter and spirit are but names for
the
imaginary substrata of groups of natural phænomena.
And what is
the dire necessity and "iron" law under which men groan?
Truly, most
gratuitously invented bugbears. I suppose if there be an
"iron" law, it is
that of gravitation; and if there be a physical
necessity, it is that a
stone, unsupported, must fall to the ground. But
what is all we really know,
and can know, about the latter phænomena?
Simply, that, in all human
experience, stones have fallen to the ground
under these conditions; that we
have not the smallest reason for
believing that any stone so circumstanced
will not fall to the ground;
and that we have, on the contrary, every reason
to believe that it will
so fall. It is very convenient to indicate that all
the conditions of
belief have been fulfilled in this case, by calling the
statement that
unsupported stones will fall to the ground, "a law of Nature."
But when,
as commonly happens, we change _will_ into _must_, we introduce an
idea
of necessity which most assuredly does not lie in the observed
facts,
and has no warranty that I can discover elsewhere. For my part,
I
utterly repudiate and anathematise the intruder. Fact I know; and Law
I
know; but what is this Necessity, save an empty shadow of my own
mind's
throwing?
But, if it is certain that we can have no knowledge
of the nature of
either matter or spirit, and that the notion of necessity is
something
illegitimately thrust into the perfectly legitimate conception of
law,
the materialistic position that there is nothing in the world
but
matter, force, and necessity, is as utterly devoid of justification
as
the most baseless of theological dogmas. The fundamental doctrines
of
materialism, like those of spiritualism, and most other "isms,"
lie
outside "the limits of philosophical inquiry," and David Hume's
great
service to humanity is his irrefragable demonstration of what
these
limits are. Hume called himself a sceptic and therefore others cannot
be
blamed if they apply the same title to him; but that does not alter
the
fact that the name, with its existing implications, does him
gross
injustice.
If a man asks me what the politics of the inhabitants
of the moon are,
and I reply that I do not know; that neither I, nor any one
else, has
any means of knowing; and that, under these circumstances, I
decline to
trouble myself about the subject at all, I do not think he has any
right
to call me a sceptic. On the contrary, in replying thus, I conceive
that
I am simply honest and truthful, and show a proper regard for
the
economy of time. So Hume's strong and subtle intellect takes up a
great
many problems about which we are naturally curious, and shows us
that
they are essentially questions of lunar politics, in their
essence
incapable of being answered, and therefore not worth the attention
of
men who have work to do in the world. And he thus ends one of
his
essays:--
"If we take in hand any volume of Divinity, or
school metaphysics,
for instance, let us ask, _Does it contain any
abstract reasoning
concerning quantity or number?_ No. _Does it contain
any
experimental reasoning concerning matter of fact and
existence?_
No. Commit it then to the flames; for it can contain nothing
but
sophistry and illusion." [6]
Permit me to enforce this most
wise advice. Why trouble ourselves about
matters of which, however important
they may be, we do know nothing, and
can know nothing? We live in a world
which is full of misery and
ignorance, and the plain duty of each and all of
us is to try to make
the little corner he can influence somewhat less
miserable and somewhat
less ignorant than it was before he entered it. To do
this effectually
it is necessary to be fully possessed of only two beliefs:
the first,
that the order of Nature is ascertainable by our faculties to an
extent
which is practically unlimited; the second, that our volition[7]
counts
for something as a condition of the course of events.
Each of
these beliefs can be verified experimentally, as often as we
like to try.
Each, therefore, stands upon the strongest foundation upon
which any belief
can rest, and forms one of our highest truths. If we
find that the
ascertainment of the order of nature is facilitated by
using one terminology,
or one set of symbols, rather than another, it is
our clear duty to use the
former; and no harm can accrue, so long as we
bear in mind, that we are
dealing merely with terms and symbols.
In itself it is of little moment
whether we express the phænomena of
matter in terms of spirit; or the
phænomena of spirit in terms of
matter: matter may be regarded as a form of
thought, thought may be
regarded as a property of matter--each statement has
a certain relative
truth. But with a view to the progress of science, the
materialistic
terminology is in every way to be preferred. For it connects
thought
with the other phænomena of the universe, and suggests inquiry into
the
nature of those physical conditions, or concomitants of thought,
which
are more or less accessible to us, and a knowledge of which may,
in
future, help us to exercise the same kind of control over the world
of
thought, as we already possess in respect of the material
world;
whereas, the alternative, or spiritualistic, terminology is
utterly
barren, and leads to nothing but obscurity and confusion of
ideas.
Thus there can be little doubt, that the further science advances,
the
more extensively and consistently will all the phænomena of Nature
be
represented by materialistic formulæ and symbols.
But the man of
science, who, forgetting the limits of philosophical
inquiry, slides from
these formulæ and symbols into what is commonly
understood by materialism,
seems to me to place himself on a level with
the mathematician, who should
mistake the _x_'s and _y_'s with which he
works his problems, for real
entities--and with this further
disadvantage, as compared with the
mathematician, that the blunders of
the latter are of no practical
consequence, while the errors of
systematic materialism may paralyse the
energies and destroy the beauty
of a life.
NATURALISM AND
SUPERNATURALISM
[FROM PROLOGUE TO CONTROVERTED QUESTIONS,
1892.]
There is a single problem with different aspects of which
thinking men
have been occupied, ever since they began seriously to consider
the
wonderful frame of things in which their lives are set, and to seek
for
trustworthy guidance among its intricacies.
Experience speedily
taught them that the shifting scenes of the world's
stage have a permanent
background; that there is order amidst the
seeming contusion, and that many
events take place according to
unchanging rules. To this region of familiar
steadiness and customary
regularity they gave the name of Nature. But at the
same time, their
infantile and untutored reason, little more, as yet, than
the playfellow
of the imagination, led them to believe that this tangible,
commonplace,
orderly world of Nature was surrounded and interpenetrated by
another
intangible and mysterious world, no more bound by fixed rules than,
as
they fancied, were the thoughts and passions which coursed through
their
minds and seemed to exercise an intermittent and capricious rule
over
their bodies. They attributed to the entities, with which they
peopled
this dim and dreadful region, an unlimited amount of that power
of
modifying the course of events of which they themselves possessed
a
small share, and thus came to regard them as not merely beyond,
but
above, Nature.
Hence arose the conception of a "Supernature"
antithetic to
"Nature"--the primitive dualism of a natural world "fixed in
fate" and a
supernatural, left to the free play of volition--which has
pervaded all
later speculation, and, for thousands of years, has exercised a
profound
influence on practice. For it is obvious that, on this theory of
the
Universe, the successful conduct of life must demand careful
attention
to both worlds; and, if either is to be neglected, it may be safer
that
it should be Nature. In any given contingency, it must doubtless
be
desirable to know what may be expected to happen in the ordinary
course
of things; but it must be quite as necessary to have some inkling of
the
line likely to be taken by supernatural agencies able, and
possibly
willing, to suspend or reverse that course. Indeed, logically
developed,
the dualistic theory must needs end in almost exclusive attention
to
Supernature, and in trust that its over-ruling strength will be
exerted
in favour of those who stand well with its denizens. On the other
hand,
the lessons of the great school-master, experience, have hardly
seemed
to accord with this conclusion. They have taught, with
considerable
emphasis, that it does not answer to neglect Nature; and that,
on the
whole, the more attention paid to her dictates the better men
fare.
Thus the theoretical antithesis brought about a practical
antagonism.
From the earliest times of which we have any knowledge,
Naturalism and
Supernaturalism have consciously, or unconsciously, competed
and
struggled with one another; and the varying fortunes of the contest
are
written in the records of the course of civilisation from those of
Egypt
and Babylonia, six thousand years ago, down to those of our own time
and
people.
These records inform us that, so far as men have paid
attention to
Nature, they have been rewarded for their pains. They have
developed the
Arts which have furnished the conditions of civilised
existence; and the
Sciences, which have been a progressive revelation of
reality, and have
afforded the best discipline of the mind in the methods of
discovering
truth. They have accumulated a vast body of universally
accepted
knowledge; and the conceptions of man and of society, of morals and
of
law, based upon that knowledge, are every day more and more,
either
openly or tacitly, acknowledged to be the foundations of right
action.
History also tells us that the field of the supernatural has
rewarded
its cultivators with a harvest, perhaps not less luxuriant, but of
a
different character. It has produced an almost infinite diversity
of
Religions. These, if we set aside the ethical concomitants upon
which
natural knowledge also has a claim, are composed of information
about
Supernature; they tell us of the attributes of supernatural beings,
of
their relations with Nature, and of the operations by which
their
interference with the ordinary course of events can be secured
or
averted. It does not appear, however, that supernaturalists
have
attained to any agreement about these matters or that history
indicates
a widening of the influence of supernaturalism on practice, with
the
onward flow of time. On the contrary, the various religions are, to
a
great extent, mutually exclusive; and their adherents delight
in
charging each other, not merely with error, but with
criminality,
deserving and ensuing punishment of infinite severity. In
singular
contrast with natural knowledge, again, the acquaintance of mankind
with
the supernatural appears the more extensive and the more exact, and
the
influence of supernatural doctrines upon conduct the greater,
the
further back we go in time and the lower the stage of
civilisation
submitted to investigation. Historically, indeed, there would
seem to
be an inverse relation between supernatural and natural knowledge.
As
the latter has widened, gained in precision and in trustworthiness,
so
has the former shrunk, grown vague and questionable; as the one has
more
and more filled the sphere of action, so has the other retreated
into
the region of meditation, or vanished behind the screen of mere
verbal
recognition.
Whether this difference of the fortunes of
Naturalism and of
Supernaturalism is an indication of the progress, or of the
regress, of
humanity; of a fall from, or an advance towards, the higher life;
is a
matter of opinion. The point to which I wish to direct attention is
that
the difference exists and is making itself felt. Men are growing to
be
seriously alive to the fact that the historical evolution of
humanity
which is generally, and I venture to think not unreasonably,
regarded as
progress, has been, and is being, accompanied by a
co-ordinate
elimination of the supernatural from its originally large
occupation of
men's thoughts. The question--How far is this process to
go?--is in my
apprehension, the Controverted Question of our
time.
Controversy on this matter--prolonged, bitter, and fought out with
the
weapons of the flesh, as well as with those of the spirit--is no
new
thing to Englishmen. We have been more or less occupied with it
these
five hundred years. And, during that time, we have made attempts
to
establish a _modus vivendi_ between the antagonists, some of which have
had a world-wide influence; though, unfortunately, none have proved universally
and permanently satisfactory. |
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