It is, however, one thing to have an ideal, and another to live up to it. "To scorn delights and live laborious days" in the search for truth or in single-minded devotion to the cause of art requires some will. Granted that the ideal has been revealed, either to the disciple on the occasion of another's teaching or directly as to the master, for progressthere is further required will. It requires an act of will to prefer the ideal, with its laborious days, and to scorn delights; and it requires many acts of will to make any progress. Yet the will to believe and the will to act are the same will. We may, if we choose, define belief as the readiness to act, and take action as the test of belief: if a man in a hurry makes a short cut,i.e.goes straight from one point to another rather than round a corner, his action is proof that he believes that a straight line is the shortest distance between two points. From this point of view we may regard the many acts of will which are necessary to progress,i.e.movement in the direction of the ideal, as so many reaffirmations of the original act of will by which we affirmed our belief that the ideal was the goal of progress; and if our object is to show that the behaviour of man, so far as he pursues the ideal, can be exhibited as a logical and rational behaviour, we are justified in thus demonstrating that our renewed resolutions to realise the ideal are but the logical consequences of our original will to believe in the ideal as the proper goal of action. Our belief in the ideal is thus shown to be the principle from which our subsequent acts of will can be logically deduced, just as Nature's uniformity can be shown to be the principle from which the conclusions of science logically flow.
But it may be doubted whether this logical orderof ideas is the chronological order of events. As a matter of fact, we go through a number of struggles and temptations long before we reflect, if ever we do reflect, upon them in such a way as to see what is the general principle logically implied by our repeated if intermittent resistance to temptation, just as a child acts in a way that for its logical justification would require a formal recognition of the uniformity of Nature, though the infant of two years, or less, does not formulate that principle as a condition precedent of crying for its food or its nurse. Chronologically, then, the will to act seems to precede the will to believe in the uniformity of Nature, and in the case of most human beings is never followed by any fully conscious formulation of the principle on which we act as an abstract principle in which to believe. That fact, however, does not in the least detract from the value which the formulation of the abstract principle has: when formulated it becomes in the hands of science as Ithuriel's spear for the detection of lingering superstitions and confusions of thought—
"for no falsehood can endureTouch of celestial temper, but returnsOf force to its own likeness."
"for no falsehood can endureTouch of celestial temper, but returnsOf force to its own likeness."
At touch of the question, "Does it contradict the uniformity of Nature?" error is seen for what it is, and is exploded sooner thus than in any other way.
The ideal of truth, then, with its "celestial temper," is logically implicit in the earliest acts of will, but chronologically is developed in consciousness later, if indeed and when it reaches that later stage of its evolution from the potential to the actual. The ideals of morality and religion, again, though equally implicit in the acts of will which form their earliest manifestation, are, as a rule, both in the individual and the race, more slowly evolved from the particulars in which they are immersed. The period of their gestation is longer, and results in the birth of a higher organism.
Thus, when we reach the age of reflection, whenever it may come, we wake up to find that we have been acting as though we had beliefs, when, as in our infancy, we could have had no beliefs, and as though we willed our actions, at a time when we can scarcely be said to have had any will in the matter. For years we have been acting as we should have done supposing that we had believed certain things and had willed our action accordingly. When we wake up to this state of things the question is, Are we bound to go on in this way? are we bound now to believe as well as to act as though we believed in God, morality, and Nature's uniformity? Does the fact that our physiological and psychological mechanism has been started—perhaps by Nature's cosmic forces, perhaps by the social environment, certainly not by us—to run in certain grooves, prove either that weought or that we must continue to run the particular organism we are in charge of on the same lines? The agnostic and the atheist exercise their freedom of will to say No. They claim the right and exercise the power of free choice. The agnostic, further, is fully aware that in choosing to believe the uniformity of Nature his choice is not determined by evidence—it is "a great act of faith," no amount of evidence could justify it, the only evidence anyone can bring to justify his belief in the general abstract principle is the fact that he does believe it in every concrete, particular instance. In a word, he believes it because he chooses to believe it—and that is exactly what is meant by the dictum, which he finds it so hard to understand, that his will is self-determining.
When it comes to the question of morality and religion, the agnostic again exercises his freedom of choice: he wills to believe in the former and not in the latter—the evidence for and against either being equallynil. It is not, therefore, the evidence which determines his choice; and he shows that it is not his previous history, not the momentum which his psychological mechanism gained during the period when he had no conscious or no self-conscious control over it, which determines his choice, for in the first place he denies that it ought or must influence him, and next he shows that it does not, by willing differently in the case of the two principles. In both cases his will is equally self-determining,though his will is to believe in the moral principle or ideal and not to believe in the religious.
If we wish either to define progress or to make it, we must choose, arbitrarily or otherwise, some particular goal and say, definitely and decidedly, any movement which being continued in the same straight line leads to that goal is progress, every other movement is regress, being necessarily away from the goal. If we choose, by a great act of faith or otherwise, to say the ideal is the goal, then we have therein a principle both of belief and action: we have a standard by which to test everything offered for judgment, a general principle to apply to every particular case; and we have an object to aim at, a principle to carry out in every act of our lives, an ideal to strive for. But whether we choose the ideal as the goal or something else, our choice is the free act of a self-determining will. Progress, on the human side, is—as indeed is regress—the expression of the free will of human beings, whose choice, though free, is limited to the alternatives offered to them. Those alternatives reduce themselves ultimately to aiming at the ideal or at something else.
What, then, of the environment, of the cosmos, in which man finds himself, in which he has to act and may act so as to advance or not to advance towards the ideal? To begin with, we may distinguish between those forces in the cosmos which man canto some extent control, and those over which he has no control. The former, from this point of view, the point of view of action, are means whereby man secures his ends: his regulation of them effects that adaptationofthe environment which, according to Professor Huxley, is essential to ethical progress. Now, as a matter of observed fact, no one doubts that the advance which civilised man has made in controlling the forces of Nature is due to science and to civilised man's devotion to the scientific ideal of truth. Even the savage made what little progress he did make in this direction by acting fitfully and unconsciously, or at the most semi-consciously, on the principle of the uniformity of Nature: the savage was faithful in little things to the scientific ideal—which was revealed to him but dimly—thesavantis fully conscious of the principle on which he acts, walks in its light, and strives by example and precept to save his fellow-men from relapsing into the darkness of error and superstition. It is not merely because of the material advantages, the comforts and luxuries, which science indirectly secures to mankind, that the man of science devotes himself to the scientific ideal and seeks to make it universal: it is for the sacred cause of truth. In a word, what at first sight presents itself merely as a principle of the scientific reason, proves, in the conception of those who have spent their lives in endeavouring to seek the scientific ideal and toensue it, to be a manifestation of the moral reason, to be not merely in harmony with the moral ideal, but to have been its harbinger, making the way straight for it. Belief which implies a violation of the uniformity of Nature is denounced not because it violates a scientific principle, but because it is immoral, a pretence, and a lie. The final cause of science is thus made out to be to subserve the moral ideal, to secure that adaptation of the environment without which ethical progress is impossible. The labour of adapting his environment would have for man as a rational being no sufficient reason if it did not tend to realise his moral ideal. Man may use his science and the power of adapting his environment for other than moral ends; but such use is not, according to this view, progress. In other words, it is not science or the scientific ideal alone which enables us to lay down the line of progress, but science and morality together: one point cannot give us our direction, but the line which connects two points may.
Thus far, then, by taking the environment into consideration, we seem to have introduced no new factor into our conception of progress. It seems that when I wake up from childhood's slumber I find myself surrounded by men who believe that they can do certain things—make rain, send telegraphic messages, etc.; and I am told that if certain assumptions—that there is a God, that Nature is uniform,etc.—be true, then it will be well for me to behave in a certain way. But what if the assumptions be not true? My elders tell me that experience—in the individual, in the race, enlarged by science and the theory of evolution—shows it is quite safe to assume that they are true, at any rate as a provisional hypothesis. Of course, if the future is going to resemble the past, then experience of the past is a good guide to the future: but that is just the question,isthe future going to resemble the past? In other words, what attitude am I to assume towards my environment, the cosmos? Am I to assume that it will work, and for countless ages has worked, in such a way as to make it possible for me, with some co-operation on my part, to do things which my elders tell me are desirable and which I feel for myself I should rather like to do?
If I assume that the cosmic power does work thus, in such a way that I can know the truth and do the right, and love the Power that gives me the chance and makes it possible, even for me, so to do, I am only exercising the will to believe in that principle which is logically implied by every act of the scientific or moral life.
It is the common faith of mankind that experience may be trusted; and it is the common experience of mankind that progress is approximation to the ideals of truth, of goodness, and of love. It is not the common experience of mankind that all menor all peoples approximate equally to those ideals. The measure of progress is to be found in the clearness and consistency with which men have carried out in science the principle of the uniformity of Nature, in their dealings with their fellow-men the principles of morality, in their dealings with the supernatural the principle of love.
Science, and especially the theory of evolution, has enormously extended our inferential experience, but it has done so only by accepting the common faith that experience may be trusted, that is to say, that the environment, the cosmos, is trustworthy within our experience of it. When, then, the optimist alleges that the process of evolution has been, on the whole, a course of progress, he is but showing that the common faith in the trustworthiness of the reality in which we move and have our being justifies itself. But he does not show us, nor does science show us, why the real, the cosmos, is trustworthy: he ends by showing that it is trustworthy because he began, like all of us, by trusting it. He is quite right: it is the only way in which to demonstrate that either science, or morality, or religion is trustworthy—by giving our faith, to start with. Only when we are satisfied as to the fact can we profitably inquire the reason; and the reason is to be found only in the nature of the real, as revealed to us in the sum total of our experience, scientific, moral, and religious. But the will to believe thatexperience and to trust the real which it reveals, is free: if a man will not accept it as trustworthy, there is for him no reason why.
The case is different with the man who does accept the testimony of consciousness as evidence of the reality to which it testifies. For him the one reality is Will, and the ideals of science, morality, and religion are the expressions of that Will. In accepting them as the principles of thought and action he does not learn what is the purpose of evolution, the final cause of the cosmos: he chooses to believe that, by so accepting them and by striving to realise the ideal, he is fulfilling the Divine Will and contributing his share to the realisation of the rational purpose to which, he assumes, the process of evolution is tending.
But in so doing he does not renounce his freedom: his resolution to believe is an exercise of his free will, an act, "a great act," of faith. If carried into effect in his daily life, his resolution, daily renewed and ever free, may in the end become a daily act of love, and then he will understand the reason why the cosmos, or the cosmic power, is trustworthy. Only love of man could have given man, as his ideals, to know the truth and do the right. Only if man's ideals are so given is the cosmos trustworthy—if it is trustworthy. If it is not, then there is no truth to know, no right to do, no inference can be drawn from the past to thefuture, for the past, even of a minute ago, may be a delusion.
But though the will to believe that the cosmos is untrustworthy cannot in practice be carried out in all its logical (or illogical) conclusions, it can be and is acted on intermittently, and such action is regress. So far as it is carried out, it is the negation of progress; if it could be carried out completely and by all men, there would be an end of progress; science, morality, and religion would be extinguished; evil would triumph over good. The history of evolution shows that, as a matter of fact, such unfaith in the reality of our ideals has been only intermittent; for the course of evolution has been, on the whole, progress. Individual experience shows that there comes a point, soon or late, at which the will, acting freely, refuses to go further with its rejection of morality: there are some things which even a bad man will not do—however oddly they may seem chosen. In theory, in philosophy, there is a point at which the will refuses to go further with its rejection of the common reason, in which all men share: there are some things which even the sceptic refuses to disbelieve,e.g.those which are necessary to his conviction that nothing can be believed.
These considerations may serve to confirm us in the belief that progress has been the law of evolution in the past and will increasingly be in the future. They should so confirm us, for they do but carryout, as far as history, individual experience, and imagination can take us, our fundamental faith in the reality of those ideals that are revealed in consciousness to all of us. Belief in the possibility of progress at all carries with it, as its logical postulate, faith in the wisdom and goodness of God. But if wisdom and goodness are the source of all reality, and if the final purpose of evolution is the realisation of the ideal—viz. love of truth, of our fellow-beings, and of God—what are we to say of evil? Is it not real? It is real, in the same sense that our pleasures and pains are real, but not in the same sense that the ideal is real. The real things which our sense-experience reveals to us are real in the sense that they are permanent, independent of us, and self-identical. The same characteristics attach to the realities revealed to us in our moral and spiritual experience. The laws of morality and the goodness of God do not come and go with our fleeting recognitions of them; they are permanent, independent of us, and are ever the same: God's goodness faileth never. The uniformity of Nature is but one expression of the uniformity of the Divine love for man: it is that which makes it possible for man to know the truth and survive in the struggle for existence. But evil is not independent of us men: it exists only so far as we will it to exist. It is not permanent: it comes and goes with our passing acts of will. It is not self-identical, buttends to self-destruction. It is the will to believe nothing, and therefore, as action involves belief, the will to do nothing—that is, to revert to the condition of mere inert matter, as matter is conceived by the materialist to exist.
But though evil be illusive, though it is the fool who says in his own heart, "There is no God," or "Tush! He will not see it," the illusion is voluntary. It is we who deceive or sophisticate ourselves, when we will to believe that this act is not really wrong, or that our peculiar circumstances constitute a special, a highly special exception, on this occasion only, to the rules for ordinary occasions and ordinary men. And though the illusion is subjective,i.e.is not generally shared by the onlookers, and is consciously subjective (for we avoid onlookers, because they would spoil the illusion), nevertheless, subjective though it be, it is a fact in your particular subjective history, and a damning fact. If the evil that you will is confined in its range to your will, and if its existence can only be recreated by a fresh act of will in you or another, that is an argument to show that there is mercy in the scheme of things, but it does not prove that you incur no responsibility in offering yourself or another the example and the opportunity of doing wrong. We are not, and, if the will be free, we cannot be responsible for what others do; but we are responsible for what we do—for evil, if it be evil; for good, ifwe——but there is no pressing need to consider that contingency.
The question underlying the previous paragraph is that of our social environment and its effects. We are apt to forget thatweare the social environment. If we bear the fact in mind, we shall perhaps be less inclined to seek the origin of all our misdeeds outside ourselves: we cannot shift the burden of our own wrong-doing on to the shoulders of society by any process which does not bring back at least an equivalent burden. The fact is that neither can we cause others, nor can others cause us to do evil. What we can do is to supply them with an opportunity, which, but for our action, would not indeed have existed, but which also, so far from necessitating evil action on their part, may by their free will be made the occasion for a victory over wrong. The fact, however, that they alone are responsible for their evil-doing prevents us from taking any credit for their good deeds. It is for our own acts of will that we are responsible, and it is by willing evil that we become evil. We create evil, consciously, by every wrong act of will that we perform, and then we talk of the origin of evil as a mystery, so thoroughly do we sophisticate ourselves! Why should there be evil? Why, indeed? There is no reason, no rational answer can be given, because evil is irrational—it is the will to reject the common reasonor common sense or faith of mankind, in this detail or that. It is the arbitrary element, self-will, and if it could be eliminated we should have a uniformity of human nature and of human love corresponding to the uniformity of the Divine. Progress is the process of its elimination.
If we turn from the human to the pre-human period of evolution, the first immediate fact which strikes us is that there has been throughout the animal kingdom an evolution of mind, which has resulted in providing man with the psychological apparatus necessary for conceiving, and, to some extent, realising the ideal. When we reached the age of reflection, we woke up to find that our psychological mechanism had been running for some years in certain grooves. We now find that its direction can be traced back by evolution to the beginnings of animal consciousness. If, however, we believe that the evolution of mind, animal and human, has been a process of progress, we do so not on the ground that mind has been evolved, but that its evolution has been in the direction of those ideals, approximation to which is believed by us to be progress. Similarly, if the pre-animal period of the earth's evolution is shown by science to have resulted in fitting the earth to be the home of animal life, we judge that evolution to have been progress, not because it prepared the world eventually for man, but because it is seen to havebeen part of the process by which the ideal is in course of realisation, by which the Divine purpose is in the course of being fulfilled.
The only value that we can assign to the pre-human period of evolution is that which attaches to it as a means to an end; but though we believe that by striving after the ideals revealed to us we are labouring towards that end, and though everything that makes for the ideal contributes to the end, yet we do not know the Divine purpose, and we cannot say in what manifold other ways the pre-human period may have subserved that purpose. It is sufficient if we can trace the steps by which this one portion, the only portion known to us, of the whole design has been carried forward. This reflection is one which it is necessary to bear in mind when considering the alleged wastefulness of the process of evolution and the price at which progress has been purchased.
The theory of evolution, as a purely scientific theory,i.e.as an objective statement of what actually has taken place on the earth in the past, shows that the various species of animals which have survived were—so long as they did survive—the only species which could survive under the conditions which then prevailed; given the conditions, their survival was necessary and inevitable. There the scientific explanation of the matter ends: having shown the causes which produced the effectin question, science has explained everything that it undertook to explain. Had the conditions been different, the present state of the world, doubtless, would have been different; but being what they were they produced that which is, and there is an end of the matter—as far as it is a matter for scientific investigation.
What we are to think of the survivors—whether we are to admire them; whether we are to consider their survival an advance and an improvement; whether anything has been gained by their survival, and, if so, from what point of view the gain is a gain—are questions which science excludes, because, however answered, they do not affect the scientific fact that these species did survive, and, under the conditions, alone could survive.
But we all take it for granted and as self-evident that man is not only better adapted, under existing conditions, to survive and flourish at the cost and to the extinction of other species, but that he is better than the brute, that his survival is an advance, that his is a higher type, and that his existence realises a higher ideal than that of the brutes. We believe this not merely because we are men, and as such rate our own comforts, our own interests, our own skins as the most important things known to us, for there are things for which men sacrifice their own interests and for which they have laid down their lives. It is precisely because there arethings more important than our own material and animal existence, and because they are or may be realised by man and not by the animals, by the ideal man and not by the brute man, that we consider him to be worth more than many sparrows—though they too have their value in His eyes—and man's existence to be of a higher type than theirs.
Thus, then, when science—which, if it is truly scientific, makes no distinction of value, moral or spiritual, between man and the sparrow—has explained that a given species which did survive was the only species that could have survived under the conditions, there still remains the problem, for those to whom it is a problem, Why should the species which was bound to survive also happen to be a species of a higher type? Why have the survivors always happened to be both better adapted to survive and better adapted to further the ideal which the course of evolution reveals with increasing clearness?
In fine, science explains only a part, not the whole of the effect of evolution. It concentrates its attention on one part or aspect of the effect, on the survival of the fittest, and explains very simply and satisfactorily that the environment kills off the creatures which are not fit to cope with it, while the fittest to contend with it survive. The fact that the survivors not only are best adapted to the environment, but are also best adapted to bringthe whole creation one step nearer to those distant ideals in expectation of which it groaneth and travaileth, is that part of the effect which science, for scientific purposes, rightly ignores. Science does not undertake to estimate the value of the effect produced, or even to consider whether when produced it has any value.
But when the question is raised as to the cost at which the process of evolution is carried on, it becomes necessary to bring into the account the value of the result attained or to be attained. Possibly, creation that groaned in her travail may rejoice that a man-child has been born. But so much depends on what her child grows into. And he has free will. We have the power now and here to dash her expectations to the ground.
The value of a thing to me is exactly what I am prepared to give or do for it. I have no other way of estimating the value of the ideals for which creation has laboured in the past, than by asking myself how far I am prepared to go for the love of truth, of fellow-beings, and of God. If I am prepared to give everything, and then count myself the gainer, then indeed I may know that the cost of evolution has not been greater than the value of the ideal: I know the highest price, and I know the feelings of those who pay it. And they are the only persons who can judge the value of the article, for they are the only people who get it. The fact,however, that they do get it, that they get it in full, and every man according to the measure with which he metes it, contains the answer to our question. What is true now was true of earlier generations and earlier men: the value of the ideal to every man was exactly what he gave for it. It is the realisation of the ideal by me that is my reward, though my object may be its realisation by others. But it is absurd to say that their gain is my loss, or that their progress has been made at my expense.
These considerations apply only of course to those men who have sacrificed themselves for the sake of progress and the love of their fellow-man. Most men, however, do not sacrifice themselves much; and therefore they can hardly be brought out as martyrs to the cause of progress, as the millions who have perished by the wayside in the march of evolution.
It is not until we introduce the element of material progress that it becomes possible to maintain with any plausibility that there is a divergency of interests between the contributors to it, or that they who sowed have been sacrificed to us who reap. It is when we compare the shivering savage with our sheltered civilisation, primitive man's struggle for existence with civilised man's enjoyment of existence, that we begin to be anxious about the cost of evolution—that is to say, that our little faith in the value of the ideal begins to torment us. In our unreadiness to sacrifice ourselves we forget that it is possiblefor civilised man also to make sacrifices—perhaps the greater because he has the more to forego—and that the savage has his tribal traditions, embodying his ideal of a good man, to live up to; his tribal customs, which he may violate with self-reproach, or fulfil with satisfaction; his conceptions of the truth about man's relations to the past, the world, and the supernatural. The savage also has his ideal, which he sets above his pleasure, and for which he faces pain in many a cruel rite. Shall we say that its realisation is no reward to him? or that in realising it he does not as faithfully contribute his mite to the fulfilment of the Divine purpose as we? We make too much of our superiority. We make, also, too little of the savage's enjoyment of existence. Take the lowest savages known to us, the native tribes of Central Australia, and turn to the most recent and the best accounts of their manner of life; and it is certain that their existence is enjoyed by them. Is ours without exception enjoyed by us?
If it is easy to be led by sentimentalism into mistakes about what our fellow-man thinks of the question whether life is worth living, it is still easier to be misled with regard to our fellow-creatures lower in the scale. Here all is conjecture, and it is on this uncertain ground that rests the charge brought against Nature of waste and cruelty. There is the cruelty with which, in order to secure the survival of the few and fittest, the environment killsoff the many who are unfit—an argument of great force, if the survivors were immortal. There is the waste of bringing into life thousands of creatures unfit, and therefore doomed to a speedy extinction. But death is the common lot; and as for waste and failure, if the short-lived creatures fulfil their purpose, they are not failures; and if their purpose is by competition to force the development of the potentially fit, then they fulfil their purpose. A man may be entered for a race for no other purpose than to force the pace. As for happiness, wild animals, to judge by their usual fit condition and by the evidence of sportsmen, do enjoy existence. But they, at any rate, have no ideals—whatever the savage may have. Yet it is conceivable that the bird that builds its nest finds some satisfaction in doing so, and that the animal that lays down her life to save her young ones has some sense of love. What is revealed as the ideal in man may be inchoately manifested as instinct in the undeveloped consciousness of the animal. If so, then the animal's life has independent value and is not merely valuable as a means to a distant future end.
To sum up: science declines to take the teleological view of Nature, or to admit final causes or ends. To speak, therefore, of survival in the struggle for existence as an end, may be excellent sense, but it is unscientific: it implies an assumption of a kind about which science is agnostic. If we do, however,make this one deviation from agnosticism, we have then no difficulty in showing that evolution is a failure, for its end is survival, and we all die; and there is no compensation, or, if there is, posterity gets it, not we—an aggravation of the original injustice.
If survival in the struggle for existence is the only end that we personally recognise in the conduct of our own lives, we are quite consistent in judging it to be the only end of other lives, and in condemning the Universe, for then there is neither goodness nor any wisdom in it.
On the other hand, our faith in that wisdom and goodness is not genuine so long as we are prepared to stake only our arguments on it, and not our lives.
Evolution, as a scientific theory, is a description of the process by which the totality of things has come to be what it is. The method employed is that of science, and proceeds upon the assumption of the uniformity of Nature and the universality of the law of causation. The existence of a thing is proof that the conditions necessary to produce it preceded it. Thus from what is we infer with certainty what has been: the occurrence of Z is proof that Y preceded, and so from Y we can infer X, and so on, to the beginning of the alphabet. Eventually, that is, we are carried back, in theory at least, to an initial arrangement of things which not only gave birth to the actual order of evolution, but was such that no other order of events could have followed from it. Were it possible, in fact, to get back to this original collocation of causes and to formulate it, the formula would explain the universe as it is and has been, the totality of things.
Unfortunately the formula, though it would explain everything else, would not explain itself, andwould therefore, so far, fail to explain anything. Or, to put it in other words, though certain causes, collocated in the proper way, would, on this view of evolution, explain everything which ensued from that collocation, we should still want to know why the causes were collocated in that particular way rather than in any other. To say that that collocation was not the outcome of a previous collocation is really to say that there was originally no antecedent necessity why this or any other order of evolution should take place at all; that Z hangs on Y, Y on X ... and A on nothing at all; that the formula which is to render all things intelligible is itself unmeaning. Or, if we say that things had no beginning—matter and force being indestructible—then there is no initial collocation, that is to say, no formula, even in theory, to explain all things: we cannot even imagine the process of evolution to be intelligible.
The latter seems to be preferred by science as the final result of scientific knowledge: the object of science is to demonstrate, not why, but that things happen in a certain way; and it is admitted, or rather insisted upon,e.g.by J. S. Mill, that if scientific knowledge were carried to its utmost conceivable or inconceivable perfection, the question why anything should happen or does happen would remain as great a mystery as ever, and must remain so, for the simple reason that it is a question whichscience does not even put, much less attempt to answer. Nevertheless, it is said, science does prove what she undertakes to show, viz. that things do happen in certain ways, which ways when formulated appear as laws of science. That, however, is not strictly the case if science, in order to prove her conclusions, has to postulate that each and every state of things is the outcome of some antecedent necessity. Ultimately the postulate proves untrue; for there can have been no necessity antecedent to the initial arrangement of things. And if the postulate be untrue, the conclusions based on it cannot be accepted as certain. If we cannot tell whether it be true or not, neither can we tell whether science be true or not. If it is unintelligible, no wonder that things, as explained by it, are mysterious.
But let us waive these theoretical objections. Does Science, as a matter of fact, prove that things do happen in the ways she describes? In justice to her, let us remember that she does not undertake to do even that. Her laws only state the way in which things tend to happen, not the way in which they actually do happen; only what would happen if there were no counteracting causes and if certain conditions, which do not prevail, did prevail—not what does really happen in the world as we know it. Herein the scientific reason behaves in exactly the same way as the moral or religious reason.Science no more alleges that all bodies in motion do move for ever in the same straight line, at the same rate, than the moral reason alleges that all men always do what is right or that they always do God's will. The allegation is that the tendency exists and can be discerned by those qualified to form an opinion on the matter. That there is friction retarding the movement, and that there are obstacles diverting it, is admitted; and, though the admission does not affect the truth (in one way) of the laws of science, it does allow that they convey no exact or faithful picture of what actually happens in the world as it is.
But if the laws of science do not explain what happens—even in the limited sense of scientific explanation—they are the indispensable preliminary to that explanation. If they do not represent the world as it is, they supply the means by which we may hereafter produce the picture. They are ideals not in the sense that science hopes to show eventually that feathers only appear to float leisurely to the ground, and are really all the time falling sixteen feet in a second, but in the sense that starting from the gravitation formula we could show that every feather's fall is as rationally comprehensible as the gravitation formula itself. They are not the ultimate truth, the final reality, or Science's supreme ideal. They are shadows cast by the scientific ideal before its coming; they are theprinciples by which science must proceed, if she is to make the world of things intelligible. So, too, the reality of the moral ideal does not imply that, in refusing to make sacrifices for others, I only appear to be selfish, and shall be found in the end really to have been actuated all the time by some high moral principle. What is implied is that only by the acceptance of the moral ideal can the world of men be moralised. From the same point of view it seems hopeless to try to make out that atheism, though not in appearance, will be found in reality to have been a manifestation of religion. It is by accepting, not by denying the religious ideal or doubting its existence, that the ideal of religion is achieved.
Now, in the theory of evolution we have the attempt made to effect this transition from the abstractions of science to the concrete facts, to show that the world as presented to sense is as intelligible and rationally comprehensible as the laws of science themselves, and that the hypothetical statements of science were but preliminary, though necessary preliminaries, to a categorical statement of actual facts. In evolution, as indeed in all the historical sciences, we abandon the elasticity and the uncertainty of conditional conceptions for the rigidity and certainty of accomplished fact. We no longer deal with what may happen if given conditions are realised, but with what has been, and therefore issubject to no "ifs." We start from the certainty of what is, and thus we argue back positively to what must have been.
There is, however, one precaution which must be observed, and without which the whole of the system just described is as uncertain and conditional as the rest of science. Before we can argue from what is to what has been, we must first know for certain what is. Before we can conclude that a patient has been healed by faith or cured miraculously of an incurable complaint, we must first have medical evidence to show that he had the disease. Or, to take a better and closer illustration from medicine, it is premature to assign a cause for a patient's condition before his condition has been diagnosed; and physicians who differ in their diagnosis will naturally differ as to the causes in the patient's past history which are responsible for his state.
If, then, the evolutionist is to attain accuracy in his description of the process by which the totality of things has come to be what it is, he must first know what it is. Before we can trace the evolution of morality, for instance, we must make up our minds as to what it is. If we regard it as an illusion, we shall hold that it is subject to the same laws as other illusions, and we shall have no difficulty in showing that its evolution was a necessary consequence of those laws. Or, again, if we hold that religion is mere foolery or hysteria, we shallnaturally infer a very different process for its evolution than if we feel it to be a permanent manifestation of the common consciousness in the same sense that morality is. A distinguished German mythologist, starting from the former diagnosis, has no difficulty in evolving primitive religion out of primitive drunkenness.
In fine, if we regard "what is" as giving the data by which we are to determine what has been, it is clear that to understand what has been we must properly appreciate what is. This is in accordance with the conclusion which we have reached previously that it is only by studying its effects that we can properly understand a cause. To judge a thing properly we must know the effects it is capable of producing: to know what a thing is we must observe what it becomes or what it is capable of becoming at its best. We cannot judge the value of the moral character or the moral ideal fairly if we take a low specimen to go by; nor if we knew nothing more of morality than what we could observe of its rudiments in the higher animals, should we know much about it. It is by its highest manifestations that we most correctly judge either morality or art, and it is only through them that we can be properly said even to understand what either art or morality is. So, too, taking the religious ideal as love of God and man, we must judge religion not by its imperfect manifestationsin imperfect beings, but by its perfect revelation and realisation in Christ.
The case is not otherwise with science or evolution itself. From primitive times man has always used his knowledge (however imperfect) of what is as the basis of speculations as to what has been. It would, however, be absurd to take the puerile and barbarous cosmogonies of the savage as adequate expressions of the scientific ideal, or to imagine that it is from them that we can judge what science is. It is no less unreasonable to judge the theory of evolution by its present, passing phase. In the first place, there are facts in its history which show that it naturally started with a partial and one-sided view of the facts. In the next place, we must judge it not by what it may be at its worst, but by what it is capable of becoming at its best; and it is by the latter that we must decide what evolution truly is, not by the former.
At its worst the theory of evolution may require us to believe that the whole process of evolution is essentially irrational—being the outcome of unintelligent forces operating on reasonless matter—and that the theory of evolution, accordingly, if faithful to the facts, is as irrational as they; or, if rational, is a misleading account of the real universe in which we live and move and have our being.
On the other hand, the theory at its best may require us to believe that it reveals a universe run on rational principles, a real world perfectly intelligible to perfect reason, and partially intelligible even to beings who share but partially in the Divine reason that animates the whole.
Both theories, however, base themselves upon what is, and profess that their conclusions follow logically from it. If, then, they differ in their conclusions it is because they differ in their diagnosis of what is. Both admit the existence of faith; but one regards faith as a fact in the pathology of human reason, the other regards it as the normal mode of our common reason's operation. The latter, therefore, requires to postulate causes which will account for the correctness of the common faith of mankind; the latter, causes which have resulted in the common illusion of mankind.
It seems, then, that even in evolution we do not escape after all from the indeterminate and conditional knowledge, which science offers, to the absolute certainty of accomplished fact. Every theory of the past history of the world is just as conditional, just as much dependent on an "if," as the hypothetical laws of science, for any such theory is dependent on the view it takes of what is, and is correct only if that view is correct.
The theories of evolution which we have called theOptimistic and the Pessimistic interpretations of evolution are avowedly based on the assumption that a large part of the common faith of mankind is a mental or moral disease. According to Mr. Herbert Spencer the faith that we can know what is real is an illusion: the Real is the Unknowable. According to Professor Huxley the common faith in the freedom of the will is an illusion: necessity is the law of the uniformity both of Nature and of human nature. In thus declining to accept the testimony of the moral and religious consciousness as evidence of what is, both philosophers were influenced by the belief that it is science alone which is capable of ascertaining and demonstrating what is and what actually does happen. This belief, however, we have ventured to suggest, overlooks two facts. One is that the abstract sciences do not even profess to state what actually does happen: they simply affirm that, if the conditions stated in their various laws are the only conditions operative, the only result will be that stated by the particular law in question. Thus science does not concern itself with what is or does happen, but solely with what would be or would happen under certain (usually impossible) conditions. The other point overlooked is that the historical or comparative sciences are also only hypothetically true. All that their laws undertake to demonstrate is that, if certain consequences constitute the whole of an observed effect, then theonly conditions antecedently operative were those stated in the law. Here too, then, science does not even claim to prove what is or demonstrate what does happen, but assumes that we know it or find it out, in some way with which science does not concern itself. If we do know and can know what is, science can tell us what were the conditions that produced it.
The question, then, that we have to put to any theory of evolution—that is, to any theory which professes to state the process by which the totality of things has come to be what it is—is, "Does it account for that totality? do the causes which it assumes to have been at work account for all that is?" Now,a prioriit was not to be expected that evolution would in its infancy, and it is still young, succeed in accounting for all things; and there were special reasons in the circumstances under which it first took its modern scientific shape which necessarily limited its earliest attempts to grasp the totality of things. It would, however, be absurd to judge the principle by the first attempt to apply it, and to condemn it because it has not done in a moment what with time it assuredly will succeed in effecting. At the same time, it can only effect that wider success by refusing to stereotype its first errors and by declining to bind itself to the dogma that what it has succeeded in explaining is all that there is to explain, or that that alone is or happens which its present assumptionsor laws are capable of accounting for. There lies the danger which threatens to check the further development of the theory of evolution—in the dogmatism which pretends to set aside common sense and the common reason, and arrogates to itself the sole right of saying what is; and succeeds in doing so by the simple but circular argument that that alone is or happens which can be accounted for by the laws that regulate the movements of things in space or that follow from the struggle for animal existence.
Historically, the theory of evolution in its first manifestation was an extension to the historical sciences generally of a purely biological conception, that of the origin of species as a consequence of the struggle for existence. It was found that much else in the manifold of what is, many other differences between related things, besides the differences which mark off one species of animals from another, might be accounted for, historically, by the theory that those differences were but the sum and the accumulation of an infinite number of small modifications which had given the thing an advantage over its rivals in the struggle for existence. Strictly speaking, all that this remarkable and wide-reaching discovery implied as a matter of logic was that between animals and things not animal there existed an analogy or resemblance, in virtue of which it was logical to argue from things animal to thingsnot animal just so far as the resemblance between them went, but not further. Very naturally, however, it happened that with this originally biological conception all its biological implications were taken over, and it was (and is) argued not merely that there are great and fruitful resemblances between, say, society and an animal organism, but that societies are animal organisms. In fine, sociology was treated as a department of biology. The fallacy that science demonstrates what is, and that what science does not account for has no real existence, thus made its appearance simultaneously with the birth of the evolution theory. The resemblances between the evolution of the social organism and of animal organisms could be accounted for by the biological theory of the struggle for existence; the differences, therefore, must be denied or laboriously explained away. With the growth of sociology, however, it is becoming apparent that the evolution of society has laws, some of which do indeed coincide with those of animal evolution, but others of which are peculiar to sociology in the same sense as the laws of chemistry are distinct from those of physics. Sociology is accordingly revolting from its bondage to biology: the plain fact that society is not an animal is beginning to make itself felt. The resemblances between the organisation of society and that of an animal are freely admitted, but the differences are beginning to claim consideration also;and the sound doctrine is beginning to assert itself that by experience alone, experience of what is, and not by anya prioridogmatism as to what in the name of science must be, can we tell how far the resemblances extend as a matter of fact and where the differences begin. That the evolution theory must be the gainer by thus admitting the facts instead of denying their existence is clear; if sociology is not a branch of biology, and yet the two sciences have certain laws in common, a great step is at once taken towards demonstrating the existence of certain general principles of evolution which are higher than the laws of either, or perhaps than of any, particular science.
The tendency of the scientific theories prevailing for the moment to deny the existence of what they cannot, for the moment, account for, is exemplified in another way by the theory of the survival of the fittest. It was shown by Darwin that, granted the tendency to variation in animals, the struggle for existence was enough in its results—as he had the genius to discern them—to account for the origin of species. The struggle for existence is a fact, and thus animal evolution was based on what is, on positive fact. To apply the same process of argument to human and social evolution was perfectly scientific and legitimate. What is neither scientific nor legitimate is to maintain, explicitly or implicitly, that the totality of human activity is engaged andexhausted in the struggle for existence. Self-preservation is undoubtedly a powerful instinct, but it is not the only instinct even of animals, and is not always the most powerful in man—or in the brute. That there are resemblances between man and his fellow-creatures, the brutes, and that so far as those resemblances extend, man and the animals have been, and are, subject to the same laws of evolutions, are facts which may be heartily admitted, but which neither authorise us to deny the existence of specifically human peculiarities, nor warrant us in trying to deduce the differences from a law which applies only to the resemblances. If the evolution theory is to state the process by which the totality of things has come to be what it is, it must begin by facing the whole of the facts—in this case by admitting that not only have the fittest to survive survived, as is natural in a struggle for existence, but that progress, æsthetic, ethical, and religious, has been made.
The denial of this fact may either be open and avowed, as, for instance, when the reality of the religious ideal is formally denounced; or it may be tacit and implied, as, for instance, when moral progress is defined as adaptation to environment,i.e.as not progress at all, or when the freedom of the will is denied,i.e.when approximation to the ethical ideal is maintained to be a thing not under our control. Tacit or avowed, this denial proceeds upon the fallacy that the laws of science, as understoodand formulated at any particular moment, are the sole test and constitute our only knowledge of what is. But the interests both of the common sense of mankind and that specially organised form of common sense which we know as science require a protest against that fallacy: it is opposed to the principle on which scientific knowledge rests, and it would be fatal, if acted upon, to all further development of that knowledge.
The principle upon which science rests is that its laws are capable of verification, and that they are verified when and if they are confirmed by experience. The final appeal of science is to the evidence of consciousness, the only evidence of what is that we possess: the only evidence of the truth and accuracy with which an eclipse has been calculated is the evidence of our senses that the eclipse does take place and is visible in the place and at the time predicted. If a hypothesis predicts results which as a matter of observation do not take place, the hypothesis is judged so far inaccurate or inadequate: what is over-rides our preconceived opinions, even if they be the hypotheses of science, as to what ought to be or will be. It is the ever-open appeal to the final court of fact, of what is, that condemns false assumptions, guarantees the truth of science, and safeguards the freedom of scientific inquiry. To allow any group of men, however eminent, or any body of science, however sound,to deprive us of this right of appeal and bid us disbelieve in the evidence of our own senses, if it contradicts their theories, would be to submit to the tyranny of dogmatism, and to be faithless to the cause of truth.
Fortunately, though the unconscious and therefore ill-considered metaphysics of some men of science have tended in the direction of scientific dogmatism, the practice of science has been in the opposite direction. In practice science has owed much of her progress to the study of "residual phenomena." Phenomena which the laws of science for the moment could not account for have not been denounced as illusions, or ruled out of court as non-existent or beneath the notice of science: they have been accepted as facts, as part of the totality of things which it is the ambition of science to account for; and, accepted as such, they have led, it may be, to the discovery of a new planet or a new element, but always to the discovery of fresh truths, which never would have enriched the page of science had science refused to take cognisance of facts the laws of which it had not at the time discovered.
In demanding, then, that any theory which professes to account for the totality of things should recognise the fact of ethical and æsthetic progress, and that all progress is willed and purposed, we are seeking not to cramp science but to enlarge its bounds, not to introduce a new scientific method,but to extend the application of existing methods, and to carry out the principle on which the truth of science and the freedom of scientific inquiry are based. The laws which enable the physicist to explain the mechanical action and reaction of things do not suffice to explain the reactions studied by the chemist. The laws of chemistry are inadequate for the purposes of the biologist. It is but an extension of the same principle when the student of the anthropological sciences finds it necessary to assume, or rather discovers, that the laws of animal existence do not wholly account for everything that man does; and it is to these sciences that we must look for the next important and fruitful modification of the general theory of evolution. It is to them, dealing as they do with the highest product of evolution, that we must look for the truest interpretation of evolution. On the principle that to understand what a thing is we must not reduce it to its lowest terms, but look at it in its highest manifestation, we must judge the evolution process by its highest phase, by all that it is capable of, and not by the least we can, by scientific abstraction, leave in it. And the sciences which, merely to maintain their scientific existence, have a vital interest in insisting on the reality of will and purpose as causes which have influenced the direction of the evolution process are the sciences which deal with man.
Those who find it easy to believe that a society is an animal, like those who proclaim that the real is unknowable, but that our knowledge of it is just as good as if it were not unknowable, will have little difficulty in believing that men's actions are not influenced by their purposes; and both will probably subscribe to the doctrine that, first, approximation to the ideal is an unintended result of the brute struggle for mere animal existence; and, next, the purpose which appears to mark the evolution process and to be the cause of progress is semblance only, a mere illusion. Against the first article of this doctrine the final and decisive appeal is and always must be to experience. It makes a general statement with regard to particular facts of experience: like every other statement made in the form of a scientific law, it affirms that a certain proposition will be found, when tested by experience, to be true of every one of a certain class of facts in our experience. It is therefore competent for every man, who chooses to consult his experience, to decide for himself whether the statement is true. In the present case, it is for every man, who has struggled with temptation and has achieved any progress, to say whether he gained the victory without an effort of will, without any desire for better things, without any purpose or resolution to try once more, without any intention not to yield the next time. Are "secret commissions" in trade refused, when refused,unintentionally? or is their refusal due solely to the blind instinct of self-preservation in the struggle for commercial existence? If reform is effected, will it be effected by those who declare that the severity of the struggle for existence makes reform impossible? or by those in whom the ideal of honesty has some operative force and who purpose approximation to that ideal? When the conviction is expressed that public opinion alone will be able to check this form of dishonesty, what is that but an appeal to the common sense and common faith that there are other things which man can will and purpose besides success in the struggle for existence?
The doctrine that the universe presents the mere semblance of purpose, that Nature mimics purpose, having none, is shared by materialistic systems in common with all those which consider that the only explanation that can be rendered of any given state of things is the assumption that it is the issue of some antecedent necessity which produced it. As we have already argued, the assumption of necessity as the ultimate explanation of things breaks down when we come to consider the beginning of the universe. If we assume an absolute beginning, then there can have been no necessity antecedent to that, and the beginning of things is left without explanation. On the other hand, to say that there never was any beginning is to admit that there never was any original necessity why things shouldfollow the course of evolution which they have pursued—the initial collocation of causes was due to chance, was a purely fortuitous concurrence of atoms. When it is remarked that this is a strange assumption, that really, if the whole evolution process had been designed to reach the stage in which we know it and to attain the ideal which we surmise it to be capable of, the primeval atoms could not have been arranged better for the purpose, the reply is that the appearance of purpose is a delusion: true, as a matter of chance, the chances are millions to one against a fortuitous concurrence of atoms producing the evolution process that has taken place, but then the chances were just as great, neither more nor less, against any other of the millions of evolution processes that might have been evolved. We know the one that has taken place, and it is marvellous in our eyes that precisely this and no other should have occurred; but the wonder vanishes when we reflect that, had any other occurred, we should have been equally convinced, and equally erroneously convinced, that it could not have been produced by chance. The initial arrangement of things was, as it happened, such as to produce our evolution process: things might have chanced differently at the beginning; if they had, a different evolution process would have taken place, that is all. But it would still have looked like purpose, and would still have been due to chance.
But would it? The whole question is whether the initial collocation was due to chance or to purpose. To say that there might have been many other collocations proves nothing: an Almighty Power could collocate things in any of an infinite number of ways. To argue that every possible collocation, and therefore the one that produced our evolution process, must be due to chance, is simply to beg the question: the very thing we want to know is whether this or any other process could be due to chance. The argument that any and every other process would equally testify to purpose and equally imply design, seems rather to indicate that no conceivable evolution process could conceivably be due to chance.
Next, the necessitarian argument lays it down that the marvel of evolution vanishes when we reflect that if things had been different at the beginning, the results would have been different. But they were not. And the fact that they were not is just the marvel which the necessitarian does not even explain away: in order to diminish the probability of purpose, he postulates countless possible alternatives to the original arrangement of atoms, and then he is embarrassed with the difficulty of getting rid of them. Why was this particular collocation determined on rather than one of the countless alternatives? To say it was chance may be true; but we want to know what reason there is for believing it to betrue. If there is none, then neither is there any reason for believing the purpose that makes the evolution process to be an illusion.
But let us grant it was chance: chance, as everyone knows, is merely a name for our ignorance as to the real cause; so that to say it was due to chance is to say that, for anything we know to the contrary, the original concurrence of atoms may have been due to purpose. In a word, there is, on the theory of chance, no reason to believe that purpose either is or is not an illusion.
It may, however, be said that not only do we not know, but that we cannot know, whether it is an illusion or not. In reply we may either admit that all our knowledge—scientific, moral, and religious—is based not on knowledge, but on faith; or we may ask on what grounds this alleged impossibility is based. If we put that question, we shall find that the grounds are not altogether cogent. It is alleged to be equally impossible for the human mind to conceive either the existence or the non-existence of a necessity antecedent to the absolute beginning of things: therefore, in face of this inherent incapacity of the human mind, the truth about the beginning of things is unknowable and inconceivable. But, we venture to suggest, this alleged incapacity of the human mind rests on a false antithesis: it rests on the assumption that whatever phase of the evolution process we regard as theinitial arrangement must either have been determined by some prior phase (in which case it was not initial) or not determined at all. But as a mere matter of logic, there remains the possibility that it may have been self-determined; and, as regards the evidence of experience, we are familiar with a cause which operates every day and which is self-determined, viz. the free will. There is, therefore, no such inherent incapacity in the human mind as is alleged; and the only inconceivability is that which is inherent in the theory of antecedent necessity, and not in the facts themselves. It is simply incorrect to say that if things cannot be explained by the theory of antecedent necessity, they are not capable of being explained at all. If the evolution process had been designed to follow the course it has followed, the initial arrangement of things could not have been better adapted to produce the result; and, as adaptation of means to end is the mark of intelligence, it is neither inconceivable nor irrational to suppose that purpose was immanent in things from the beginning.
But as it is scientific to argue from the known to the unknown, or from the better known to the less known; and as to know fully what a thing is we must know what it is capable of becoming or producing, let us pass from the pre-animal to the animal stage of evolution. It is the more necessary to do this because it was Darwin's theory of the originof species which impressed upon the modern mind the idea that Nature mimics purpose, having none. Man, with the purpose of breeding a certain type of animal, selects those animals to breed from which possess, in the most marked degree, the characteristics which he wishes to develop in the offspring. But, as Darwin demonstrated, Nature, or the environment, by killing off those creatures which did not possess (or least possessed) the qualities necessary to ensure survival, "selects" animals of a certain type to breed from. Thus "natural selection" produces its results in the same way as human selection does; and presents every appearance of purpose, though the environment which produced the results could have had no intentions or purpose at all. But just as man does not create the animals which he first selects to breed from, so the environment does not create those sports or varieties which it selects to breed from: if they did not exist, neither man nor Nature could breed from them—no results, purposed or unpurposed, could be got from them.
If now we inquire about these sports, we are told science is content with the fact that they undeniably occur: wherever there are animals there are varieties in their offspring. That those which are adapted to survive will survive, and those which are not will not, is a self-evident, indeed an identical, proposition. It is; and it gives away the whole case against purpose, for it admits that some varieties are originallyadapted to survive, that without them neither man nor the environment would have anything to begin on or work on, and that though man and Nature may develop, they do not create the original adaptation. They do but promote, by conscious or unconscious action, the purpose immanent in the sport. Of all the numerous, successive, imperceptible increments by which what was originally a sport is raised to a distinct species, not one is created by man or by the environment: all are the "gratuitous offerings" of the organism, manifestations of the organism's spontaneity, revelations of its latent capacities, fulfilments of the purpose immanent in it from the beginning.
If it be said that the survival of any or every given species was a matter of chance, because other sports would have developed into other species, if the environment had been different, the reply again is, But it was not; and, on the theory of necessity, could not be. The fact that both conditions—the organism's spontaneity and the environment's selective agency—were requisite to the production of the new species, and that both conditions were forthcoming, tells rather in favour of purpose than against it. The fact that this particular combination of conditions was effected, rather than any other, is on exactly the same footing as the initial concurrence of atoms: if the latter cannot be ascribed to any necessity antecedent to it, neither can theformer; the reason of the combination is to be sought in the self-determining cause immanent in the conditions. The fact, if it be a fact, that countless other combinations were possible, and this alone was chosen, shows that the will immanent in the evolution process is free will.
In fine, Darwin has shown that the action of the environment is exactly what it would have been had it been designed for the purpose of selecting certain sports for development. All that is further necessary in order to show that this apparent purpose is an illusion, is to prove that the environment was not designed to act as it does. Pending the production of that proof, the argument remains incomplete.
The larger part of the process of evolution is known to us only from the outside: we observe its effects in the animal world and in inorganic nature, but its inner workings we have to reach by inference. One part of the evolution process, however, we know from the inside—that part which is carried on through us. We are some of the innumerable channels through which the motive force of the process is transmitted; and the knowledge which its transmission through us gives us is more intimate and direct than that which we get from observing the external effects it produces elsewhere. The evolution of society, for instance, is a part of the general process of evolution, and is a process which is carried on through us and expresses theresultant of the totality of our sentiments and actions towards one another. What light, then, if any, is thrown by sociology on the general question of purpose?
Mr. Herbert Spencer has familiarised us with the lesson that in politics and social experiments it is the unforeseen and unintended results of legislation which are far the most important, and that the industrial organisation of the country, or we may now say of the world, is not the fulfilment of any design preconceived by any governmental agency, but the unintended result of innumerable actions on the part of men who never dreamed that their action would have any such outcome. The reason of this is to be sought in the fact that society is an organism and that its growth follows the same laws as those which regulate the structural development of an am[oe]ba or a rhizopod. Thus, both society and the animal organism must be fed. To be fed, both must appropriate nutriment from the environment. That nutriment must be taken up and must be distributed to all parts of the organism, social or animal, if all parts are to be fed—and all must be fed, because all are mutually dependent, and to neglect one would disorganise the whole. Channels of communication must be established between all parts, in order that food may be conveyed from the organ which took it from the environment to the organs which require it for support. What marks the process of evolutionin both cases is the increasing division of labour and the increasing interdependence of the parts on one another. The animal organism, like the social organism, is made up of a multitude of living units, each one of which is continually adjusting itself to the requirements of all the rest. The increasing complexity in the structure of an animal organism is possible only because the living units of one part take upon themselves new functions, or devote themselves exclusively to one function, in order to benefit the units of a distant part. If they purposed or were purposed to produce that result, they could not behave differently or better. But this appearance of purpose is mere semblance: the minute cells of an animal organism have no intention of producing even a rhizopod or an am[oe]ba. The explanation of this mimicry of purpose lies in the fact of the mutual interdependence of the parts: no change can take place in one organ of society or of the animal without being transmitted through the whole, just as you cannot remove one of the undermost of a cartload of bricks without more or less disturbing all the rest. But what is true of the bricks or of the units of the animal organism is true of the units of the social organism: what we discover in their action and reaction on one another is the operation, not of voluntary purpose, but of invariable laws of cause and effect.