University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
ARGUMENT FROM SPECIAL ADAPTATIONS.

I HAVE endeavored thus far in this course of lectures to present a few of the prominent illustrations of the attributes of God, which have been discovered in the adaptations of the atmosphere to the conditions of organic life on the earth. We have read together one brief chapter of that evidence of design with which the book of nature is filled, and I cannot but trust that we have gained from our study nobler conceptions and more enlarged views of the wisdom, power, and goodness of our Heavenly Father. Every one who accepts the Bible as a divine revelation will rejoice to find how beautifully and how entirely the facts of science confirm its great fundamental truths. But have not these evidences of nature a greater value even than this? Do they not prove, independently of all revelation, the existence of a wise and omnipotent First Cause, at least so far as there is any moral certainty in the world? I am persuaded that they do, and I believe that they furnish the only logical ground on which a system of revealed religion can be based. In my introductory lecture I stated that I preferred to

discuss the adaptations of nature as illustrations of the attributes of God, rather than as absolute proofs of His being; but now that we have surveyed the ground, let us consider whether they are not really moral proofs, with all the certainty that any proof not strictly a mathematical demonstration can give.

The argument from adaptation is one which addresses itself to every human being. It is suited to every intellect, and comes home to every man's experience. It is based on a principle of the human mind,—whether the result of experience or of intuition we need not inquire,—which compels it to infer design when it sees adaptation. Who doubts that the flint arrow-heads and stone implements found in New England, rough and misshapen as they are, were made by men? To question the universal belief would be regarded as little short of insanity. Why then not apply the same common sense to the interpretation of nature? The unlettered do, and believe, in their simple faith, that the feathered songster and the delicate flower were made by their Heavenly Father's hand. It is only those of us whose minds have been unsettled by the subtilties of logic who doubt, and, if we could analyze our doubts, I think they would be found, in most cases, to arise from a vague fear that, since nature stands on a level so much above man's experience, the ordinary principles of reasoning may possibly not apply, and we may be misled by apparent analogies. But why this fear? There is no essential difference between the adaptations found in nature and the adaptations made by men. Both employ means to

attain some important result, and in many cases they secure the end by precisely the same means. The telescope and microscope are but reproductions of the eye, and imitate in all their essential features this beautiful optical apparatus of nature. [*] It is true that the adaptations of nature are vastly superior to the results of human skill, and it is also true that their origin is beyond our personal experience. We have seen the process of making a watch and the process of making a telescope. We know how the principles of both were discovered, and the whole subject lies within the range of our experience; but no man ever made or ever can make an eye, and the whole process of its growth and development is utterly beyond the range even of man's conception. All this is true; but if you reflect a moment, you will find that this is just what is to be expected, seeing that God is the Creator and we are His creatures, and so far from weakening, this very characteristic greatly strengthens the evidence. Moreover, it must be remembered that, if the design is of an infinitely higher order, the evidence of the design is infinitely more ample. A rude, misshapen image is a convincing evidence of human intelligence; but all nature, with its numberless adaptations—from the properties of the crude elements up to the wonderful structure of the human frame—is given us as evidence of the wisdom of God.

The argument from the adaptations of nature is of the kind we call cumulative. Its force depends on the concurrence of many and varied examples. It is not based on one isolated case of adaptation, or even on a thousand; but there is a host of conditions, which no man can number, each adjusted to each, and all bound together in one harmonious whole. Consider only the examples we have discovered in the very narrow field to which we have limited our study. How numberless are the conditions on which the harmonious working of the varied functions of the atmosphere depends! In the first place, there is the expansive tendency of the air, sustained by the solar heat, and restrained by the force of gravity, by which alone it is held to the surface of the globe. Then there is the density, exactly adjusted to the human organism, and depending on the measures and weights of the solar system. Next there are all the delicate relations to light, heat, and electricity. Passing to the separate constituents of the atmosphere, there is oxygen, with its three distinct modifications, endowed with fiery affinities, and yet so carefully guarded as to be a beneficent servant of man, intrusted with most varied and seemingly incompatible functions, and discharging

each with equal fidelity and precision; next, there is water, nourishing all nature with its dews and rains, tempering the polar climates with the latent warmth of its genial currents, and protecting with its great frost-blanket the delicate plants from the winter's cold,—exceptional in all its qualities, and each adapted to some beneficent end; then comes carbonic dioxide, concealing in its transparent folds the solid framework of all organized beings, and the source of those priceless beds of coal, with their inexhaustible stores of heat and force; and lastly, but not least in interest or importance, there is nitrogen, so remarkably inert, and yet endowed with such varied affinities, forming such numberless compounds, and imparting to all such singular instability. As we thus hastily review the ground we have surveyed together, you will recall the numerous adaptations we discovered while studying the wonderful cycles of change in which all these substances conspire, wheel revolving within wheel, and yet all moving with such delicacy and beauty of adjustment that no jar is felt through all this complicated mechanism, and not the slightest derangement occurs in any of its ten thousand parts.

Now the argument for design unfolded in this brief chapter of the book of nature comes home to us with the cumulative weight of all this testimony. Perhaps plausible objections might be urged against individual examples of adaptation which have been advanced; but any one who questions the general fact must be prepared to disprove all. Were there but a single instance of adaptation, or only two or

three, the sceptic might urge with a show of reason that this was the result of accident,—arose from the "fortuitous concourse of atoms''; but the examples of adaptations which we have discovered merely in the atmosphere, all interlacing with each other, and all working together in the general scheme, are by themselves alone so great a number that, if we take no higher ground than the mathematical theory of probabilities, the chances against the supposition that this system, even as we know it, was the result of accident, are almost infinite, and can be expressed numerically only when the sands on the sea-shore are counted. If such, then, is the weight of the evidence which the atmosphere gives, what must be the force of the argument in which all nature gives its united testimony? Truly, the number of atoms in the universe is not sufficiently large to express the probabilities against this forlorn hope of atheism!

But, my friends, the sceptic should be heard, and, having presented our side, let us listen to what he has to say in reply. The whole argument from special adaptations may be summed up in a few words. Within the sphere of human experience, adaptation proves the existence of an intelligence adequate to the conception and execution of the design. We find in nature adaptations similar to the results of human intelligence, only of an infinitely higher order, and hence by analogy we conclude that these must have issued from an infinitely wise and omnipotent Designer. The argument assumes the reality of the human intelligence as consciously

a power and an originator within its own sphere, and reasons from this to a similar conscious intelligence in the Author of nature. The argument assumes, also, the truthfulness of the human faculties as a source of knowledge, without which it is of course useless to reason at all.

Now the adaptions of nature are facts which every one must admit, the sceptic among the rest. Moreover, he must also admit that the conclusion which we have drawn from these premises is the all but universal conclusion of mankind. Plutarch, writing eighteen centuries ago, without the light of the Christian revelation, bears this remarkable testimony to the universality of the religious idea: "If you go through the world, you may find cities without walls, without letters, without rulers, without dwellings, without wealth, without money, without theatres and manly sports; but there was never yet seen, nor shall be seen, by man a single city without temples and gods, or without prayers, oaths, prophecies, and sacrifices, used to obtain blessings and benefits, or to avert curses and calamities. Nay, I am of opinion that a city might be sooner built without any ground beneath it, than a commonwealth could be constituted altogether destitute of belief in the gods, or, being constituted, could be preserved.'' [*]The discoveries of modern travellers

have not more fully confirmed the general truth of Plutarch's statement, than the experiments of modern socialists have proved the soundness of his opinion. No savage tribe has yet been found on which a belief in a higher power has not at least glimmered, and no community which has attempted to ignore religion has lasted a century. The sceptic, then, if he rejects our conclusion, is bound to prove that the natural inference of man is based in error. If he sets aside the general rule of faith, and refuses assent to the universal creed,—"Quod semper, quod ubique, quod ab omnibus creditum est,'' [*]—he must explain, whatever theory he may adopt, how it comes to pass that all mankind have been duped, and all nature has issued in a lie. The burden of proof is with him, and how does he meet it? Generally in one of two ways.

In the first place, he attacks the validity of the conclusion on purely speculative grounds, saying that adaptation is no longer an evidence of design when applied to subjects beyond the range of all human experience. He may urge, and urge with reason, that in nature we have no sure criterion by which we can distinguish between means and ends, between what is cause and what is effect. He may support this position by questioning, with Hume, the competency of the human faculties as a source

of knowledge, or, like Comte, he may deny all knowledge of final causes, and maintain that there is no evidence of anything behind the external phenomena of nature; but whatever form the scepticism may assume, the conclusion is the same, and the argument for design is ruled out as invalid.

With regard to this position I have only a few words to say. Design in nature, I admit, cannot be demonstrated, for the truths of natural religion cannot be evolved from a mathematical formula. The argument is based on analogy, and although the analogies are so close and so broad that, to my mind, they amount to moral proofs, and the conclusion appears as certain as any theorem of geometry, still I admit that the evidence is probable, and not demonstrative. But as a student of physical science it is not my business to defend the credibility of the human faculties, or to discuss the doctrine of causation. The task belongs to the metaphysicians, and, as I stated in my first lecture, I shall not encroach on their peculiar province. Nor do I think it important to dwell on the value of analogical reasoning. Modern writers have not been able to add much to Bishop Butler's masterly discussion of the subject, and every man, however sceptical he may be in his speculative opinions, must admit, with the author of "The Analogy,'' that "probability is the very guide of life.'' One consideration, however, may be of value in answering objections, namely, that since the difficulties which are found in natural theology reappear with equal strength in all departments of knowledge, no objections can be reasonably

urged against the methods of the former, which do not apply equally well to our most familiar processes of thought. It may be fairly presumed that such objections are more apparent than real, and that they indicate not the inconsequence of our logic, but only the necessary limitations of our faculties.

Now analogy is not only the guide of common life, but it is also the basis on which physical science chiefly rests; and if this method of reasoning be disallowed, all the results of science beyond those of mere observation and demonstration must fall with it. It is frequently said, that scientific truth can be demonstrated, but religious truth must be accepted on faith; and in part this is true; but the statement is one of those loose sayings whose partial truth only renders the latent error more dangerous. No word is more frequently misused than "demonstration.'' Technically, this term only applies to that form of absolute proof with which we deal in geometry or pure logic; but, popularly, a principle is said to be demonstrated when all that can be claimed for it is a high degree of moral certainty. In this double use of the term the error of the above statement lies, for it is made in one sense, and—frequently at least—understood in the other. Truth wholly new is never reached by the methods of demonstration; for demonstration cannot yield what is not already implied in the premises with which it starts. The truths of geometry and mechanics may be demonstrated; but then they are virtually contained in the axioms and definitions on which these sciences rest. All scientific generalization

is based on analogy; and moreover, a great mass of the scientific truth which lies within the range of direct observation we owe to the same principle; for even here analogy directed the student to what he subsequently observed.

Indeed, the great inspiring and directing power in the minds of the successful investigators of nature is the force of analogy. It is this which constantly leads them to pronounce conclusions unsound, although apparently sustained by experiment, and to accept others which are seemingly at variance with facts. It is this which leads them through long and laborious investigations to establish principles which they believe to be true, and sustains them in their efforts through successive failures—to ultimate success. As indefinite and uncertain as the analogies of nature frequently seem to be, as unsatisfactory as they may appear to the great mass of mankind, and as impossible as it is to make them intelligible except to those already versed in scientific inquiries, yet the history of science shows that, when based on an extended knowledge and a mature experience, they very seldom lead astray.

The method of scientific discovery is frequently misunderstood, and the philosophy of Bacon, however important in correcting old abuses, has done not a little towards creating the misapprehension. Many persons seem to think that the author of the Novum Organum gave to man a rule, by which, with the aid of a sort of mechanical logic called induction, the laws of nature may be discovered very much as a last is turned out by a lathe. Yet

nothing could be further from the truth. So far as the observation of phenomena is concerned,—which must always be the occupation of the great mass of scientific men,—the methods are as mechanical as those of other learned professions, requiring chiefly a quick eye, a delicate touch, a ready perception, and, most of all, a clear head capable of discriminating between the accidentals and the essentials, which are always singularly blended in natural phenomena. But the great generalizations, which form the framework of knowledge, are not reached by rule; nor, as a general thing, are they in their inception of slow growth. On the contrary, they usually come like intuitions to the mind, with the rapidity of the lightning's flash, and it is frequently possible to mark the day and the hour when the revelation was made. But such revelations of scientific truth are vouchsafed only to those highly favored minds which through long study and patient investigation have been brought into perfect sympathy with the harmonies of nature; and if we analyze the conditions of the mental process, we shall find that these great discoveries are really the result of analogical reasoning.

But although the conception is thus sudden, the verification of the truth is frequently long and laborious. Great discoveries are not achieved in an hour or a day. Nature has so concealed her truths, and surrounded them by so many adventitious circumstances, that they can be disclosed to the world only after long and careful study. First comes the conception, afterwards the toilsome investigation by

which it is proved that the facts of nature accord with the generalization. The investigation may lead to a great modification of the original idea, or may show that it must be wholly abandoned, and meanwhile another may have taken its place, to go through the same scrutiny in its turn; but still the conception which proves to be the law of nature is the real discovery. This, as we have seen, is the result of analogy, and most clearly vindicates the relationship of the mind of man to the Intelligence whence issued the universe.

Every great scientific generalization will illustrate more or less clearly the principles here stated. It is true that many minds frequently concur in developing one grand idea, and the evolution may occupy so long an interval of time that the new truth appears to be the growth of an age, rather than the gift of any one man. Yet it is possible in almost every case to trace the successive steps of the discovery. This is especially true of the law of gravitation. Whether the first idea was suggested to Newton by the fall of an apple, it is not important to inquire; but the popular anecdote illustrates the nature of the original thought, which was undoubtedly sudden and intuitive, although, as Newton has himself expressly stated, it was the result of analogical reasoning. The conception once formed, the work of verification was long and laborious, and the results were at first so unsatisfactory that Newton at one time abandoned his theory altogether, as unsupported by observation. It was not, indeed, until a new arc of the meridian had been measured by

Picard in France—several years after the first conception —that the facts were found to agree even approximately with the theory, and astronomers have been occupied ever since in verifying the grand thought. The same general facts reappear in the case of the wave-theory of light, first conceived by Huyghens and subsequently verified by the successive discoveries of Malus, Fresnel, and Young; and we may lay it down as an almost universal principle, that scientific truth is discovered through analogy and verified by comparison with the facts of nature.

If now you will turn to the great central truth of natural religion, you will find that it has as good credentials as the best established laws of science. We have first the conception,—not only the conception of a few highly gifted minds, but the universal conception of mankind. We find afterwards this conception verified,—not only in the history of the race, but also in the experience of each individual man, and moreover, the conception is apparently intuitive in every mind. Even if the sceptic denies the reality of both special and general providence, he must admit that, as the most universal rule, both history and experience have only served to confirm and strengthen the religious idea.

We now return to the remark above quoted, better able both to appreciate the truth it contains and to unmask the fallacy it conceals. A large part of the results of science may be demonstrated, but only such truths as are already contained in the premises on which the demonstration rests are capable of this absolute proof; and these are in all cases

reached by the human intelligence working on its own definitions and processes of thought, and this, too, even when the theoretical truth is afterwards found realized in nature. The highest forms of scientific truth are not capable of demonstration, and rest only on probable evidence, although the probability in their favor may be so great as to beget the highest degree of moral certainty. In like manner, a great part of the truths of religion must be accepted on faith; but then the evidence in favor of the great fundamental truth of natural religion is as strong as the evidence for any theory of science, and the certainty is as great. Moreover, faith is not peculiar to religion. All our knowledge not the result of personal observation and investigation is held on faith, that is, on trust in other men, and absolutely all knowledge is held on trust in the authority of our own mental powers. Much of the knowledge which we hold without question, it is utterly beyond the capacity of our own intellects to verify, and moreover, no one doubts the existence of truths which now lie beyond the scope of the most gifted genius, but which hereafter may be attained by man. The scientific truths which it is not essential for us to know are left in the dark on purpose to stimulate study, and thus to educate the human race. Religious truths, on the other hand, it is essential for us to know, and, since they in like manner transcend our present powers, they have been specially revealed. We are called upon to accept them on sufficient evidence, and this is all that is meant by faith. Faith, then, is as truly a ground of belief in science and in common life as it is in religion, and it occupies a more important place in religion only because religious truth is itself so important, and so greatly transcends, in its essence, our limited human faculties.

Our reply, then, to the first position of the sceptic is this. Your objections apply as well to all knowledge as they do to religious truth, and, if you are consistent with yourself, you must reject the evidences of science as well as the evidences of religion. [*] As we are not prepared to go this length, we shall with equal consistency hold to both. It is but justice to state that Hume, the most philosophical of the sceptics, pushed his speculations to their necessary consequences, and denied the existence of matter and spirit alike. But although from its very boldness difficult to refute, this form of scepticism is by no means the most dangerous; for in the present age of the world a system of philosophy is not likely to gain many adherents which, in the first article of its creed, utterly shocks all human self-conceit by declaring that man neither knows nor can know anything with certainty.

In the second place, the sceptic attacks the argument for design by setting up a theory of his own to explain the origin of the universe. He tacitly admits that the burden of proof is with him, and that, if he rejects the popular belief, he is bound to show how this cosmos might have been issued without

intelligence and without a God. This he attempts to do, and the result is nearly as many theories as there have been strong scientific intellects in the world united with unbelieving hearts. To refute each of these theories in detail would be a labor like that of Hercules in slaying the Lernæan Hydra; for until Almighty Power shall sear the foul sore from which the whole brood proceeds, their unholy heads will start up more rapidly than they can be cut down. The most daring theories of this kind are those of the German materialists of the present day. As much as they may differ among themselves in regard to details, the boldest of these speculators agree in maintaining that absolutely nothing exists, or ever has existed, except matter and motion; that matter in its essence is uncreated and eternal; that motion is self-sustained; that mind is only a mode of motion, and that all the phenomena both of matter and of mind are the working out of an inexorable necessity. Hence they conclude that religion is a fable, and immortality a dream.

Here is atheism. This is the natural fruit of materialism; and we are glad that it has ripened, that men may see how disgusting and revolting it is, and how corrupt the tree must be which can bear such fruit. We are glad that men should know what must be the result of all their vain speculation and the seeking after false gods. The theory is perfectly consistent with itself, and an absolute necessity if nature be divorced from its Creator; for all philosophy has proved that either the theory

of the Christian, or this theory of the materialist, with all its enormity, must be true. There is no half-way halting-place between. This course of lectures has been a continued protest against the materialist's interpretation of nature, and I have not another word to add; for if a man wishes to believe that his purest loves and his holiest affections are only motions of brain-particles, nothing that can be said would have the slightest weight. If he has not already the refutation in his own consciousness of being, human power cannot aid him; no philosophy can extricate him from the slough. "Ephraim is joined to idols; let him alone.''

It is seldom, however, that materialism shows its revolting features among us. It is too cunning and too cautious. It always appears disguised, and is for this reason far more seductive. It presents the attraction of great learning and of great apparent profundity, entangling many in its meshes before they are aware of their danger. It does not deny the reality of the human intellect, but, on the contrary, takes pride in its authority and power. It even admits the evidence of design, but at the same time insidiously undermines all religious belief; not so much, however, by what it declares, as by what it leaves to be inferred; not so much by the doctrines it inculcates, as by the spirit it keeps alive and fosters. In this refined form, materialism is by far the most prevalent phase of the unbelief of our time, and it is difficult to meet chiefly on account of its very vagueness and simulation. It lives almost entirely in the ever-changing theories and speculations

of science, which it utterly misinterprets and misapplies, forgetting that they are merely provisional expedients, which the next wave of advancing knowledge may wash away. Development is the pet word of its philosophy, and it constantly aims to show how the whole scheme of nature, with all its adaptations, might have been evolved through the concurrent action of various unintelligent causes alone. As it attacks the argument for design on scientific grounds, it becomes the duty of the student of nature to expose its errors. It is, however, a most Protean antagonist, and no sooner is it defeated in one form than it reappears in another. Every new development theory in any department of science furnishes it with fresh food. For a long time the famous nebular hypothesis, broached in Laplace's Système du Monde, supplied it with abundant nourishment; and within the last twenty years it has taken a fresh start, and grown most vigorously, on Mr. Darwin's very ingenious book entitled The Origin of Species. But these are only two examples of a large number of similar works, which, being less able and less original, have had their day and been forgotten.

The danger of these works lies not so much in what they actually contain, as in their general tendency; not so much in the theories of their authors, as in the wrong conclusions which will inevitably be drawn from them, and to which in many cases they logically lead. Darwin, for example, professes to show that all the living forms of plants and animals, man included, have been, during the geological ages,

slowly developed from a few germs, or possibly from only one, by the action of a principle which he calls the "law of natural selection,'' and he sustains the hypothesis by a most formidable array of experiments and facts. Such a theory as this, ingenious if not true, professing to explain one of the greatest mysteries, and presented in a fascinating style, finds converts everywhere, and this, too, on grounds entirely independent of its scientific merit. That very same noble aspiration which leads men to imperil even life itself in investigating the secrets of nature, makes them also ready to lend a willing ear to any theory which professes to explain the mystery of creation. Hence the reason why works like the Vestiges of Creation, and those just mentioned, captivate and injure so many. If they merely stimulated curiosity, and led to study, no one could object to their influence, however erroneous he might think their philosophy. But, unfortunately, most readers, of whom it is no disparagement to say that they are not in a condition to weigh the evidence, accept the theory without examination, and, if sceptically inclined, their whole belief in an overruling Providence is shaken to its base.

It is in vain to urge that these theories may be consistent with a pure faith; for as long as they are not so regarded by the popular mind,—which invariably appeals to them as proofs of materialism,—the evil which they cause is not remedied. It may be said, and said with some justice, that a writer cannot be blamed for the abuse of his theory; but it must be admitted that the abuse is a great evil, and an

author, if he be a religious man, is bound to guard against it by every means in his power. We should be very slow to charge any man with infidelity, for we know how often the human mind, in its eccentricities and inconsistencies, has united a true faith to the most sceptical and subversive speculations. But we do say, that the least a Christian philosopher can do for his faith is to give such a tone and spirit to his work as to render misinterpretation impossible; and if he neglects to do this, he has no right to complain if his own opinions are misjudged.

I shall not attempt to discuss the intrinsic value of the various theories of development, but leaving this task to those who are competent judges, let us inquire what bearing they have on the evidence of design. I answer, absolutely none. Assuming that Mr. Darwin could establish his peculiar theory in all its generality,—and I have no doubt that it has a large element of truth,—it would not impair the evidence of design in the slightest degree, and the same is true of any development theory whatsoever, short of absolute materialism. Those persons who imagine that they overthrow natural religion, fall into a capital error. It requires manifestly the same infinite intelligence to create a universe by a process of development as by a single creative fiat. Your belief that the beautiful piece of mechanism standing on your mantel-shelf was made by an intelligent man, would not be impaired if you were told that the artist was employed several years in its construction. The evidence of design in the clock is in its beautifully adjusted mechanism. The evidence of design

in nature is in the wonderful adaptation of its parts. We can easily go back in the geological records to the time when the present order of nature did not exist, and the fact that the innumerable forms of organic life, with the adaptations of currents, soil, and climate essential to their being, have been developed out of the conditions which existed on the globe during the coal epoch, is no less an evidence of design than the fact that the clock was developed out of the crude iron and brass used in its construction.

"We lament,'' says Dr. Martineau, [*] "to see the question between a sudden and a gradual genesis of organic types discussed on both sides—not, indeed, by the principals in the dispute, but by secondary advocates—too much as if it were a question between God and no God. In not a few of the progressionists the weak illusion is unmistakable, that with time enough you may get everything out of next to nothing. Grant us, they seem to say, any tiniest granule of power, so close upon zero that it is not worth begrudging; allow it some trifling tendency to infinitesimal increment; and we will show you how this little stock became the cosmos without ever taking a step worth thinking of, much less constituting a case for design. The argument is a mere appeal to an incompetency in the human imagination, in virtue of which magnitudes evading conception are treated as out of existence, and an aggregate of inappreciable increments is simultaneously

equated in its cause to nothing, in its effect to the whole of things. You manifestly want the same causality, whether concentrated on a moment or distributed through incalculable ages, only, in drawing upon it, a logical theft is more easily committed piecemeal than wholesale. Surely it is a mean device for a philosopher thus to crib causation by hair-breadths, to put it out at compound interest through all time, and then disown the debt; and it is in vain, after all; for dilute the intensity and change the form as you will of the Power that has issued the universe, it remains, except to your subjective illusion, nothing less than infinite, and nothing lower than divine.''

The genesis of nature has been unquestionably a process of development. But let us not be frightened by words. Development is only another name for growth, and it obviously brings us no nearer to the final cause of a given product to say that it has grown. Topsy in answering her catechist's "Do you know who made you?'' with "Nobody as I knows on—I spect I growed,'' was fully as wise and far more humble-minded than those philosophers who attempt to cover up the same answer under high-sounding technical phraseology. Growth is the order of nature, but even in its simplest phases it is as mysterious a phenomenon to-day as it was when the mind of man was first conscious of the fact. That of two minute eggs, in which no anatomist can discover any structural difference, the one should in a few short years develop an intelligence like Newton's, while the other soon ends in a Guinea-pig, is certainly as great

a mystery as that in the course of unnumbered ages monkeys by insensible gradations should grow into men. The growth of each man from a microscopic germ is not understood one whit more fully than the genesis of a species, and the only difference is that while in the first case we are familiar with all the stages of the growth, in the last case we know nothing with certainty except the final result. Surely no one really imagines that the first man came "full armed, like Minerva from the brain of Jove.'' There must have been growth, and how utterly immaterial it is to our present discussion at what point the growth began. Moreover, how evident it is that the growth of a species is as legitimate an object of scientific investigation as the growth of an individual; and further, that if we were as familiar with the successive stages in the growth of a species as we are with those in the growth of each individual man, we should be just as far from a knowledge of the efficient causes in the first case as, with all our careful observation and study, we now are in the last case. But although a knowledge of the efficient causes may in either case be beyond the reach of positive science, yet we have reason to expect that further investigation will lead to the same kind of knowledge in regard to the growth of a species that we now have in regard to the growth of each individual animal or plant.

Again, as we well know, growth in nature is very greatly influenced by secondary causes of various kinds, such, for example, as soil and climate; and as with the growth of the individual, so, undoubtedly,

with the growth of the species. Moreover, no one can doubt the potency of the causes which have been so acutely studied by Mr. Darwin. It is the business of science to study these secondary causes, and the nature and extent of their influence are questions of fact to be decided by scientific investigation, and by that alone. The action of these secondary causes, however, is obviously irregular, producing retrogression quite as frequently as progression, and causing those fluctuations which are so characteristic of the growth of nature; but who can fail to see that during the geological ages there has been a great advance, and the present complex result, which we call nature, with all its intricate adjustments and relations, can be no more rationally ascribed to the causes which have produced variations of details, however great, than can the mechanism of a clock be referred to the circumstances which in different localities have often determined large and important changes in the materials or plan of its construction.

I repeat, therefore, no development theory can impair the evidence of design, for that evidence is based on facts wholly independent of any theory of cosmogony, and to which all theories must conform. If they do not, they will inevitably fall. The difficulty, to my mind, in Mr. Darwin's particular theory, is not in its development feature, nor in its principle of "natural selection'' as a proximate cause of variation in species, but in the at least tacit assumption made by so many of its advocates that this principle is the one and only efficient cause of the

resulting adaptations in nature. As a temporary mode of correlating facts, and as a working hypothesis which has pointed out fruitful lines of investigation, the theory of Mr. Darwin must be regarded as one of the most important contributions to modern science; but a naturalist must ignore the whole history of physical science who would claim that this theory was more than a very partial truth, and unless it can be shown that it is consistent with the action of an intelligent first cause, it will soon be forgotten like those that have gone before it. This is the criterion by which all such theories are finally judged after the excitement of the controversy by which they were heralded has passed; and after the common sense of mankind has settled down upon its sober second thought. Let us insist that all theories of cosmogony shall be judged on their own merits as scientific theories, but let us also insist that they shall be kept within their own sphere, and not allowed to have a voice in questions of religious faith, on which they have absolutely no bearing. That they have an injurious influence while they last, is frequently more the fault of the secondary advocates than of the principals in the dispute, and we must not expect to cure the evil by indiscriminate censure or by social excommunication. So long as man thinks, he will speculate; and I rejoice that neither political nor ecclesiastical tyranny can touch this prerogative of free thought. The true remedy consists in exposing the fallacy of the shallow philosophy which is so ready to bring forward these crude speculations as proofs of materialism, and also in diffusing among educated people more spiritual views of nature and its laws.

To this subject I shall return in the next chapter. But so far as the argument for design is concerned, all these considerations are unnecessary. The evidence is so ample, that we can afford to waive all that part of it which has been called in question by the progressionists, without weakening in the slightest degree the force of the argument. Before the first organic cell could exist, and before Mr. Darwin's principle of natural selection could begin that work of unnumbered ages which was to end in developing a perfect man, nay, even before the solid globe itself could be condensed from Laplace's nebula, the chemical elements must have been created, and endowed with those properties by which alone the existence of that cell is rendered possible.

But although, for the sake of argument, we might yield to the progressionists all those examples of adaptation which they claim to explain by their theories, such a concession is really of no value. The parts of nature, as we have seen, are so intimately linked together that, if there be design anywhere, there is design everywhere; and as the structure of the human body was prefigured by the earliest vertebrate forms buried in the geological strata, so, and as unquestionably, the whole scheme of organic life was prefigured in the gases composing the atmosphere. If, therefore, I have proved that there is evidence of design in the constitution of the atmosphere, I have also proved that the whole scheme of nature is

the result of Divine Intelligence, and that the great argument of natural theology rests on a basis which no present theories [*] of development can touch. To show that there is evidence of design in these stones of nature's edifice has been my chief object in this book. It has been my constant aim to set forth in a clear light the startling fact that the footprints of the Creator are nowhere more plainly visible than on that very matter which the materialists so vainly worship, and if I have thus been able to remove doubts from the mind of any honest seeker after God, I shall feel that my labor has not been lost.

But however earnest the purpose or sincere the convictions, the spectres of our doubts will sometimes return, and hover around these evidences of our faith. Treat them not lightly either in yourself or in those you love. Respect all honest doubts; for it is the noblest natures which feel them and suffer most. His must be a dull heart which is not sometimes appalled by the mystery of our being. Remember, however, that these doubts are from within, not from without. They are the offspring of your fears, and not of your science. The evidence is ample. It is more faith that you need. Fight, then, these spectres of your mind as the enemies of your peace, not with doubtful disputations, but

with earnest thought and prayer, and Power shall be with you