Evolution: Its nature, its evidence, and its relation to religious thought

It is generally admitted that long-continued very close breeding has a bad effect. Even in plants, Darwin has shown that cross-fertilization has better effect than self-fertilization, this last being of course the closest possible breeding. But it is probable that the principal bad effect is not on the stock but on the process of evolution. Very close breeding weakens the stock, ordinary breeding of individual differences maintains the stock at the ordinary level and fixes it. Cross-breeding of varieties strengthens the stock, and also (and this is its main advantage) produces plasticity in the stock, gives rise to strong divergent variations, or even sports, and thus becomes a main agent in evolution. It is probable, moreover, that the higher the function the more sensitive is it to these effects of breeding. Therefore, the effect is greater in man than in any other animal. It is true that many have doubted the bad effect of close breeding in man, and have brought forward formidable statistics to substantiate their position; but these doubtless take no account of the most important function, the psychic, and especially the most important element in every function, so far as evolution or progress is concerned, viz., plasticity or capability of progressive improvement. The tendency of consanguineous breeding, or even the breeding of persons of like character and experiences, as in an isolated community, is, if not to deteriorate the physique, at least to fix, stereotype the character, and thus to check social progress. Contrarily, the crossing of varieties of the same race seems not only to strengthen but, by the diverse inheritance, to produce plasticity of character and capacity for progress. But the difference between the primary races seems too great for crossing with advantage. Some degree of sexual repugnance which undoubtedly exists between the primary races is the psychical sign of this fact.32

If, now, we go back to what we said before taking up this subject of the effect of cross-breeding, we at once see that there is an apparent flaw in all our reasonings. If close in-and-in breeding produced better and more numerous offspring than cross-breeding between slight varieties, then, indeed, such varieties would be preserved, and increase in divergence from generation to generation until they became species. Or, in any case, if, in any way, divergence could reach the point of extreme varieties or races, or what are called sub-species, then commencing cross-sterility would complete the separation, and thus form true species. But how can the process of progressive divergence begin, when slight varieties are even more fertile by cross-breeding than by close breeding? Is it not evident that, with every generation, the slight varieties would cross-breed with one another and with the parent stock, and thus all varietal differences would be funded into a common stock, and the type would be preserved unchanged? This, as already pointed out (p. 76), has always been the chief difficulty in the way of imagining how varieties can grow into species; and the difficulty is only increased by our discussion of the law of cross-breeding. Now, just here, Dr. Romanes’s most important and prolific idea comes to our help, and, as it seems to us, completely solves the difficulty.

According to Dr. Romanes, no organ is so subject to variation as the reproductive, and this in no respect so much as in degrees and kinds of fertility—we might almost say so subject to freaks of cross-sterility. Now, suppose we start with any well-defined species in a state of nature. With every generation there are many slightly divergent individual varieties, some greater and some less; but these are all immediately swamped by crossing with one another and with the parent stock, and the species remains unchanged. But suppose among these divergent variations there arise, from time to time, some which affect the reproductive organs in such wise that the variety, though perfectly fertile with its own kind, is infertile, or imperfectly fertile, with other varieties, and especially with the parent stock. The change may be only in the time of flowering in plants, or season of heat in animals, or it may be actual infertility in sexual union. Right here we have the beginning of a new species. The variety is sexually isolated from the parent stock by cross-sterility, and therefore all its peculiarities, however trivial, are preserved by true breeding. Cross-breeding is necessary to make species, but true breeding preserves them. Cross-breeding tends ever to make varieties, but immediately destroys them again. This constant forming and swamping, separating and again merging of varieties, like mixing of dough, makes the whole mass (stock) more and more plastic and subject to variety. This plasticity finally gives rise to varieties of the kind which produces species by sexual isolation. By continued merging the centrifugal forces continually increase, but are continually repressed by crossing, until finally varieties break away to form species.

Now it is easy to see, from this point of view, why artificial varieties are cross-fertile. It is because in artificial breeding we are intent only on making varieties in form, size, color, etc., and not at all on making any characterized by cross-sterility with the parent stock. Cross-sterility with the parent stock, or with other varieties, would be of no advantage, because we control the breeding, and can breed true if we desire. Sexual isolation is not necessary, because we can use physical isolation. On the contrary, such cross-sterility would be a positive disadvantage to the breeder, by limiting the range of his experiments just where they would be most prolific in making new varieties. Hence, as might be expected, all domestic varieties are cross-fertile, unless it be the extreme varieties, which may, in some instances, have passed the limit of greatest fertility.

If this idea be true, then species which have originated in the same locality ought to be always cross-sterile, but species which have grown up apart, in widely separated geographical regions, ought to be sometimes cross-fertile, because they were isolated by physical not by sexual barriers. Such, Dr. Romanes thinks, is a fact. It is, however, a very important point, which ought to be carefully investigated. We say “sometimes.” It is probable that most geographical species also are cross-sterile; for, although the isolation by cross-sterility of slight varieties be the main cause of the origin of species, yet a species formed by isolation of any other kind will gradually become cross-sterile with other species. Although cross-sterility be the main cause of divergence, yet divergence beyond a certain limit, however caused, will bring about cross-sterility, because the reproductive organs will partake of the general change going on in every part.

Application.—Suppose, then, a species breeding naturally in a wild state. Individual varieties are constantly being formed and again funded back into the common stock by cross-breeding. If the varieties thus formed be decided, the cross-breeding will strengthen the stock, and especially will preserve and increase its plasticity or tendency to variation. Finally, among the widely divergent varieties there is one affecting the reproductive organs of several individuals in such wise that they are infertile, or imperfectly fertile, with the parent stock, though perfectly fertile among themselves. These form a new species, which continue to increase indefinitely.

Objection answered.—This view completes the answer to an objection which is often made to evolution: “If natural species are formed by transmutation, why is it we do not find intermediate links? Why is not organic nature made up only of individual forms, shading insensibly into each other in such wise that classification becomes a mere device to handle more conveniently complex material? Why is it that groups, especially species, are marked out with hard and fast lines?” We have heretofore answered this by saying that intermediate forms are eliminated. So they are, but how? Dr. Romanes’s idea of physiological selection largely answers this. It is by the funding of ordinary varieties into a common parental stock by crossing, and separating specific varieties by cross-sterility. Thus the organic field is broken up into points about which variations oscillate. As every mass of matter, when closely examined, is found to consist of aggregations about centers of cohesive attraction as discrete granules or crystals, and only exceptionally do we find a homogeneous vitreous structure; even so organic forms aggregate about points of sexual attraction, and the whole mass consists of discrete species, and only exceptionally—i. e., in domestication—do we find insensible shadings. Now, species are the smallest aggregate of individuals, as granules are of molecules. Species are more distinctly marked out by hard and fast lines than are other taxonomic groups only because they are the last, going downward, that are cross-sterile—because right here is the change from cross-sterility to cross-fertility.

If this view be true, then in the same locality species ought to be always distinct and without shadings. If we find shadings at all, it ought to be in intermediate geographical regions, where isolation is not sexual but physical. Now, this is exactly what we find to be the fact. Innumerable examples of such intermediate forms in intermediate geographical regions are now known, especially among birds and reptiles, and examples have so increased in modern times, by closer study, that naturalists, especially ornithologists, have been compelled to resort to a trinomial nomenclature in order to designate these geographical sub-species.33

If any further explanation is necessary, it will probably be found in the following suggestions:

1. The number of individual varieties constantly being formed is almost infinite, but the number of places in nature is very limited. Now, among the infinite number of slight individual varieties formed with every generation, the competitive struggle will be severest between those most nearly alike, because they are competitors for the same place. Only one kind succeeds, viz., the fittest. Intermediate forms are, therefore, exactly those which are eliminated in the most wholesale way. 2. Add to this the fact that, as soon as divergence, from whatsoever cause, reaches a certain point, sexual repugnance or cross-sterility, or both, come in to perpetuate and increase the separation already commenced. 3. Add to this, again, that migrations in higher animals, and involuntary dispersals in lower animals and in plants, and the mingling together of different faunas and floras, produces a still fiercer struggle for life, especially between natives and invaders, and thus great numbers of forms are destroyed; all but the fittest are weeded out, and therefore the distinctness of the remainder is greatly increased. Periods of great changes of physical geography and of climate, and therefore of wide and general migrations, are also periods of great weedings-out of unfit forms. Thus it happens that existing faunas and floras are little else than isolated remnants.

To illustrate, again, by a growing tree: If all the buds of a tree lived and grew, they would soon become so numerous that they would together form a solid hemispherical mass, like a coral-head, with no room between for leaf or light or air. But ninety-nine one-hundredths of buds die in the struggle for light and air, and therefore the survivors are distinct growing points, widely separated from each other. Species are such extreme, but separated, twiglets of the tree of life.

Objection.—But it will be objected, again: The twig-points are, indeed, separate, but the twigs themselves must meet somewhere lower down, where they began to grow. Intermediate links may be wanting now, but they must, of course, have existed once—i. e., in previous geological times, and therefore ought to be found fossil. In distribution in space or geographically, organic kinds may be marked off by hard-and-fast lines, but, if their derivative origin be true, in their distribution in time or geologically, there ought to be many examples of insensible shadings between them. In fact, if we only had all the extinct forms, the organic kingdom, taken as a whole and throughout all time, ought to consist not of species at all, but simply of individual forms, shading insensibly into each other, like the colors of the spectrum, and our classification ought to be a mere matter of convenience, having no counterpart in nature. But this is not the fact. On the contrary, the law of distribution in time is apparently similar in this respect to the law of distribution in space, already given (page 169). As in the case of contiguous geographical faunas, the change is apparently by substitution of one species for another, and not by transmutation of one species into another. So also in successive geological faunas, the change seems rather by substitution than by transmutation. In both cases species seem to come in suddenly, with all their specific characters perfect, remain substantially unchanged as long as they last, and then die out and are replaced by others. Certainly this looks much like immutability of specific forms, and supernaturalism of specific origin. We have, we believe, satisfactorily explained this in the case of geographical distribution (page 201), but how can we explain it in the case of geological distribution?

Answer.—1. The reason for this, given by Darwin and other evolutionists, is the extremely fragmentary character of the geological record. If the existing faunas and floras are but isolated remnants, the rest having been destroyed by migrations and conflicts, how much more are fossil faunas and floras but fragmentary remnants, the rest having been lost, partly because never preserved, and partly by destruction of the record! If from this cause existing species are widely separated, how much more ought we to expect to find fossil species distinct and widely separated!

This is undoubtedly in most cases a true and sufficient answer, yet we think the fragmentariness of the geological record has been overstated. While it is true that there are many and wide gaps in the record; while it is true, also, that even where the record is continuous many forms may not have been preserved, yet there are some cases, especially in the Tertiary fresh-water deposits, where the record is not only continuous for hundreds of feet in thickness, but the abundance of life was very great, and the conditions necessary for preservation exceptionally good. In such cases the number of fossil species found on each horizon seems to be as great as in existing faunas over equal space. The record in these cases seems to be continuous and without break, and crowded with fossil forms; and yet, although the species change greatly, and perhaps many times, in passing from the lowest to the highest strata, we do not usually, it must be acknowledged, find the gradual transitions we would naturally expect, if the change were effected by gradual transformations. The incompleteness of the record, therefore, although a true and important cause, is not the whole cause.

In further and completer answer to this greatest of all objections, we will throw out the following suggestions:

2. We must remember that considerable latitude is allowed by the anti-derivationists to variation of species; so much so, indeed, that it is often difficult to draw the line between well-marked varieties and closely-allied species. Now, according to the derivationist, these strong varieties, breeding usually true, are naught else than commencing species.

3. On every side and everywhere, both in existing faunas and in fossil forms, but especially in the latter, we find innumerable examples of transitions, or intermediate forms, between all the higher groups, such as genera, families, orders, and classes. It is, in fact, by means of these that the great law of differentiation from generalized types has been established. It is, therefore, only between species that such intermediate forms are rare.

4. But even between species such intermediate forms, though rare, have been pointed out, both in existing and in extinct faunas. But the opposition contend that, in all such cases, the previously supposed species are only varieties. We have already (page 61) spoken of the obvious fallacy involved in this position. Species are first defined as forms distinct and without intermediate links, and then we are challenged to find such links; and when, with much labor, we find them, they say the supposed species are not species, but only varieties. But there are some cases in which this subterfuge will not do. There are cases in which the transitions are between forms so extreme that they can not, by any stretch of the term, be called varieties. We will select and dwell upon but one striking example, viz., the fossil forms of the Tertiary fresh-water deposits of Steinheim.

In Würtemberg, near the little village of Steinheim, are found certain strata of sand and lime, which are evidently deposits from a small lake of Tertiary times. The deposits are extremely rich in fossil shells, especially of the different species of the genus Planorbis. As the deposits seem to have been continuous for ages, and the fossil shells very abundant, this seemed to be an excellent opportunity to test the theory of derivation. With this end in view, they have been made the subject of exhaustive study by Hilgendorf in 1866,34 and by Hyatt in 1880.35 In passing from the lowest to the highest strata the species change greatly and many times, the extreme forms being so different that were it not for the intermediate forms they would be called not only different species but different genera. And yet the gradations are so insensible that the whole series is nothing less than a demonstration, in this case at least, of origin of species by derivation with modifications. The accompanying plate of successive forms (Fig. 70), which we take from Prof. Hyatt’s admirable memoir, will show this better than any mere verbal explanation. It will be observed that, commencing with four slight varieties—probably sexually isolated varieties—of one species, each series shows a gradual transformation as we go upward in the strata—i. e., onward in time. Series I branches into three sub-series, in two of which the change of form is extreme. Series IV is remarkable for great increase in size as well as change in form. In the plate we give only selected stages, but in the fuller plates of the memoir, and still more in the shells themselves, the subtilest gradations are found.

This case is striking, partly because it is a very favorable one, but mainly because it has been so carefully studied. There can be no doubt that equally careful study would reveal the same transition in many other cases. Nor are such transitions confined to the lower forms of life, though they are probably more abundant there. According to Cope, the nicest gradations may be traced between some of the extinct mammalian species so abundant in the Tertiary deposits of the West—especially between the species of the extinct generalized family of Oredontidæ36 The same is probably true of the many extinct species of the horse family.

It is interesting to observe that the details of the process of change in the forms of Planorbis are in accord with Dr. Romanes’s views. The change does not seem to have been uniform but somewhat paroxysmal. The forms seem to remain stable for a long time, and then a few break into several different forms, while the more rigid die out. It is as if cross-breeding had kept the type true, but at the same time increased its tendency to variation, until finally one or more varieties became sexually isolated and thus formed new species.

5. But still the question remains: Why are transitional forms rare in all cases, especially between species—so rare that they are eagerly sought and highly prized? I believe that the true reason of this is that the steps of evolution are not always uniform.

Nearly all evolutionists have assumed and even insisted on uniformity, as the opposite of catastrophism and of supernaturalism, and therefore as essential to the idea of evolution. They say that the constancy of the action of the forces of change necessitates the uniformity of the rate of change. But, in fact, this is not always nor even usually true. Causes or forces are constant, but phenomena everywhere and in every department of Nature are paroxysmal. The forces producing storms and lightning, and volcanoes and earthquakes, are or may be constant; yet the phenomena are in the highest degree paroxysmal. Wherever in nature we have a constant force and a strong resistance, we find more or less paroxysmal action. For this reason the wind blows in puffs, the friction of wind on water produces waves, water running in small pipes issues in pulses. The reason is obvious, as may be seen by the following examples: Suppose lifting forces within the earth are resisted by crust-rigidity. The forces accumulate uniformly until the resistance gives way, and suddenly we have an earthquake. Water running with great resistance in small pipes is checked, but soon accumulates additional force, which overcomes the resistance, only to be again checked, and so on, and therefore runs in pulses. Now, the course of evolution of the whole earth may be likened to such a current; there are forces of movement and forces of resistance—progressive forces and conservative forces. The progressive force is accumulative, the resisting force is constant. Thus, in all evolution or history, whether of the earth or of society, there are periods of comparative quiet, during which the forces of change are gathering strength, and periods of revolution or rapid change, during which these forces show themselves in conspicuous effects.

Now, that there have been such periods of rapid revolutionary change in the history of the earth, there can be no doubt. The history of the earth is marked by periods of comparative quiet, during which life was exceptionally abundant and prosperous, and change of organic forms slow and uniform—separated by periods of disturbance, revolution, rapid changes of physical geography and climate, and consequently of comparatively rapid and sweeping changes in organic forms. These form the division-lines between great eras of the earth’s history, and are always marked by extensive unconformity of the strata, showing the changes of physical geography above spoken of, and by apparently sudden and sweeping change in life-forms, showing the great changes of climate and other physical conditions. Unfortunately, in all cases of unconformity of strata, there is, of course, a break in the continuity of the record; and when the unconformity is very general a portion of the record may be irrecoverably lost. The consequence is, that there is an apparent break also in the continuity of life-forms. It looks, at first sight, like wholesale extermination of old and recreation of new forms. But undoubtedly the break in the continuity of life is apparent only, as is shown by the loss in the record. If we could recover the whole record, as indeed we sometimes do, we should find in all cases that there is no break in the continuity of evolution, but only more rapid rate of change at these times. But to this cause of rapid rate of progress—i. e., change of physical environment—we must add change of organic environment induced by the physical. We have already seen (p. 179) that extensive changes in physical geography and climate are always accompanied by wide migrations and dispersals of species, the mingling of faunas and floras, and the severer struggle for life, and the sweeping weeding-out of all but the fittest, and the change of these latter, making them still fitter. These two causes of rapid change, viz., change of climate and migrations, together with the loss of record, we believe completely account for those sweeping changes, not only of species but even of genera, families, and orders which characterize the passage from one great era to another.

But this does not yet explain the apparent discontinuity between consecutive species in the same locality in continuous, conformable strata, or the rarity of transitional forms when one species takes the place of another in an apparently continuous record. In such continuous deposits the successive faunas do indeed gradate insensibly into one another, but apparently as in contiguous geographical regions (p. 200) by substitution, not by transmutation. How shall we explain this?

On this point I throw out some suggestions: 1. In the modification of species, too, as well as in other progressive changes, we may imagine two forces operating, one progressive, the other conservative—the one external, the other internal. The external progressive force consists of all the factors of change already mentioned, the internal conservative is the law of heredity, of like producing like. A changing environment tends continually and increasingly to change of organisms, but change is resisted by heredity, which tends to adhere, within narrow limits, to the same form. But since the external force or tendency to change increases constantly—since the discord between the environment and the organism becomes ever greater, there must come a time when either the species is destroyed, or else the resistance of heredity gives way, and rapid change takes place. The alternative is presented to the species to transform or perish; and in one or perhaps in two or three generations we have an amount of change which, under other circumstances, might take a hundred generations to accomplish. These rapid changes are in fact exactly what in artificial varieties we call sports. We do not know all the conditions which determine sports in domestication, and still less what determines large and widely-divergent variations, and therefore rapid origin of many divergent species, in geological history. But one thing seems probable, viz., that, when a species begins to change, it continues to change easily and in many directions. When resistance gives way it takes some time, many generations, for heredity to gather force again. Hence, young species are plastic, fluent, because heredity, on any one point, has not yet accumulated. But as soon as a stable form is again reached, then, by accumulating a fund of heredity, the form tends to become more and more rigid, until often it becomes too rigid to yield to modifying influences, and therefore becomes extinct. By far the greater number of species do thus become extinct and leave no progeny, while the few more plastic forms are modified in several directions, and the number of forms may, after a little time, be undiminished or even increased.

2. As to the cause of rapid changes of form during revolutionary or critical periods in the earth’s history, Brooks has introduced an idea which is very suggestive, and deserves serious attention. We have above spoken of the progressive element as external. Brooks regards both elements as internal, and represented by the two sexes. The male represents the progressive, the female the conservative element. The one tends to divergent variation, the other to fixity of type by heredity. I think we will all admit that, as a general rule, in man (and probably all the higher animals) the male is more highly differentiated into many divergent forms—the female is more like the type-form of the species. In man, the male is certainly more diversified in form, in expression, and in character. If they have the keenest ear for musical pitch, they are also most often music-deaf; if they have the sharpest perception of color, they are also most often color-blind; if among them we find the brightest intellects, we also find the dullest and most stupid; if there are among them more geniuses, so, also, there are more cranks. The same is also, probably, true of other animals, in proportion to their grade of organization. The operation of these two equally necessary elements is well shown in every advancing society. The initiative of every movement, in all directions, good or bad, is determined by the male; the conservation of whatever balance of good there may be, seems to be mainly by the female. The male tries all things, the female holds fast that which is good. By the one society gains a little in each generation; by the other the gain is conserved and made a new point of departure. The one is ever building hastily a scaffolding and platform; the other ever consolidating into a permanent structure. Now, according to Brooks, what is true in the plane of social progress is true also in the lower plane of organic evolution. In sexual union, and in the resulting offspring, the sperm-cell is the element which tends to divergent variation, and the germ-cell to fixity of type, through heredity. In artificial breeding, then, we ought to make new varieties by proper use of the sire; we ought to preserve them true by proper management of the dam.

But, again, it is believed that in many lower animals, especially insects, the high-feeding of the mother, and consequent good condition of the ovum, tends to the production of female offspring. It seems almost certain that, in butterflies, the sex is not yet declared in the caterpillar stage. According to the careful experiments of Mrs. Treat,37 if the caterpillars be well fed, they become female butterflies; but, if poorly fed, they make males. One purpose of this provision of Nature is, doubtless, to provide for the greater draught on the vitality of the female in reproduction.

Now for the application. In good times in the history of a species, when everything is prosperous, external conditions are favorable, and food is abundant, females are in excess, and individuals are greatly multiplied. Under these conditions, evolution would be slow and uniform. But in bad times in the history of a species, when external conditions were unfavorable, not only would there be excess of males, but these, through the influence of the changing environment, as well as through the dominance of the male element, would be more than usually varied in character. Among the strongly divergent varieties thus formed, the fittest—i. e., those most in accord with the changing environment—would survive and leave offspring partaking of their character. We have already repeatedly said that the severer pressure of a rapidly-changing environment determines correspondingly rapid changes in organic forms. It may do so in many ways; but, according to Brooks, one of the most important ways is by determining an excess of the male element.

In brief, then, the causes of rarity of transitional forms among fossils are—1. The change being, for the reasons given, comparatively rapid, the number of generations between consecutive species are few, perhaps only one. 2. Times of rapid change are also times of unfavorable conditions, and therefore the number of individuals in each generation is small, and all the smaller—in Brooks’s view—because of the fewness of females. When we remember that fossils are but a small fraction of the actual faunas and floras of the time, surely these two causes go far toward explaining the rarity of links between species. 3. Add to these the existence of periods of wide-spread changes in physical geography and climate, and consequent wide migrations and dispersals of species, and we sufficiently account for those sweeping changes in species, genera, families, and orders, which mark the limits of the great eras, and which are made still more abrupt, and apparently supernatural, by the loss of record at these times.38

Objection.—There is still one more objection which will be made. We have drawings of plants, animals, and men, by Egyptian artists, who lived at least three thousand years ago, and the species of the one and the races of the other are still the same. Still better, we have among the wrappings of Egyptian mummies the very plants themselves, leaves and flowers perfectly preserved, and even colors almost perfect. Yet the species are exactly the same as grow in Egypt to-day. If species are made by gradual transmutation, surely there ought to have been some change in three thousand years.

Answer.—It may be well to note that this apparent permanence is true of races of men as well as of species of animals and plants. But the very men who insist on permanence of species are equally insistent on the variability of varieties and races. The objection, therefore, proves too much. We shall not insist on this, however, because as derivationists we regard races as naught else than commencing species, and therefore subject to the same laws. We are not striving for triumph in debate, but only for truth. The true answer will, we believe, be found among the following suggestions:

1. Three thousand years seems a long time in human history, but in geological history it is but a day. This, the usual answer, is no doubt a true one, but hardly, we think, sufficient. When we remember the enormous change which has taken place in faunas and floras since the end of the Tertiary, if change still continues at the same rate, surely it ought to be distinctly perceptible in three thousand years.

2. But we must remember that such changes are usually more or less paroxysmal; not, indeed, so sudden as to break the continuity of life, but far more rapid at some times than at others. The last critical or revolutionary period of rapid change was the Glacial epoch. Since that time—i. e., during the human period—a new equilibrium has been established, and the changes in organic forms have been very slow.

3. Remember, again, that in evolution all species do not change. On the contrary, most become rigid, and either remain unchanged, almost indefinitely, or else die out and leave no descendants. Only the more plastic forms change into other species, but usually into several other species, and thus the number of forms may be undiminished, even though the larger number of old forms leave no descendants. It is true, therefore, of this as well as of other epochs, that the greater number of species are permanent.

4. It is not impossible—indeed, it is in exact accordance with the laws of evolution—that organic forms are more permanent now than ever before. Evolution is a growth; the forces of growth must exhaust themselves. Evolution proceeds by constant differentiation and specialization, but extreme specialization always arrests evolution. In ontogenic evolution, for example, cell-structure becomes more and more specialized, but also thereby more and more rigid, and, when specialization is complete, evolution stops, and cell-forms are permanent. It is this which limits the cycle of every evolution. So is it precisely with evolution of the organic kingdom, except that the cycle is much longer. Here, also, every step is by specialization, and yet specialization fixes the form, and finally arrests the advance on that line. Thus, throughout the whole geological history of the earth, the larger number of forms, by specialization, become rigid and perish, while the fewer, more generalized, and more plastic forms take up the march and carry it forward a step, only to be themselves specialized and fixed. If we compare, again, to a tree: each twig finishes its growth, flowers, fruits, and dies; other buds take up the growth and carry it forward. By specialization the highest condition of a certain form of life is attained, but other possibilities are shut off. Extreme specialization is the flowering and fruiting—the end and completion of twig-life. Now, obviously, this specialization and respecialization can not go on forever. When it is complete in every direction it must cease, and forms become permanent, or else perish. When it flowers it must die.

Now, is not the advent of man in many ways a sign of the completeness of organic evolution? Certain it is that with man there begins an entirely new form of evolution. Certain it is that with man evolution is transferred from the organic to the social plane, from the material to the psychical. Certain it is that the forces, the conditions and results of this evolution, are wholly different from those of the other. In organic evolution the organism must conform to the environment; in human evolution the environment is made to conform to the wants of the organism. The one is unconscious and involuntary, passive under the dominating laws of Nature; the other is conscious, voluntary progress toward an ideal, by the use, among other means, of the laws of Nature. The one is by change of external form—i. e., change of species—the other by change of brain-structure. Now, does not the commencing of the cycle of this new evolution imply the closing of that of the old? The two may overlap somewhat now, but it is evident that, when the cycle of human evolution culminates, when highly civilized man shall have taken possession of the whole earth, the whole organic kingdom must be readjusted to his wants. All organic forms must be either domesticated or destroyed. Organic forms will no longer be modified by natural but wholly by artificial selection.

There are many other supposed objections which have been urged, but these are mostly not objections to evolution, but only to some special theory of evolution—Darwinian, Spencerian, Lamarckian, or other.

Origin of Beauty.—For example, it has been urged that natural selection can only account for useful structures; but beauty is as universal and as conspicuous in nature as use. In many cases Darwin has shown that beauty is useful, and in such cases it is, of course, seized upon by selection and intensified. Thus, the gorgeous coloring of birds and insects is largely due to sexual selection. Beauty is attractive, and therefore the most beautiful prevail in securing reproductive opportunities. This character is, therefore, perpetuated in the offspring, and intensified from generation to generation. But, of course, this can apply only to higher animals, in which the sexes are separate and sexual union voluntary. It can not apply to self-fertilizing hermaphrodites; and yet in these, also, we often find the most gorgeous coloring. Again, Darwin has very ingeniously and successfully explained the case of the beauty and fragrance of flowers of hermaphroditic plants by another principle, viz., that of insect-selection. Insects are attracted by the most showy and fragrant flowers, and thus become the means of carrying pollen from flower to flower, insuring fertilization, and especially cross-fertilization. The most beautiful and fragrant flowers are most certain to be fertilized, and thus beauty and fragrance become useful to the plant, and therefore are selected and intensified.

These and many other cases of beauty may doubtless be explained by showing that it is useful; but beauty which is without any use can not be explained by natural selection. Now, as already said, the most gorgeous beauty is lavishly distributed even among the lowest animals, such as marine shells and polyps, where no such explanation is possible. The process by which such beauty is originated and intensified is wholly unknown to us.

Incipient Organs.—Again, Mivart has drawn attention to another difficulty in the way of natural selection as an explanation even of useful organs. Darwin does not, of course, attempt to account for the origin of varieties. As we have already seen, he assumes divergent variation of offspring as the necessary material on which natural selection operates. He who shall explain the origin of varieties will have made another great step in completing the theory of evolution. But not only does not natural selection explain the origin of varieties, but neither can it explain the first steps of advance toward usefulness. An organ must be already useful before natural selection can take hold of it to improve it. It can not make it useful, but only more useful. For example, if fins commenced as buds from the trunk, it is difficult to see how they could be of any use, and therefore how they could be improved by natural selection until they were of considerable size, and especially until muscles were developed to move them. Until that time they would seem to be a hindrance to be removed by natural selection, instead of a use to be preserved and improved. It would seem that many organs must have passed through this incipient stage, in which their use was prospective.

Much that is very interesting might be said on these and similar points of difficulty, but all this lies entirely aside from the scope of this work. As already said, these are not objections to evolution or derivation, but only to Darwinism, or any other special theory, as a sufficient explanation of the process of evolution. They only show that we do not yet fully understand this process; that there are still other and perhaps greater factors of evolution than is yet dreamed of in our philosophy.

In the foregoing chapters on special evidences, and especially in the last two, the reader will observe many points of doubt, discussion, and difference of opinion. Let it not be concluded on that account that the law of evolution is still in the region of uncertainty. It can not be too strongly insisted on that the fact of evolution as a universal law must be kept distinct from the causes, the factors, the conditions, the processes, of evolution. The former is certain, the latter are still imperfectly understood.

PART III.
THE RELATION OF EVOLUTION TO RELIGIOUS THOUGHT.

CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.

From what has preceded, the reader will perceive that we regard the law of evolution as thoroughly established. In its most general sense, i. e., as a law of continuity, it is a necessary condition of rational thought. In this sense it is naught else than the universal law of necessary causation applied to forms instead of phenomena. It is not only as certain as—it is far more certain than—the law of gravitation, for it is not a contingent, but a necessary truth like the axioms of geometry. It is only necessary to conceive it clearly, to accept it unhesitatingly. The consensus of scientific and philosophical opinion is already well-nigh, if not wholly, complete. If there are still lingering cases of dissent among thinking men, it is only because such do not yet conceive it clearly—they confound it with some special form of explanation of evolution which they, perhaps justly, think not yet fully established. We have sometimes in the preceding pages used the words evolutionist or derivationist; they ought not to be used any longer. The day is past when evolution might be regarded as a school of thought. We might as well talk of gravitationist as of evolutionist.

If, then, evolution as a law be certain, if, moreover, it is a law affecting not only one part of Nature—the organic kingdom—and one department of science—biology—but the whole realm of Nature and every department of science, yea, every department of thought, changing our whole view of Nature and modifying our whole philosophy, the question presses upon us, “What will be its effect on religious belief, and therefore on moral conduct?” This is a question of gravest import. To answer it, however imperfectly, is the chief object of this work. Except for this, it would probably never have been undertaken. All that goes before is subsidiary to this.

But I will doubtless be met at the very threshold by an objection from the scientific side. Some will say—because it is the fashion now to say—that as simple, honest truth-seekers, we have nothing to do with its effect on religion and on life. They say we must follow Truth wherever she leads, utterly regardless of what may seem to us moral consequences. This I believe is a grave mistake, the result of a reaction, and on the whole a wholesome and noble reaction, against the far more common mistake of sacrificing truth to a supposed good. But the reaction, as in most other cases, has gone much too far. There is a true philosophic ground of justification for the reluctance with which even honest truth-seekers accept a doctrine which seems harmful to society. Effect on life is, and ought to be, an important element in our estimate of the truth of any doctrine. It is necessary for me to show this, in order to justify this part of my work.

Relation of the True and the Good.—There is a necessary and indissoluble connection between truth and usefulness. We all at once admit this connection in one direction. We all admit that a truth must eventually have its useful application. It may not be now, nor in ten years, nor in a century, nor even in a millennium, but some time in the future it will vindicate its usefulness. No truth is trivial or useless in its relation to human life, for man is a part of Nature, and his life must be in accordance with the laws of Nature. Every one admits this, but not every one admits the converse proposition, viz., that whatever doctrine or belief, in the long run and throughout the history of human advancement, has tended to the betterment of our race, must have in it an element of truth by virtue of which it has been useful; for man’s good can not be in conflict with the laws of Nature. Also, whatever in the long run and in the final outcome tends to the bad in human conduct, ought to be received, even by the honest truth-seeker, with distrust as containing essential error. The reason of this will now be further explained.

Relation of Philosophy to Life.—There are three primary divisions of our psychical nature, viz., sensuous, intellectual, and volitional or moral. There are three corresponding primary processes necessary to make a complete rational and satisfactory philosophy: (1) There is first the instreaming of the external world through the senses, as impressions. These we call facts or phenomena. (2) The elaboration of these facts within, by the intellect, into a compact, consistent structure. This we call knowledge. (3) The outgoing of this knowledge by the will into the world as right or wise conduct. Now these three are all equally necessary. All these three portions of our complex nature are equally urgent to be satisfied.39 But, unfortunately, scientific workers are too apt to think only 1 and 2 necessary—that true facts elaborated into consistent theory are all we need care for. Theologians and metaphysicians, on the other hand, seem to think only 2 and 3 necessary. They elaborate a theory consistent in all its parts, exquisitely woven in beautiful and delicate pattern, and apparently satisfactory in its application to the right conduct of life, but are less careful to inquire whether it is in harmony with facts derived from the senses. But, we repeat, all three are equally necessary. The first gathers the materials, the second constructs the edifice, the third, by use, by practical application, tests whether it be a fit building to live in, whether it is constructed on sound architectural principles. The tendency of the olden time was to neglect the first, the tendency of the present time is to neglect the third. But we repeat with stronger emphasis that this third element is equally necessary. All admit that successful application in art is the surest test of the truth of science. Now, social conduct is the art corresponding to our philosophy of life, and therefore is the sure test of its truth. It follows, therefore, that unless all these three primary divisions of our nature are satisfied by any doctrine, there must result an ineradicable confusion and discord in our psychical nature, and cordial acceptance is not only impossible but irrational. We insist upon this the more because it has become the fashion in these latter days of dominance of science, to say that to inquire into effects on society is inconsistent with the scientific spirit, and unworthy of the honest truth-seeker. But, observe, I am speaking of effects on society only as a test of truth. I would not swerve a hair’s breadth from absolute devotion to truth. It is necessary, indeed, to inquire into effects on society, but we must inquire only in the patient spirit characteristic of the truth-seeker. Whatever is really true will surely vindicate itself by its beneficence, if we will only wait patiently for final results. Evolution is no exception to this universal truth. It will surely vindicate its beneficence, but we must wait yet a little while—not very long.

So much it was necessary to say in justification of the inquiry which constitutes this third part of our work. But, after this justification, the question returns with additional emphasis, “What will be the effect of the universal acceptance of the law of evolution on religious thought, and through this on the right conduct of life?”

There can be no doubt that evolution, as a law affecting all science and every department of Nature, must fundamentally affect the whole realm of thought, and profoundly modify our traditional views of Nature, of God, and of man. There can be no doubt that we are now on the eve of a great revolution. But, as in all great revolutions, so in this, the first fears as to its effects are greatly exaggerated. To many, both friends and foes of Christianity, evolution seems to sweep away the whole foundation, not only of Christianity, but of all religion and morals, by demonstrating a universal materialism. Many are ready to cry out in anguish, “Ye have taken away our gods, what have we more? Ye have destroyed our dearest hopes and noblest aspirations, what more is left worth living for?” But I think all who are at all familiar with the history of the so-called conflict between religion and science will admit this is not the first time this cry has been raised against science. They have heard this danger-cry so often that they begin to regard it as little more than a wolf-cry—scientific wolf in the religious fold. It may not be amiss, then, to stop a moment to trace rapidly the main points of this conflict—to discuss the various forms of this scientific wolf.

First, then, it came in the form of the heliocentric theory of the planetary system. We once thought the earth the center of the universe, and so firm that it can not be moved. But science shows that it moves about the sun, and spins unceasingly on its axis. Every one has heard of the terror of the sheep produced by this discovery, and the nearly tragic results to the bold scientist. But now we look back with wonder that there should have been any trouble at all. Would any Christian now consent to give up the grand conceptions of Nature and of God thus opened to the human mind—the idea of infinite space full of worlds, of which our earth is one, moving in silent harmony as in a mystic dance? Verily, this wolf has proved itself a harmless, nay, a very noble beast, and lies down in peace with the lambs.

Next, it came in the shape of the law of gravitation, as sustentation of the cosmos by law and resident forces. The effect of this on religious thought was even more profound, though less visible on the surface, because only perceived by the most intelligent. It seemed at that time to remove God from the course of Nature. This was the real ground of the skepticism of the last century, and also the real motive of Voltaire’s ardent advocacy of Newton’s views before these were generally accepted in France. But now, who would give up this grand idea—this conception of law pervading infinite space—the same law which controls the falling of a stone guiding also the planetary orbs in their fiery courses? This is indeed the divine spheral music, inaudible but to the ear of science, accompanying the celestial dance.

Next, it came in the form of the antiquity of the earth and of the cosmos. The earth which we had fondly thought made specially for us about six thousand years ago; sun, moon, and stars, which we had vainly imagined shone only for our behoof—these, science tells us, existed and each performed its due course inconceivable ages before there was a man to till the ground or contemplate the heavens. Some of my readers may still remember the horror, the angry dispute which followed the promulgation of these facts. But now, who would consent to give up the noble conception of infinite time thus opened to the human mind and become forever the heritage of man?

Next, it came in the form of the antiquity of man. It is probable, nay, certain, that man has inhabited the earth far longer than we had previously supposed we had warrant for believing. The controversy on this question and the dread of its result has indeed not yet entirely subsided. Some timid people still look askance at this wolf, but I think all intelligent people accept it and find it harmless.

Next, and last, it comes now in the form of evolution—of the origin of all things, even of organic forms, by derivation—of creation by law. We are even now in the midst of the terror created by this doctrine. But what is evolution but law throughout infinite time? The same law which now controls the development of an egg has presided over the creation of worlds. Infinite space and the universal law of gravitation; infinite time and the universal law of evolution. These two are the grandest ideas in the realm of thought. The one is universal sustentation, the other universal creation, by law. There is one law and one energy pervading all space and stretching through all time. Our religious philosophy has long ago accepted the one, but has not yet had time to readjust itself completely to the other. A few more years, and Christians will not only accept, but love and cherish this also for the noble conceptions it gives of Nature and of God.

But some will exclaim, “Noble conceptions of God, say you! Why, it utterly obliterates the idea of God from the mind. All other conflicts were for outworks—this strikes at the citadel. All others required only readjustment of claims, rectification of boundaries betwixt science and religion—this requires nothing less than unconditional surrender. Evolution is absolute materialism, and materialism is incompatible with belief in God, and therefore with religion of any kind whatsoever!” Before proceeding any further, it becomes necessary to remove this difficulty out of the way.

CHAPTER II.
THE RELATION OF EVOLUTION TO MATERIALISM.

It is seen in the sketch given in the previous chapter that, after every struggle between theology and science, there has been a readjustment of some beliefs, a giving up of some notions which really had nothing to do with religion in a proper sense, but which had become so associated with religious belief as be to confounded with the latter—a giving up of some line of defense which ought never to have been held because not within the rightful domain of theology at all. Until the present the whole difficulty has been the result of misconception, and Christianity has emerged from every struggle only strengthened and purified, by casting off an obstructing shell which hindered its growth. But the present struggle seems to many an entirely different and far more serious matter. To many it seems no longer a struggle of theology, but of essential religion itself—a deadly life-and-death struggle between religion and materialism. To many, both skeptics and Christians, evolution seems to be synonymous with blank materialism, and therefore cuts up by the roots every form of religion by denying the existence of God and the fact of immortality. That the enemies of religion, if there be any such, should assume and insist on this identity, and thus carry over the whole accumulated evidence of evolution as a demonstration of materialism, although wholly unwarranted, is not so surprising; but what shall we say of the incredible folly of her friends in admitting the same identity!

A little reflection will explain this. There can be no doubt that there is at present a strong and to many an overwhelming tendency toward materialism. The amazing achievements of modern science; the absorption of intellectual energy in the investigation of external nature and the laws of matter have created a current in that direction so strong that of those who feel its influence—of those who do not stay at home, shut up in their creeds, but walk abroad in the light of modern thought—it sweeps away and bears on its bosom all but the strongest and most reflective minds. Materialism has thus become a fashion of thought; and, like all fashions, must be guarded against. This tendency has been created and is now guided by science. Just at this time it is strongest in the department of biology, and especially is evolution its stronghold. This theory is supposed by many to be simply demonstrative of materialism. Once it was the theory of gravitation which seemed demonstrative of materialism. The sustentation of the universe by law seemed to imply that Nature operates itself and needs no God. That time is passed. Now it is evolution and creation by law. This will also pass. The theory seems to many the most materialistic of all scientific doctrine only because it is the last which is claimed by materialism, and the absurdity of the claim is not yet made clear to many.

The truth is, there is no such necessary connection between evolution and materialism as is imagined by some. There is no difference in this respect between evolution and any other law of Nature. In evolution, it is true, the last barrier is broken down, and the whole domain of nature is now subject to law; but it is only the last; the march of science has been in the same direction all the time. In a word, evolution is not only not identical with materialism, but, to the deep thinker, it has not added a feather’s weight to its probability or reasonableness. Evolution is one thing and materialism quite another. The one is an established law of nature, the other an unwarranted and hasty inference from that law. Let no one imagine, as he is conducted by the materialistic scientist in the paths of evolution from the inorganic to the organic, from the organic to the animate, from the animate to the rational and moral, until he lands, as it seems to him, logically and inevitably, in universal materialism—let no such one imagine that he has walked all the way in the domain of science. He has stepped across the boundary into the domain of philosophy. But, on account of the strong tendency to materialism and the skillful guidance of his leaders, there seems to be no such boundary; he does not distinguish between the inductions of science and the inferences of a shallow philosophy; the whole is accredited to science, and the final conclusion seems to carry with it all the certainty which belongs to scientific results. The fact that these materialistic conclusions are reached by some of the foremost scientists of the present day adds nothing to their probability. In a question of science, viz., the law of evolution, their authority is deservedly high, but in a question of philosophy, viz., materialism, it is far otherwise. If the pure scientists smile when theological philosophers, unacquainted with the methods of science, undertake to dogmatize on the subject of evolution, they must pardon the philosophers if they also smile when the pure scientists imagine that they can at once solve questions in philosophy which have agitated the human mind from the earliest times. I am anxious to show the absurdity of this materialistic conclusion, but I shall try to do so, not by any labored argument, but by a few simple illustrations.

1. It is curious to observe how, when the question is concerning a work of Nature, we no sooner find out how a thing is made than we immediately exclaim: “It is not made at all, it became so of itself!” So long as we knew not how worlds were made, we of course concluded they must have been created, but so soon as science showed how it was probably done, immediately we say we were mistaken—they were not made at all. So also, so long as we could not imagine how new organic forms originated, we were willing to believe they were created, but, so soon as we find that they originated by evolution, many at once say, “We were mistaken; no creator is necessary at all.” Is this so when the question is concerning a work of man? Yes, of one kind—viz., the work of the magician. Here, indeed, we believe in him, and are delighted with his work, until we know how it is done, and then all our faith and wonder cease. But in any honest work it is not so; but, on the contrary, when we understand how it is done, stupid wonder is changed into intellectual delight. Does it not seem, then, that to most people God is a mere wonder-worker, a chief magician. But the mission of science is to show us how things are done. Is it any wonder, then, that to such persons science is constantly destroying their superstitious illusions? But if God is an honest worker, according to reason—i. e., according to law—ought not science rather to change gaping wonder into intelligent delight—superstition into rational worship?

2. Again, it is curious to observe how an old truth, if it come only in a new form, often strikes us as something unheard of, and even as paradoxical and almost impossible. A little over thirty years ago a little philosophical toy, the gyroscope, was introduced and became very common. At first sight, it seems to violate all mechanical laws, and set at naught the law of gravitation itself. A heavy-brass wheel, four to five inches in diameter, at the end of a horizontal axle, six or eight inches long, is set rotating rapidly, and then the free end of the axis is supported by a string or otherwise. The wheel remains suspended in the air while slowly gyrating. What mysterious force sustains the wheel when its only point of support is at the end of the axle, six or eight inches away? Scientific and popular literature were flooded with explanations of this seeming paradox. And yet it was nothing new. The boy’s top, that spins and leans and will not fall, although solicited by gravity, so long as it spins, which we have seen all our lives without special wonder, is precisely the same thing.

Now, evolution is no new thing, but an old familiar truth; but, coming now in a new and questionable shape, lo, how it startles us out of our propriety! Origin of forms by evolution is going on everywhere about us, both in the inorganic and the organic world. In its more familiar forms, it had never occurred to most of us that it was a scientific refutation of the existence of God, that it was a demonstration of materialism. But now it is pushed one step farther in the direction it has always been going—it is made to include also the origin of species—only a little change in its form, and lo, how we start! To the deep thinker, now and always, there is and has been the alternative—materialism or theism. God operates Nature or Nature operates itself; but evolution puts no new phase on this old question. For example, the origin of the individual by evolution. Everybody knows that every one of us individually became what we now are by a slow process of evolution from a microscopic spherule of protoplasm, and yet this did not interfere with the idea of God as our individual maker. Why, then, should the discovery that the species (or first individuals of each kind) originated by evolution destroy our belief in God as the creator of species?

3. It is curious and very interesting to observe the manner in which vexed questions are always finally settled, if settled at all. All vexed questions—i. e., questions which have tasked the powers of the greatest minds age after age—are such only because there is a real truth on both sides. Pure, unmixed error does not live to plague us long. Error, when it continues to live, does so by virtue of a germ of truth contained. Great questions, therefore, continue to be argued pro and con from age to age, because each side is in a sense—i. e., from its own point of view—true, but wrong in excluding the other point of view; and a true solution, a true rational philosophy, will always be found in a view which combines and reconciles the two partial, mutually excluding views, showing in what they are true and in what they are false—explaining their differences by transcending them. This is so universal and far-reaching a principle that I am sure I will be pardoned for illustrating it in the homeliest and tritest fashion. I will do so by means of the shield with the diverse sides, giving the story and construing it, however, in my own way. There is, apparently, no limit to the amount of rich marrow of truth that may be extracted from these dry bones of popular proverbs and fables by patient turning and gnawing.

We all remember, then, the famous dispute concerning the shield, with its sides of different colors, which we shall here call white and black. We all remember how, after vain attempts to discover the truth by dispute, it was agreed to try the scientific method of investigation. We all remember the surprising result. Both parties to the dispute were right and both were wrong. Each was right from his point of view, but wrong in excluding the other point of view. Each was right in what he asserted, and each wrong in what he denied. And the complete truth was the combination of the partial truths and the elimination of the partial errors. But we must not make the mistake of supposing that truth consists in compromise. There is an old adage that truth lies in the middle between antagonistic extremes. But it seems to us that this is the place of safety, not of truth. This is the favorite adage, therefore, of the timid man, the time-server, the fence-man, not the truth-seeker. Suppose there had been on the occasion mentioned above one of these fence-philosophers. He would have said: “These disputants are equally intelligent and equally valiant. One side says the shield is white, the other that it is black, now truth lies in the middle; therefore, I conclude the shield is gray or neutral tint, or a sort of pepper-and-salt.” Do we not see that he is the only man who has no truth in him? No; truth is no heterogeneous mixture of opposite extremes, but a stereoscopic combination of two surface views into one solid reality.

Now, the same is true of all vexed questions, and I have given this trite fable again only to apply it to the case in hand.

There are three possible views concerning the origin of organic forms whether individual or specific. Two of these are opposite and mutually excluding; the third combining and reconciling. For example, take the individual. There are three theories concerning the origin of the individual. The first is that of the pious child who thinks that he was made very much as he himself makes his dirt-pies; the second is that of the street-gamin, or of Topsy, who says: “I was not made at all, I growed”; the third is that of most intelligent Christians—i. e., that we were made by a process of evolution. Observe that this latter combines and reconciles the other two, and is thus the more rational and philosophical. Now, there are also three exactly corresponding theories concerning the origin of species. The first is that of many pious persons and many intelligent clergymen, who say that species were made at once by the Divine hand without natural process. The second is that of the materialists, who say that species were not made at all, they were derived, “they growed.” The third is that of the theistic evolutionists, who think that they were created by a process of evolution—who believe that making is not inconsistent with growing. The one asserts the divine agency, but denies natural process; the second asserts the natural process, but denies divine agency; the third asserts divine agency by natural process. Of the first two, observe, both are right and both wrong; each view is right in what it asserts, and wrong in what it denies—each is right from its own point of view, but wrong in excluding the other point of view. The third is the only true rational solution, for it includes, combines, and reconciles the other two; showing wherein each is right and wherein wrong. It is the combination of the two partial truths, and the elimination of the partial errors. But let us not fail to do perfect justice. The first two views of origin, whether of the individual or of the species, are indeed both partly wrong as well as partly right; but the view of the pious child and of the Christian contains by far the more essential truth. Of the two sides of the shield, theirs is at least the whiter and more beautiful.