Part 6

No one can closely examine a large number of plants and animals without perceiving real or imaginary gradations among them. The gradation, shrews, monkeys, apes, man, is not very far from a real genealogical succession, confirmed by structural and historical proofs. The gradation, fish, whale, sheep, on the other hand, though it seemed equally plausible to early speculators, is not confirmed by structure and history. In the age of Aristotle and for long afterwards the ostrich was believed to be a connecting link between birds and mammals, because it possessed, in addition to obvious bird-like features, a superficial resemblance to a camel (long neck, speed in running, desert haunts, and a rather imaginary resemblance in the toes). Sedentary, branching zoophytes were quoted as intermediate between animals and plants; corals and barnacles as intermediate between animals or plants and stones. Aristotle was convinced of the continuity of nature; his scale of being extended from inanimate objects to man, and indicated, as he thought, the effort of nature to attain perfection. Malpighi traced analogies between plants and animals, identifying the seed and egg, as many had done before him, assuming that viviparous as well as oviparous animals proceed from eggs, and comparing the growth of metals and crystals with the growth of trees and fungi. Leibnitz believed that a chain of creatures, rising by insensible steps from the lowest to the highest, was a philosophical necessity. Buffon accepted the same conclusion, and affirmed that every possible link in the chain actually exists. Pope reasoned in verse about a "vast chain of being," which reaches from God to man, and from man to nothing. The eighteenth century was filled with the sound.

Bonnet in 1745 traced the scale of nature in fuller detail than had been attempted before. He made Hydra a link between plants and animals, the snails and slugs a link between mollusca and serpents, flying fishes a link between ordinary fishes and land vertebrates, the ostrich, bat, and flying fox links between birds and mammals. Man, endowed with reason, occupies the highest rank; then we descend to the half-reasoning elephant, to birds, fishes, and insects (supposed to be guided only by instinct), and so to the shell-fish, which shade through the zoophytes into plants. The plants again descend into figured stones (fossils) and crystals. Then come the metals and demi-metals, which are specialised forms of the elemental earth. Water, air, and fire, with perhaps the æther of Leibnitz, are placed at the bottom of the scale.

In Bonnet's hands the scale of nature became an absurdity, by being traced so far and in so much detail. It was not long before a reaction set in. The great German naturalist, Pallas, in his Elenchus Zoophytorum (1766) showed that no linear scale can represent the mutual relations of organised beings; the branching tree, he said, is the appropriate metaphor. Cuvier taught that the animal kingdom consists of four great divisions which are not derived one from another, and his authority overpowered that of Lamarck, who still maintained that all animals form a single graduated scale. A complete reversal of opinion ensued, so complete that at length the theologians, who had once seen in the scale of nature a proof of the wisdom of Providence, were found fighting with all their might against the insensible gradations which, according to Darwin's Origin of Species, must have formerly connected what are now perfectly distinct forms of life.

The eighteenth-century supporters of continuity in nature were not merely wrong in picturing the organised world as a simple chain or scale. They were also wrong in assuming that all the links or steps still exist. We can now see that vast numbers are irrecoverably gone. It is a safe prophecy that the filiation of species will never be grasped by the intelligence of man except in outline, and even an outline which shall truly express the genetic relations of many chief types is unattainable at present.

The Sexes of Flowering Plants.

As soon as men began to raise plants in gardens, or even earlier, they must have remarked that plants produce seeds, and that seeds develop into new plants. The Greeks (Empedocles, Aristotle, Theophrastus) recognised that the seed of the plant answers to the egg of the animal, which is substantially though not literally true. None of the three understood that a process of fertilisation always, or almost always, precedes the production of seed. Had the date-palm, whose sexes are separate, and which has been artificially fertilised from time immemorial, been capable of cultivation in Greece, Aristotle would not have said that plants have no sexes, and do not require to be fertilised. His pupil, Theophrastus, knew only by hearsay of the male and female date-palms, and affirmed that both bear fruit. Pliny, three hundred years later, called pollen the fertilising substance, and gave it as the opinion of the most competent observers that all plants are of two sexes. The revivers of botany paid no attention to pollen or the function of the flower; it is more surprising that in the following century Malpighi, who had diligently studied the development of the plant-embryo, should give so superficial an account of the stamen and its pollen. About the same time Grew and Millington expressed their conviction that "the attire" (anthers) "doth serve as the male, for the generation of the seed." A few years later Ray speaks of the masculine or prolific seed contained in the stamens. In 1691-4 Camerarius, professor at Tübingen, brought forward clear experimental proof that female flowers, furnished only with pistils, produce seeds freely in the neighbourhood of the male or staminate flowers, but fail to do so when isolated. He distinctly inferred that the anthers are male organs and the pistil the female organ. The claim set up on behalf of Linnæus that he demonstrated, or helped to demonstrate, the sexes of flowering plants has little foundation in fact. To make out such details of the process of fertilisation as the formation of pollen-tubes, the penetration of the ovules and the fusion of nuclei required the improved microscopes of the nineteenth century.

The almost universal presence both in plants and animals of a process of fertilisation is a fact whose physiological meaning we but imperfectly grasp. Modern research has shown that the pollen-tube is exceptional and confined to the flowering plants; the motile filament of cryptogams, analogous to the spermatozoon of animals, is no doubt a relatively primitive structure, which gives one of the strongest indications of the common origin of all forms of life.

Ray came at last to believe that fossils were the remains of actual organisms, but he was still much hampered by his theological views.

The second of the two has actually been so treated, but without mention of Perrault's name.

See Krause's Life of Erasmus Darwin.

Grew's Anatomy of Plants, 1682.

Wisdom of God, 1691.

PERIOD III.

1741-1789

Characteristics of the Period.

The chief historical events are the decline of the French monarchy, the French revolution, the rise of Prussia, the expansion of England, and the American Declaration of Independence. In the history of thought we remark the introduction of the historical or comparative method, which seeks to co-ordinate facts and to trace events to their causes. Science steadily grows in influence, and freethought wins many triumphs; this is the age of Voltaire, Rousseau, and the Encyclopædists, of David Hume, of the French economists and Adam Smith.

Systems of Flowering Plants: Linnæus and the Jussieus.

Linnæus is remembered as a man of great industry, enterprise, and sagacity, who was inspired from boyhood by a passion for natural history and spent a long life in advancing it. He was early recognised as a leader in more than one branch of the study.

L'Obel, Morison, and Ray had laboured to found a natural system of flowering plants, and it was they who laid the foundation upon which all their successors have built. The work did not, however, go steadily forward on the original plan. When Linnæus entered upon the scene the prevalent systems were only moderately natural, and far from convenient in practice. To place the undescribed species which poured in from North America and other distant countries was a difficult task, with which the universities and botanic gardens of Europe could but imperfectly cope. Linnæus, who had the instincts of a man of business, saw that botany was falling into confusion, and that the only remedy was a quick and easy method, which could be mastered in a few days and applied with certainty. No such method, he well knew, could take into account all the intricate affinities of plants, but to devise a perfect method required the labours of generations of botanists; meanwhile a temporary expedient, full of faults it might be, would remove a pressing evil. Flowering plants had been arranged by the divisions of the ovary, or by the petals and sepals, with no very satisfactory results; it occurred to Linnæus to try the number of the stamens and styles. Any such method was bound to present many anomalies, associating plants which are only distantly related, and separating plants which are closely related; but some of the worst anomalies were avoided and some well-established families (Crucifers, Composites, Labiates) retained at the expense of symmetry. Not even the pressing need of simple definitions, which was allowed to spoil so natural a group as the Umbellifers, could induce Linnæus to place Ranunculus and Potentilla in the same class.

Linnæus gained currency for his system by connecting it with the newly accepted doctrine of sexes in plants. That doctrine was not conceived nor demonstrated by him (see p. 48), and it had, as we now see, no further connection with classification by stamens and styles than that it explained the almost universal occurrence of such parts in flowering plants. But Linnæus had persuaded himself that he had done more to establish the existence of sexes in plants than anybody else, and that the physiological importance of stamens and styles was a proof of their systematic value. Neither of these beliefs can stand inquiry, but both were extremely influential on contemporary opinion. The so-called Sexual System achieved an immense success everywhere but in France and Germany. Botanists of small experience were now able to say whether the plants which seemed to be new were really undescribed or not; if undescribed, what was their appropriate place in the system. The congestion of systematic botany was relieved.

The great naturalist appealed to posterity by publishing the sketch of a natural system of flowering plants, which he accompanied by judicious expositions of the philosophy of classification. He had the permanent reform of systematic botany really at heart; he did not believe that his own Sexual System could be final; and he was glad to help in setting up a better one. To this end he united groups of genera into families which he did not pretend to define, being often guided only by an obscure sense of natural bonds of union. Bernard de Jussieu, one of the most patient and observant of systematists, devoted his life to the same task, and profited by the example of Linnæus. He published nothing, but found expression for his views in the arrangement of a botanic garden at Versailles. His ideas were afterwards developed by his nephew, A. L. de Jussieu, in the Genera Plantarum (1789).

Affinity became at length the avowed basis of every botanical system. No convenience in practice, no agreement or difference in habit, was knowingly permitted to override this mysterious property. What then is affinity? What are natural groups of animals and plants, and how do they arise? Until the year 1859 no one could tell. The terse maxims of Linnæus helped to guide naturalists into the right road, but a single fact shows how inadequate they were. Linnæus emphatically and repeatedly declared his belief in the constancy of species. But if species were really constant, affinity between species must have been no more than a delusive metaphor; the resemblances between distinct species could not, on that supposition, be the effect of inheritance.

Linnæus' imperfect appreciation of the fundamental difference between a natural classification of living things and such classifications as man makes for his own practical ends is further revealed by his admission of a third kingdom of nature. Not only animals and plants, but rocks and minerals as well, had, he thought, their genera and species. The genus and species thereby become mere logical terms, independent of inheritance and of life itself.

Linnæus had a passionate love of order and clearness, enforced by an inexhaustible power of work. Hence he was able to serve his own generation with great effect, to methodise the labours of naturalists, to devise useful expedients for lightening their toil (such as his strict binomial nomenclature), and to apply scientific knowledge to the practical purposes of life. But the complexity of nature is not to be suddenly and forcibly reduced to order, and much of Linnæus' work had to be done over again in a different spirit. Cuvier furnishes a somewhat parallel case. Cuvier too was an indomitable worker. His power of organisation moved the wonder of Napoleon, and there has been no greater master of clear thought and clear expression. But, like Linnæus, Cuvier overlooked much that was already obscurely felt and clumsily worded by brooding philosophers, germs of thought which were destined to become all-powerful in the course of a generation or two. It must not be supposed that the labours of Linnæus and Cuvier were bestowed in vain. All that was really valuable in their writings has been saved, and biology will never forget how much it owes to their life-long exertions.

Réaumur and the History of Insects.

Réaumur was born to wealth, and made timely use of his leisure to study the sciences and win for himself a place among natural philosophers. His inclinations directed him first towards mathematics, physics, and, a little later, towards the practical arts. He took a leading part in a magnificent description of French industries, which had been undertaken by the Académie des Sciences. Not content with describing the processes in use, he perpetually laboured to improve them. The manufacture of steel, tin-plate, and porcelain, the hanging of carriages and the fitting of axles, the improvement of the thermometer, glass hives, and the hatching of fowls' eggs by artificial heat are among the many objects to which his attention was directed. Natural History gradually took a more and more prominent place in his studies, and a great History of Insects engaged the last years of his busy life.

Réaumur was neither an anatomist nor a systematist, at least he gained no distinction in either of these branches of biology. No biological laboratory had been dreamt of in his day; he lacked the manipulative skill of Swammerdam or Lyonet; he was no draughtsman, and had to engage artists to draw for him. One qualification of the first importance, however, he possessed in a high degree, the scientific mind. As he watched the acts of an insect, questions at once sagacious and practical suggested themselves in abundance, and these questions he set himself to answer in the best possible way—viz., by observation and experiment. In close attention to the activities of living things his ingenuity and patience found a boundless sphere of exercise. Moreover all that he had seen he could relate in a simple but picturesque manner, using the language familiar to the best French society in the generation next after Madame de Sévigné. Diffuse but clear, amusing but never frivolous, he won and kept the attention of a multitude of readers, the best of whom were incited to adopt his methods or to pursue inquiries which he had indicated. His greatest successes were won in observing and interpreting the natural contrivances of insects, the means by which they get their food and provide for their safety; their transformations, instincts, and societies. Kirby and Spence, which is still one of the best popular accounts of insects in English, is largely based upon Réaumur; so are other well-known treatises, in which the debt is less frankly acknowledged. Réaumur greatly enlarged the knowledge of all kinds of insects except the beetles and Orthoptera, which he did not live to describe, and to this day his Histoire des Insectes is a work of fundamental importance, with which every investigator of life-histories is bound to make himself acquainted.

No abstract of Réaumur's Histoire des Insectes is possible, but we may at least give one example of his mode of treatment. Let us select his account of the proboscis of a moth, the first full account that was ever given. He tells us that all moths have not an effective proboscis, though he does not explain how some of them can dispense with what seems so necessary an organ; this omission has been made good by later entomologists. The proboscis, he goes on, springs from the head, just between the compound eyes. When at rest, it takes up very little room, for it is spirally rolled, like a watch spring; in some cases it makes as few as one and a half or two turns, in others as many as eight or ten; the base is often concealed by a pair of hairy palps, which serve as feelers. Careful study of a moth as she flits from flower to flower shows that she alights on the plant, unrolls her proboscis, passes it into the corolla, withdraws it, perhaps coils it for an instant, and then plunges it again into the tube. When this manœuvre has been repeated several times, the moth flies off to another flower.