THE
WONDERS OF LIFE

A POPULAR STUDY
OF BIOLOGICAL PHILOSOPHY

BY

ERNST HAECKEL

(Ph.D., M.D., LL.D., Sc.D., and Professor at the University of Jena)

AUTHOR OF
"THE RIDDLE OP THE UNIVERSE"
"THE HISTORY OF CREATION"
"THE EVOLUTION OF MAN"ETC.

TRANSLATED BY
JOSEPH McCABE

SUPPLEMENTARY VOLUME TO
"THE RIDDLE OF THE UNIVERSE"

HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS

NEW YORK AND LONDON
1905

Copyright, 1904, by Harper & Brothers.

All rights reserved.
Published January, 1905.

CONTENTS

Part I.—METHODOLOGICAL SECTION:
KNOWLEDGE OF LIFE

Part II.—MORPHOLOGICAL SECTION:
NATURE OF LIFE

Part III.—PHYSIOLOGICAL SECTION:
FUNCTIONS OF LIFE

Part IV.—GENEALOGICAL SECTION:
HISTORY OF LIFE

PREFACE

The publication of the present work on The Wonders of Life has been occasioned by the success of The Riddle of the Universe, which I wrote five years ago. Within a few months of the issue of this study of the monistic philosophy, in the autumn of 1899, ten thousand copies were sold. Moreover, the publisher having been solicited on many sides to issue a popular edition of the work, more than a hundred thousand copies of this were sold within a year.[1] This extraordinary and—as far as I was concerned—unexpected success of a philosophical work which was by no means light reading, and which had no particular charm of presentation, affords ample proof of the intense interest taken by even the general reader in the object of the work—the construction of a rational and solid philosophy of life.

Naturally, the clear opposition of my monistic philosophy, based as it was on the most advanced and sound scientific knowledge, to the conventional ideas and to an outworn "revelation," led to the publication of a vast number of criticisms and attacks. During the first twelve months more than a hundred reviews and a dozen large pamphlets appeared, full of the most contradictory strictures and the most curious observations. One of the ablest of my pupils, Heinrich Schmidt, gave a summary and criticism of them in his Der Kampf um die Welträthsel, in the autumn of 1900. However, the literary struggle went on to assume gigantic proportions when twelve different translations of the Riddle appeared, and led to an ever-increasing agitation in every educated country of the Old and the New World.

I gave a brief reply to the chief of these attacks in April, 1903, in the appendix to the popular edition of the Riddle. It would be useless to go further into this controversy and meet the many attacks that have since been made. It is a question here of that profound and irreconcilable opposition between knowledge and faith, between a real knowledge of nature and an alleged "revelation," which has occupied the thoughtful and inquiring mind for thousands of years. I base my monistic philosophy exclusively on the convictions which I have gained during fifty years' close and indefatigable study of nature and its harmonious working. My dualistic opponents grant only a restricted value to these experiences; they would subordinate them to the fantastic ideas which they have reached by faith in a supernatural world of spirits. An honest and impartial consideration of this palpable contradiction discovers it to be irreconcilable—either science and experience, or faith and revelation!

For this reason I do not propose to make any further reply to the opponents of The Riddle of the Universe, and I am still less disposed to take up the personal attacks which some of my critics have thought fit to make on me. In the course of this controversy I have grown painfully familiar with the means with which it is sought to silence the detested free-thinker—misrepresentation, sophistry, calumny, and denunciation. "Critical" philosophers of the modern Kantist school vie in this with orthodox theologians. What I have said in this connection of the theologian Loofs, of Halle, the philologist Dennert, of Godesberg, and the metaphysician Paulsen, of Berlin, in the appendix to the cheap German edition of the Riddle, applies equally to many other opponents of the same type. These heated partisans may continue to attack and calumniate my person as they will; they will not hurt the sacred cause of truth in which I labor.

Much more interesting to me than these attacks were the innumerable letters which I have received from thoughtful readers of the Riddle during the last five years, and particularly since the appearance of a popular edition. Of these I have already received more than five thousand. At first I conscientiously replied to each of these correspondents, but I had at length to content myself with sending a printed slip with the intimation that my time and strength did not permit me to make an adequate reply. However, though this correspondence was very exacting, it afforded a very welcome proof of the lively sympathy of a large number of readers with the aim of the monistic philosophy, and a very interesting insight into the mental attitude of the most varied classes of readers. I especially noticed that the same remarks and questions occurred in many of these five thousand letters, very often expressed in the same terms. Most of the inquiries related to biological questions, which I had cursorily and inadequately touched both in The Riddle of the Universe and The History of Creation. The natural desire to remedy these deficiencies of my earlier writings and give a general reply to my interrogators was the immediate cause of the writing of the present work on The Wonders of Life.

I was confirmed in this design by the circumstance that another scientist, the botanist Johannes Reinke, of Kiel, had published two works in which he had treated the general problems of natural philosophy, especially of biology, from a purely dualistic and teleological point of view; these works were his Die Welt als That (1899) and Einleitung in die theoretische Biologie (1902). As both these works are well written and present the principles of dualism and teleology with admirable consistency—as far as this is possible—it seemed to me that it was desirable to give a thorough exposition of my own monistic and causative system.

Hence the present work on the wonders of life is, as the title indicates, a supplementary volume to The Riddle of the Universe. While the latter undertook to make a comprehensive survey of the general questions of science—as cosmological problems—in the light of the monistic philosophy, the present volume is confined to the realm of organic science, or the science of life. It seeks to deal connectedly with the general problems of biology, in strict accord with the monistic and mechanical principles which I laid down in 1866 in my General Morphology. In this I laid special stress on the universality of the law of substance and the substantial unity of nature, which I have further treated in the second and fourteenth chapters of The Riddle of the Universe.

The arrangement of the vast material for this study of the wonders of life has been modelled on that of the Riddle. I have retained the division into larger and smaller sections and the synopses of the various chapters. Thus the whole biological content falls into four sections and twenty chapters. I should much have liked to add illustrations in many parts of the text to make the subject plainer, especially as regards chapters vii., viii., xi., and xvi.; but this would have led to a considerable increase in the size and price of the book. Moreover, there are now many illustrated works which will help the reader to go more fully into the various sections of the study. Among others, my History of Creation (English translation) and Evolution of Man (English translation now in course of preparation) will be found helpful in this way. The German reader will also find many illustrations to elucidate the text of this book in my recently completed work, Kunstformen der Natur (10 parts, with 100 tables, 1899-1904).

I had said, in the preface to The Riddle of the Universe in 1899, that I proposed to close my study of the monistic system with that work, and that "I am wholly a child of the nineteenth century, and with its close I draw the line under my life's work." If I now seem to run counter to this observation, I beg the reader to consider that this work on the wonders of life is a necessary supplement to the widely circulated Riddle of the Universe, and that I felt bound to write it in response to the inquiries of so many of my readers. In this second work, as in the earlier one, I make no pretension to give the reader a comprehensive statement of my monistic philosophy in the full maturity it has reached—for me personally, at least—at the close of the nineteenth century. A subjective theory of the world such as this can, naturally, never hope to have a complete objective validity. My knowledge is incomplete, like that of all other men. Hence, even in this "biological sketch-book," I can only offer studies of unequal value and incomplete workmanship. There still remains the great design of embracing all the exuberant phenomena of organic life in one general scheme and explaining all the wonders of life from the monistic point of view, as forms of one great harmoniously working universe—whether you call this Nature or Cosmos, World or God.

The twenty chapters of The Wonders of Life were written uninterruptedly in the course of four months which I spent at Rapallo, on the shore of the blue Mediterranean. The quiet life in this tiny coast-town of the Italian Riviera gave me leisure to weigh again all the views on organic life which I had formed by many-sided experience of life and learning since the beginning of my academic studies (1852) and my teaching at Jena (1861). To this I was stimulated by the constant sight of the blue Mediterranean, the countless inhabitants of which had, for fifty years, afforded such ample material for my biological studies; and my solitary walks in the wild gorges of the Ligurian Apennines, and the moving spectacle of its forest-crowned mountain altars, inspired me with a feeling of the unity of living nature—a feeling that only too easily fades away in the study of detail in the laboratory. On the other hand, such a situation did not allow a comprehensive survey of the boundless literature which has been evoked by the immense advances in every branch of biology. However, the present work is not intended to be a systematic manual of general biology. In the revision of the text, on which I was engaged during the summer at Jena, I had to restrict myself to occasional additions and improvements. In this I had the assistance of my worthy pupil, Dr. Heinrich Schmidt, to whom also I am indebted for the careful revision of the proofs.

When I completed my seventieth year at Rapallo, on February 16th, I was overwhelmed with a mass of congratulations, letters, telegrams, flowers, and other gifts, most of which came from unknown readers of The Riddle of the Universe in all parts of the world. If my thanks have not yet reached any of them, I beg to tender them in these lines. But I should be especially gratified if they would regard this work on the wonders of life as an expression of my thanks, and as a literary gift in return. May my readers be moved by it to penetrate deeper and deeper into the glorious work of Nature, and to reach the insight of our greatest German natural philosopher, Goethe:

"What greater thing in life can man achieve
Than that God-Nature be revealed to him?"

Ernst Haeckel.

Jena, June 17, 1904.

THE WONDERS OF LIFE

THE WONDERS OF LIFE

I

TRUTH

Truth and the riddle of the universe—Experience and thought—Empiricism and speculation—Natural philosophy—Science—Empirical science—Descriptive science—Observation and experiment—History and tradition—Philosophic science—Theory of knowledge—Knowledge and the brain—Æstheta and phroneta—Seat of the soul, or organ of thought: phronema—Anatomy, physiology, ontogeny, and phylogeny of the phronema—Psychological metamorphoses—Evolution of consciousness—Monistic and dualistic theories of knowledge—Divergence of the two ways of attaining the truth.

What is truth? This great question has occupied the more thoughtful of men for thousands of years, and elicited myriads of attempts to answer it, myriads of truths and untruths. Every history of philosophy gives a longer or shorter account of these countless efforts of the advancing mind of man to attain a clear knowledge of the world and of itself. Nay, even "world-wisdom" itself, or philosophy in the proper sense of the word, is nothing but a connected effort to unite the general results of man's investigation, observation, reflection, and thought, and bring them to a common focus. Without prejudice and without fear, philosophy would tear the mantle from "the veiled statue of Sais," and attain a full vision of the truth. True philosophy, taken in this sense, may proudly and justly style itself "the queen of the sciences."

When philosophy, as a search for truth in the highest sense, thus unites our isolated discoveries and seeks to weld them into one unified system of the world, it comes at length to state certain fundamental problems, the answer to which varies according to the degree of culture and the point of view of the inquirer. These final and highest objects of scientific inquiry have been of late comprehended under the title of The Riddle of the Universe, and I gave this name to the work I published in 1899, which dealt with them, in order to make its aim perfectly clear. In the first chapter I dealt briefly with what have been called "the seven great cosmic problems," and in the twelfth chapter I endeavored to show that they may all be reduced to one final "problem of substance," or one great "riddle of the universe." The general formulation of this problem is effected by blending the two chief cosmic laws—the chemical law of the constancy of matter (Lavoisier, 1789), and the physical law of the constancy of force (Robert Mayer, 1842). This monistic association of the two fundamental laws, and establishment of the unified law of substance, has met with a good deal of agreement, but also with some opposition; but the most violent attacks were directed against my monistic theory of knowledge, or against the method I followed in seeking to solve the riddle of the universe. The only paths which I had recognized as profitable were those of experience and thought—or empirical knowledge and speculation. I had insisted that these two methods supplemented each other, and that they alone, under the direction of reason, lead to the attainment of truth. At the same time I had rejected as false two other much-frequented paths which purported to lead directly to a profounder knowledge, the ways of emotion and revelation; both of these are in opposition to reason, since they demand a belief in miracles.

"All natural science is philosophy, and all true philosophy is natural science. All true science is natural philosophy." I expressed in these words the general result of my monistic studies in 1866 (in the twenty-seventh chapter of my Generelle Morphologie). I then laid it down as the fundamental principle of the monistic system that the unity of nature and the unity of science follow absolutely from any connected study of modern philosophic science, and I expressed my conviction in these terms: "All human science is knowledge based on experience, or empirical philosophy; or, if the title be preferred, philosophic empiricism. Thoughtful experience, or thought based on experience, is the only way and method to be followed in the search for truth." I endeavored to establish these theses conclusively in the first book of the Generelle Morphologie, which contains (p. 108) a critical and methodological introduction to this science. Not only are those methods considered "which must necessarily supplement each other" (I. Empiricism and Philosophy; II. Analysis and Synthesis; III. Induction and Deduction), but also those "which necessarily exclude each other" (IV. Dogmatism and Criticism; V. Teleology and Causality, or Vitalism and Mechanicism; VI. Dualism and Monism). The monistic principles which I developed there thirty-eight years ago have only been confirmed by my subsequent labors, and so I may refer the interested reader to that work. The Riddle of the Universe is in the main an attempt to introduce to the general reader in a convenient form the chief points of the monistic system I established. However, the opposition which has been aroused by the general philosophic observations of the Riddle compels me to give a further explanation of the chief features of my theory of knowledge.

All true science that deserves the name is based on a collection of experiences, and consists of conclusions that have been reached by a rational connection of these experiences. "Only in experience is there truth," says Kant. The external world is the object that acts on man's organs of sense, and in the internal sense-centres of the cortex of the brain these impressions are subjectively transformed into presentations. The thought-centres, or association centres, of the cortex (whether or no one distinguishes them from the sense-centres) are the real organs of the mind that unite these presentations into conclusions. The two methods of forming these conclusions—induction and deduction, the formation of arguments and concepts, thought and consciousness—make up together the cerebral function we call reason. These long familiar and fundamental truths, the recognition of which I have described for thirty-eight years as the first condition for solving the riddle of life, are still far from being generally appreciated. On the contrary, we find them combated by the extreme representatives of both tendencies of science. On the one side, the empirical and descriptive school would reduce the whole task to experience, without calling in the aid of philosophy; while philosophic speculation, on the other side, would dispense with experience and endeavor to construct the world by pure thought.

Starting from the correct principle that all science originally has its source in experience, the representatives of "experimental science" affirm that their task consists solely in the exact observation of "facts" and the classification and description of them, and that philosophic speculation is nothing more than an idle play of ideas. Hence this one-sided sensualism, as Condillac and Hume especially maintained it, affirmed that the whole action of the mind consists in a manipulation of sense-impressions. This narrow empirical conception spread very widely during the nineteenth century, particularly in the second half, among the rapidly advancing sciences; it was favored by the specialism which grew up in the necessary division of labor. The majority of scientists are still of opinion that their task is confined to the exact observation and description of facts. All that goes beyond this, and especially all far-reaching philosophic conclusions from their accumulated observations, are regarded by them with suspicion. Rudolph Virchow strongly emphasized this narrow empirical tendency ten years ago. In his speech on the foundation of the Berlin University he explained the "transition from the philosophic to the scientific age"; he said that the sole aim of science is "the knowledge of facts, the objective investigation of natural phenomena in detail." The former politician seemed to forget that he had maintained a precisely opposite view forty years before (at Würtzburg), and that his own great achievement, the creation of cellular pathology, was a philosophic construction—the formation of a new and comprehensive theory of disease by the combination of countless observations and the conclusions deduced therefrom.

No science of any kind whatever consists solely in the description of observed facts. Hence we can only regard it as a pitiful contradiction in terms when we find biology classed in official documents to-day as a "descriptive science," and physics opposed to it as an "explanatory science." As if in both cases we had not, after describing the observed phenomena, to pass on to trace them to their causes—that is, to explain them—by means of rational inferences! But it is even more regrettable to find that one of the ablest scientists of Germany, Gustav Kirchhoff, has claimed that description is the final and the highest task of science. The famous discoverer of spectrum analysis says in his Lectures on Mathematical Physics and Mechanics (1877): "It is the work of science to describe the movements perceived in Nature, in the most complete and simplest fashion." There is no meaning in this statement unless we take the word "description" in a quite unusual sense—unless "complete description" is meant to include explanation. For thousands of years true science has been, not merely a simple description of individual facts, but an explanation of them by tracing them to their causes. It is true that our knowledge of them is always imperfect, or even hypothetical; but this is equally true of the description of facts. Kirchhoff's statement is in flagrant contradiction to his own great achievement, the founding of spectrum analysis; for the extraordinary significance of this does not lie in the discovery of the wonderful facts of spectroscopic optics and the "complete description" of individual spectra, but in the rational grouping and interpretation of them. The far-reaching conclusions that he has drawn from them have opened out entirely new paths to physics and chemistry. Hence Kirchhoff is in as sad a plight as Virchow when he formulates so precarious a principle. However, these statements of the two great scientists have done a great deal of harm, as they have widened still more the deep gulf between science and philosophy. It may be of some service if a few thousand of the thoughtless followers of "descriptive science" are persuaded to refrain from attempts at explanation of facts. But the master-builders of science cannot be content with the collection of dead material; they must press on to the knowledge of causes by a rational manipulation of their facts.

The accurate and discriminating observation of facts, supported by careful experiment, is certainly a great advantage that modern science has over all earlier efforts to attain the truth. The distinguished thinkers of classic antiquity were far superior to most modern scientists and philosophers in regard to judgment and reasoning, or all the subtler processes of thought; but they were superficial and unpractised observers, and were barely acquainted with experiment. In the Middle Ages scientific work degenerated in both its aspects, as the dominant creed demanded only faith and the recognition of its supernatural revelation, and depreciated observation. The great importance of this as a foundation of real knowledge was first appreciated by Bacon of Verulam, whose Novum Organon (1620) laid down the principles of scientific knowledge, in opposition to the current scholasticism derived from Aristotle and his Organon. Bacon became the founder of modern empirical investigation, not only by making careful and exact observation of phenomena the basis of all philosophy, but also in demanding the supplementing of this by experiment; by this experiment he understood the putting of a question to Nature, as it were, which she must herself answer—a kind of observation under definite and deliberate conditions.

This more rigorous method of "exact observation," which is hardly three hundred years old, was very strongly aided by the inventions which enable the human eye to penetrate into the farthest abysses of space and the profoundest depths of smaller bodies—the telescope and microscope. The great improvement in these instruments during the nineteenth century, and the support given by other recent inventions, have led to triumphs of observation in this "century of science" that surpassed all anticipation. However, this very refinement of the technique of observation has its drawbacks, and has led to many an error. The effort to obtain the utmost accuracy in objective observation has often led to a neglect of the part which is played by the subjective mental action of the observer; his judgment and reason have been depreciated in comparison with the acuteness and clearness of his vision. Frequently the means has been turned into the end of knowledge. In the reproduction of the thing observed the objective photograph, presenting all parts of the object with equal plainness, has been more valued than the subjective design that reproduces only what is essential and leaves out what is superfluous; yet the latter is in many cases (for instance, in histological observation) much more important and correct than the former. But the greatest fault has been that many of these "exact" observers have refrained altogether from reflection and judgment on the phenomena observed, and have neglected subjective criticism; hence it is that so often a number of observers of the same phenomenon contradict each other, while each one boasts of the "exactness" of his observations.

Like observation, experimentation has been wonderfully improved of late years. The experimental sciences which make most use of it—experimental physics, chemistry, physiology, pathology, etc.—have made astounding progress. But it is just as important in the case of experiment—or observation under artificial conditions—as of simple observation that it be undertaken and carried out with a sound and clear judgment. Nature can only give a correct and unambiguous answer to the question you put it when it is clearly and distinctly proposed. This is very often not the case, and the experimenter loses himself in meaningless efforts, with the foolish hope that "something may come of it." The modern province of experimental or mechanical embryology is especially marred by these useless and perverse experiments. Equally foolish is the conduct of those biologists who would transfer the experiment that is valuable in physiology to the field of anatomy, where it is rarely profitable. In the modern controversy about evolution the attempt is frequently made to prove or refute experimentally the origin of species. It is quite forgotten that the idea of species is only relative, and that no man of science can give an absolute definition of it. Nor is it less perverse to attempt to apply experimentation to historical problems where all the conditions for a successful application are lacking.

The knowledge which we obtain directly by observation and experiment is only sound when it refers to present events. We have to turn to other methods for the investigation of the past—to history and traditions; and these are less easily accessible. This branch of science has been investigated for thousands of years, as far as the history of man and civilization, of peoples and states, and their customs, laws, languages, and migrations, is concerned. In this, the oral and written tradition from generation to generation, the ancient monuments, and documents, and weapons, etc., furnish an abounding empirical material from which critical judgment can draw a host of conclusions. However, the door to error lies wide open here, as the documents are usually imperfect, and the subjective interpretation of them is often no clearer than their objective validity.

Natural history, properly so called, or the study of the origin and past history of the universe, the earth, and its organic population, is much more recent than the history of mankind. Immanuel Kant was the first to lay the foundations of a mechanical cosmogony in his remarkable Natural History of the Heavens (1755), and Laplace gave mathematical shape to his ideas in 1796. Geology, also, or the story of the evolution of the earth, was not founded until the beginning of the eighteenth century, and did not assume a definite shape until the time of Hoff and Lyell (1830). Later still (1866) were laid the foundations of the science of organic evolution, when Darwin provided a sound foundation, in his theory of selection, for the theory of descent which Lamarck had proposed fifty years before.

In sharp contrast to this purely empirical method, which is favored by most men of science in our day, we have the purely speculative tendency which is current among our academic philosophers. The great regard which the critical philosophy of Immanuel Kant obtained during the nineteenth century has recently been increased in the various schools of philosophy. As is known, Kant affirmed that only a part of our knowledge is empirical, or a posteriori—that is, derived from experience; and that the rest of our knowledge (as, for instance, mathematical axioms) is a priori—that is to say, reached by the deductions of pure reason, independently of experience. This error led to the further statement that the foundations of science are metaphysical, and that, though man can attain a certain knowledge of phenomena by the innate forms of space and time, he cannot grasp the "thing in itself" that lies behind them. The purely speculative metaphysics which was built up on Kant's apriorism, and which found its extreme representative in Hegel, came at length to reject the empirical method altogether, and insisted that all knowledge is obtained by pure reason, independently of experience.

Kant's chief error, which proved so injurious to the whole of subsequent philosophy, lay in the absence of any physiological and phylogenetic base to his theory of knowledge; this was only provided sixty years after his death by Darwin's reform of the science of evolution, and by the discoveries of cerebral physiologists. He regarded the human mind, with its innate quality of reason, as a completely formed entity from the first, and made no inquiry into its historical development. Hence, he defended its immortality as a practical postulate, incapable of proof; he had no suspicion of the evolution of man's soul from that of the nearest related mammals. The curious predisposition to a priori knowledge is really the effect of the inheritance of certain structures of the brain, which have been formed in man's vertebrate ancestors slowly and gradually, by adaptation to an association of experiences, and therefore of a posteriori knowledge. Even the absolutely certain truths of mathematics and physics, which Kant described as synthetic judgments a priori, were originally attained by the phyletic development of the judgment, and may be reduced to constantly repeated experiences and a priori conclusions derived therefrom. The "necessity" which Kant considered to be a special feature of these a priori propositions would be found in all other judgments if we were fully acquainted with the phenomena and their conditions.

Among the censures which the academic metaphysicians, especially in Germany, have passed on my Riddle of the Universe, the heaviest is perhaps the charge that I know nothing whatever about the theory of knowledge. The charge is correct to this extent, that I do not understand the current dualistic theory of knowledge which is based on Kant's metaphysics; I cannot understand how their introspective psychological methods—disdaining all physiological, histological, or phylogenetic foundations—can satisfy the demands of "pure reason." My monistic theory of knowledge is assuredly very different from this. It is firmly and thoroughly based on the splendid advances of modern physiology, histology, and phytogeny—on the remarkable results of these empirical sciences in the last forty years, which are entirely ignored by the prevailing system of metaphysics. It is on the ground of these experiences that I have adopted the views on the nature of the human mind which are expounded in the second part of The Riddle of the Universe (chapters vi.-xi.). The following are the chief points:

1. The soul of man is—objectively considered—essentially similar to that of all other vertebrates; it is the physiological action or function of the brain.

2. Like the functions of all other organs, those of the brain are effected by the cells, which make up the organ.

3. These brain-cells, which are also known as soul-cells, ganglionic cells, or neurona, are real nucleated cells of a very elaborate structure.

4. The arrangement and grouping of these psychic cells, the number of which runs into millions in the brain of man and the other mammals, is strictly regulated by law, and is distinguished within this highest class of the vertebrates by several characteristics, which can only be explained by the common origin of the mammals from one primitive mammal (or pro-mammal of the Triassic period).

5. Those groups of psychic cells which we must regard as the agents of the higher mental functions have their origin in the fore-brain, the earliest and foremost of the five embryonic brain-vesicles; they are confined to that part of the surface of the fore-brain which anatomists call the cortex, or gray bed, of the brain.

6. Within the cortex we have localized a number of different mental activities, or traced them to certain regions; if the latter are destroyed, their functions are extinguished.

7. These regions are so distributed in the cortex that one part of them is directly connected with the organs of sense, and receives and elaborates the impressions from these: these are the inner sense-centres, or sensoria.

8. Between these central organs of sense lie the intellectual or thought-organs, the instruments of presentation and thought, judgment and consciousness, intellect and reason; they are called the thought-centres, or association-centres, because the various impressions received from the sense-centres are associated, combined, and united in harmonious thought by them.[2]

The anatomic distinction between the two regions of the cortex which we oppose to each other as the internal sense-centres and the thought or association-centres seems to me of the highest importance. Certain physiological considerations had for some time suggested this distinction, but the sound anatomic proof of it has only been furnished during the last ten years. In 1894 Flechsig showed that there are four central sense-regions ("internal sense-spheres," or æstheta) in the gray cortex of the brain, and four thought-centres ("association-centres" or phroneta) between these: the most important of the latter, from the psychological point of view, is the "principal brain," or the "great occipito-temporal association-centre." The anatomic determination of the two "psychic regions" which Flechsig first introduced was afterwards modified by himself and substantially altered by others. The distinguished works of Edinger, Weigert, Hitzig, and others, lead to somewhat discrepant conclusions. But for the general conception of psychic action, and especially of the cognitive functions, which interests us at present, it is not necessary to have this delimitation of the regions. The chief point holds, that we can to-day anatomically distinguish between the two most important organs of mental life; that the neurona, which compose both, differ histologically (or in finer structure) and ontogenetically (or in origin); and that even chemical differences (or a different relation to certain coloring matters) may be perceived. We may conclude from this that the neurona or psychic cells which compose both organs also differ in their finer structure; there is probably a difference in the complicated fibrils which extend in the cytoplasm of both organs, although our coarse means of investigation have not yet succeeded in detecting this difference. In order to distinguish properly between the two sets of neurona, I propose to call the sensory-cells or sense-centres æsthetal cells, and the thought-cells or thought-centres phronetal cells. The former are, anatomically and physiologically, the intermediaries between the external sense-organs and the internal thought-organs.

To this anatomic delimitation of the internal sense-centres and thought-organs in the cortex corresponds their physiological differentiation. The sensorium, or sense-centre, works up the external sense-impressions that are conveyed by the peripheral sense-organs and the specific energy of their sensory nerves; the æstheta, or the central sense-instruments that make up the sensorium, and their organic units, the æsthetal cells, prepare the sense-impressions for thought and judgment in the proper sense. This work of "pure reason" is accomplished by the phronema of the thought-centres, the phroneta (or the various thought-organs that compose it) and their histological elements, the phronetal cells, bringing about an association or combination of the prepared impressions. By this important distinction we avoid the error of the older sensualism (of Hume, Condillac, etc.)—namely, that all knowledge depends on sense-action alone. It is true that the senses are the original source of all knowledge; but, in order to have real knowledge and thought, the specific task of reason, the impressions received from the external world by the sense-organs, and their nerves and centres, must be combined in the association-centres and elaborated in the conscious thought-centres. Then there is the important, but frequently overlooked, circumstance that there is in advance in the phronetal cells of the civilized man a valuable quality in the shape of inherited potential nerve-energy, which was originally engendered by the actual sense-action of the æsthetal cells in the course of many generations.

An impartial and critical study of the action of the brain in various scientific leaders shows that, as a rule, there is a certain opposition, or an antagonistic correlation, between the two sections of the highest mental power. The empirical representatives of science, or those who are devoted to physical studies, have a preponderant development of the sensorium, which means a greater disposition and capacity for the observation of phenomena in detail. On the other hand, the speculative representatives of what is called mental science and philosophy, or of metaphysical studies, have the phronema more strongly developed, which means a preponderant tendency to, and capacity for, a comprehensive perception of the universal in particulars. Hence it is that metaphysicians usually look with disdain on "materialistic" scientists and observers; while the latter regard the play of ideas of the former as an unscientific and speculative dissipation. This physiological antagonism may be traced histologically to the comparative development of the æsthetal and the phronetal cells in the two cases. It is only in natural philosophers of the first rank, such as Copernicus, Newton, Lamarck, Darwin, and Johannes Müller, that both sections are harmoniously developed, and thus the individual is equipped for the highest mental achievements.

If we take the ambiguous term "soul" (psyche or anima) in the narrower sense of the higher mental power, we may assign as its "seat" (or, more correctly, its organ), in man and the other mammals, that part of the cortex which contains the phroneta and is made up of the phronetal cells; a short and convenient name for this is the phronema. According to our monistic theory, the phronema is the organ of thought in the same sense in which we consider the eye the organ of vision, or the heart the central organ of circulation. With the destruction of the organ its function disappears. In opposition to this biological and empirically grounded theory, the current metaphysical psychology regards the brain as the seat of the soul, only in a very different sense. It has a strictly dualistic conception of the human soul as a being apart, only dwelling in the brain (like a snail in its shell) for a time. At the death of the brain it is supposed to live on, and indeed for all eternity. The immortal soul, on this theory (which we can trace to Plato), is an immaterial entity, feeling, thinking, and acting independently, and only using the material body as a temporary implement. The well-known "piano-theory" compares the soul to a musician who plays an interesting piece (the individual life) on the instrument of the body, and then deserts it, to live forever on its own account. According to Descartes, who insured the widest acceptance for Plato's dualistic mysticism, the proper habitation of the soul in the brain—in the music-room—is the pineal gland, a posterior section of the middle-brain (the second embryonic cerebral vesicle). The famous pineal gland has lately been recognized by comparative anatomists as the rudiment of a single organ of vision, the pineal eye (which is still found in certain reptiles). Moreover, not one of the innumerable psychologists who seek the seat of the soul in some part of the body, after the fashion of Plato, has yet formulated a plausible theory of the connection of mind and body and the nature of their reciprocal action. On our monistic principles the answer to this question is very simple, and consonant with experience. In view of its extreme importance, it is advisable to devote at least a few lines to the consideration of the phronema in the light of anatomy, physiology, ontogeny, and phylogeny.

When we conceive the phronema as the real "organ of the soul" in the strict sense—that is to say, as the central instrument of thought, knowledge, reason, and consciousness—we may at once lay down the principle that there is an anatomical unity of organ corresponding to the physiological and generally admitted unity of thought and consciousness. As we assign to this phronema a most elaborate anatomical structure, we may call it the organic apparatus of the soul, in the same sense in which we conceive the eye as a purposively arranged apparatus of vision. It is true that we have as yet only made a beginning of the finer anatomic analysis of the phronema, and are not yet able to mark off its field decisively from the neighboring spheres of sense and motion. With the most improved means of modern histology, the most perfect microscopes and coloring methods, we are only just beginning to penetrate into the marvellous structure of the phronetal cells and their complicated grouping. Yet we have advanced far enough to regard it as the most perfect piece of cell-machinery and the highest product of organic evolution. Millions of highly differentiated phronetal cells form the several stations of this telegraphic system, and thousands of millions of the finest nerve-fibrils represent the wires which connect the stations with one another and with the sense-centres on the one hand, and with the motor-centres on the other. Comparative anatomy, moreover, acquaints us with the long and gradual development which the phronema has undergone within the higher class of the vertebrates, from the amphibia and reptiles up to the birds and mammals, and, within the last class, from the monotremes and marsupials up to the apes and men. The human brain seems to us to-day to be the greatest marvel that plasm, or the "living substance," has produced in the course of millions of years.

The remarkable progress which has been made in the last few decades in the anatomic and histological investigation of the brain does not yet, it is true, enable us to make a clear delimitation of the region of the phronema and its relations to the neighboring sensory and motor spheres in the cortex. We must, in fact, assume that there is no sharp distinction in the lower stages of the vertebrate soul; in the older and phylogenetically more distant stages they were not yet differentiated. Even now there are still intermediaries between the æsthetal and phronetal cells. But we may expect with confidence that further progress in the comparative anatomy of the brain will, with the aid of embryology, throw more and more light on these complicated structures. In any case, the fundamental fact is now empirically established that the phronema (the real organ of the soul) forms a definite part of the cortex of the brain, and that without it there can be no reason, no mental life, no thought, and no knowledge.

Since we regard psychology as a branch of physiology, and examine the whole of the phenomena of mental life from the same monistic stand-point as all other vital functions, it follows that we can make no exception for knowledge and reason. In this we are diametrically opposed to the current systems of psychology, which regard psychology, not as a natural science, but as a mental science. In the next chapter we shall see that this position is wholly unjustified. Unfortunately, this dualistic attitude is shared by a number of distinguished modern physiologists, who otherwise adopt the monistic principles; they take the soul to be, in the Cartesian sense, a supernatural entity. Descartes—a pupil of the Jesuits—only applied his theory to man, and regarded animals as soulless automata. But the theory is quite absurd in modern physiologists, who know from innumerable observations and experiments that the brain, or psychic organ, in man behaves just as it does in the other mammals, and especially the primates. This paradoxical dualism of some of our modern physiologists may be partly explained by the perverse theory of knowledge which the great authority of Kant, Hegel, etc., has imposed on them; and partly by a concern for the current belief in immortality, and the dread of being decried as "materialists" if they abandon it. As I do not share this belief, I examine and appreciate the physiological work of the phroneta just as impartially as I deal with the organs of sense or the muscles. I find that the one is just as much subject as the other to the law of substance. Hence we must regard the chemical processes in the ganglionic cells of the cortex as the real factors of knowledge and all other psychic action. The chemistry of the neuroplasm determines the vital function of the phronema. The same must be said of its most perfect and enigmatic function, consciousness. Although this greatest wonder of life is only directly accessible by the introspective method, or by the mirroring of knowledge in knowledge, nevertheless the use of the comparative method in psychology leads us to believe confidently that the lofty self-consciousness of man differs only in degree, and not in kind, from that of the ape, dog, horse, and other higher mammals.

Our monistic conception of the nature and seat of the soul is strongly confirmed by psychiatry, or the science of mental disease. As an old medical maxim runs, Pathologia physiologiam illustrat—the science of disease throws light on the sound organism. This maxim is especially applicable to mental diseases, for they can all be traced to modifications of parts of the brain which discharge definite functions in the normal state. The localization of the disease in a definite part of the phronema diminishes or extinguishes the normal mental function which is discharged by this section. Thus disease of the speech-centre, in the third frontal convolution, destroys the power of speech; the destruction of the visual region (in the occipital convolutions) does away with the power of sight; the lesion of the temporal convolutions destroys hearing. Nature herself here conducts delicate experiments which the physiologist could only accomplish very imperfectly or not at all. And although we have in this way only succeeded as yet in showing the functional dependence of a certain part of the mental functions on the respective parts of the cerebrum, no unprejudiced physician doubts to-day that it is equally true of the other parts. Each special mental activity is determined by the normal constitution of the relevant part of the brain, a section of the phronema. Very striking examples of this are afforded in the case of idiots and microcephali, the unfortunate beings whose cerebrum is more or less stunted, and who have accordingly to remain throughout life at a low stage of mental capacity. These poor creatures would be in a very pitiable condition if they had a clear consciousness of it, but that is not the case. They are like vertebrates from which the cerebrum has been partly or wholly removed in the laboratory. These may live for a long time, be artificially fed, and execute automatic or reflex (and in part purposive) motions, without our perceiving a trace of consciousness, reason, or other mental function in them.

The embryology of the child-soul has been known in a general way for thousands of years, and has been an object of keen interest to all observant parents and teachers; but it was not until about twenty years ago that a strictly scientific study was made of this remarkable and important phenomenon. In 1884 Kussmaul published his Untersuchungen über das Seelenleben des neugeborenen Menschen, and in 1882 W. Preyer published his Mind of the Child [English translation; Dr. J. Sully has several works on the same subject]. From the careful manuals which these and other observers have published, it is clear that the new-born infant not only has no reason or consciousness, but is also deaf, and only gradually develops its sense and thought-centres. It is only by gradual contact with the outer world that these functions successively appear, such as speech, laughing, etc.; later still come the power of association, the forming of concepts and words, etc. Recent anatomic observations quite accord with these physiological facts. Taken together, they convince us that the phronema is undeveloped in the new-born infant; and so we can no more speak in this case of a "seat of the soul" than of a "human spirit" as a centre of thought, knowledge, and consciousness. Hence the destruction of abnormal new-born infants—as the Spartans practised it, for instance, in selecting the bravest—cannot rationally be classed as "murder," as is done in even modern legal works. We ought rather to look upon it as a practice of advantage both to the infants destroyed and to the community. As the whole course of embryology is, according to our biogenetic law, an abbreviated repetition of the history of the race, we must say the same of psychogenesis, or the development of the "soul" and its organ—the phronema.

Comparative psychology comes next in importance to embryology as a means of studying the ancestral history of the soul. Within the ranks of the vertebrates we find to-day a long series of evolutionary stages which reach up from the lowest acrania and cyclostoma to the fishes and dipneusta, from these to the amphibia, and from these again to the amniota. Among the latter, moreover, the various orders of reptiles and birds on the one hand, and of mammals on the other, show us how the higher psychic powers have been developed step by step from the lower. To this physiological scale corresponds exactly the morphological gradation revealed by the comparative anatomy of the brain. The most interesting and important part of this is that which relates to the highest developed class—the mammals; within this class we find the same ever-advancing gradation. At its summit are the primates (man, the apes, and the half-apes), then the carnivora, a part of the ungulates, and the other placentals. A wide interval seems to separate these intelligent mammals from the lower placentals, the marsupials and monotremes. We do not find in the latter the high quantitative and qualitative development of the phronema which we have in the former; yet we find every intermediate stage between the two. The gradual development of the cerebrum and its chief part—the phronema—took place during the Tertiary period, the duration of which is estimated by many recent geologists at from twelve to fifteen (at the least three to five) million years.

As I have gone somewhat fully, in chapters vi.-ix. of the Riddle, into the chief results of the modern study of the brain and its radical importance for psychology and the theory of knowledge, I need only refer the reader thereto. There is just one point I may touch here, as it has been attacked with particular vehemence by my critics. I had made several allusions to the works of the distinguished English zoologist, Romanes, who had made a careful comparative study of mental development in the animal and man, and had continued the work of Darwin. Romanes partly retracted his monistic convictions shortly before his death, and adopted mystic religious views. As this conversion was only known at first through one of his friends, a zealous English theologian [Dr. Gore], it was natural to retain a certain reserve. However, it turned out that there had really been in this case (just as in the case of the aged Baer) one of those interesting psychological metamorphoses which I have described in chapter vi. of the Riddle. Romanes suffered a good deal from illness and grief at the loss of friends in his last years. In this condition of extreme depression and melancholy he fell under mystic influences which promised him rest and hope by belief in the supernatural. It is hardly necessary to point out to impartial readers that such a conversion as this does not shake his earlier monistic views. As in similar cases where deep emotional disturbance, painful experiences, and exuberant hope have clouded the judgment, we must still hold that it is the place of the latter, and not of the emotions or of any supernatural revelation, to attain a knowledge of the truth. But for such attainment it is necessary for the organ of mind, the phronema, to be in a normal condition.[3]

Of all the wonders of life, consciousness may be said to be the greatest and most astounding. It is true that to-day most physiologists are agreed that man's consciousness, like all his other mental powers, is a function of the brain, and may be reduced to physical and chemical processes in the cells of the cortex. Nevertheless, some biologists still cling to the metaphysical view that this "central mystery of psychology" is an insoluble enigma, and not a natural phenomenon. In face of this, I must refer the reader to the monistic theory of consciousness which I have given in chapter x. of the Riddle, and must insist that in this case again embryology is the best guide to a comprehension of the subject. Sight is next to consciousness, in many respects, as one of the wonders of life. The well-known embryology of the eye teaches us how sight—the perception of images from the external world—has been gradually evolved from the simple sensitiveness to light of the lower animals, by the development of a transparent lens. In the same way the conscious soul, the internal mirror of the mind's own action, has been produced as a new wonder of life out of the unconscious associations in the phronema of our earlier vertebrate ancestors.

From this thorough and unprejudiced appreciation of the biology of the phronema it follows that the knowledge of truth, the aim of all science, is a natural physiological process, and that it must have its organs like all other psychic functions. These organs have been revealed to us so fully in the advance of biology during the last half-century that we may be said to have a generally satisfactory idea of the natural character of their organization and action, though we are still far from enjoying a complete anatomical and physiological insight into their details. The most important acquisition we have made is the conviction that all knowledge was originally acquired a posteriori and from experience, and that its first sources are the impressions made on our organs of sense. Both these—the peripheral sense-organs—and the phronema, or central psychic organ, are subject to the law of substance; and the action of the phronema is just as reducible to chemical and physical processes as the action of the organs of sense.

In diametrical opposition to our monistic and empirical theory of knowledge, the prevailing dualistic metaphysics assumes that our knowledge is only partly empirical and a posteriori, and is partly quite independent of experience and a priori, or due to the original constitution of our "immaterial" mind. The powerful authority of Kant has lent enormous prestige to this mystic and supernatural view, and the academic philosophers of our time are endeavoring to maintain it. A "return to Kant" is held to be the only means of salvation for philosophy; in my opinion it should be a return to nature. As a fact, the return to Kant and his famous theory of knowledge is an unfortunate "crab-walk" on the part of philosophy. Our modern metaphysicians regard the brain, as Kant did one hundred and twenty years ago, as a mysterious, whitish-gray, pulpy mass, the significance of which as an instrument of the mind is very enigmatic and obscure. But for modern biology the brain is the most wonderful structure in nature, a compound of innumerable soul-cells or neurona. These have a most elaborate finer structure, are combined in a vast psychic apparatus by thousands of interlacing nerve-fibrils, and are thus fitted to accomplish the highest mental functions.

First Table

ANTITHESIS OF THE TWO WAYS OF ATTAINING THE TRUTH

II

LIFE

Definition of life—Comparison with a flame—Organism and organization—Machine theory of life—Organisms without organs: monera—Organization and life of the chromacea—Stages of organization—Complex organisms—Symbolic organisms—Organic compounds—Organisms and inorganic bodies compared in regard to matter, form, and function—Crystalloid and colloid substances—Life of crystals—Growth of crystals—Waves of growth—Metabolism—Catalysis—Fermentation—Biogenesis—Vital force—Old and new vitalism—Palavitalism—Antivitalism—Neovitalism.

As the object of this work is the critical study of the wonders of life, and a knowledge of the truth concerning them, we must first of all form a clear idea of the meaning of "life" and "wonder," or miracle. For thousands of years men have appreciated the difference between life and death, between living and lifeless bodies; the former are called organisms, and the latter known as inorganic bodies. Biology—in the widest sense—is the name of the science which treats of organisms; we might call the science which deals with the inorganic "abiology," abiotik, or anorgik. The chief difference between the two provinces is that organisms accomplish peculiar, periodically repeated, and apparently spontaneous movements, which we do not find in inorganic matter. Hence life may be conceived as a special process of movement. Recent study has shown that this is always connected with a particular chemical substance, plasm, and consists essentially in a circulation of matter, or metabolism. At the same time modern science has shown that the sharp distinction formerly drawn between the organic and the inorganic cannot be sustained, but that the two kingdoms are profoundly and inseparably united.

Of all the phenomena of inorganic nature with which the life-process may be compared, none is so much like it externally and internally as the flame. This important comparison was made two thousand four hundred years ago by one of the greatest philosophers of the Ionic school, Heraclitus of Ephesus—the same thinker who first broached the idea of evolution in the two words, Panta rei—all things are in a state of flux. Heraclitus shrewdly conceived life as a fire, a real process of combustion, and so compared the organism to a torch.

Max Verworn has lately employed this metaphor with great effect in his admirable work on general physiology, and has especially dealt with the comparison of the individual life-form with the familiar butterfly shape of the gas-flame. He says:

The comparison of life to a flame is particularly suitable for helping us to realize the relation between form and metabolism. The butterfly-shape of a gas-flame has a very characteristic outline. At the base, immediately above the burner, there is still complete darkness; over this is a blue and faintly luminous zone; and over this again the bright flame expands on either side like the wings of a butterfly. This peculiar form of the flame, with its characteristic features, which are permanent, as long as we do not interfere with the gas or the environment, is solely due to the fact that the grouping of the molecules of the gas and the oxygen at various parts of the flame is constant, though the molecules themselves change every moment. At the base of the flame the molecules of the gas are so thickly pressed that the oxygen necessary for their combustion cannot penetrate; hence the darkness we find here. In the bluish zone a few molecules of oxygen have combined with the molecules of the gas: we have a faint light as the result. But in the body of the flame the molecules of the gas are so freely combined with the oxygen of the atmosphere that we have a lively combustion. However, the exchange of matter (metabolism) between the outpouring gas and the surrounding air is so regulated that we always find the same molecules in the same quantity at the same spot. Thus we get the permanent flame, with all its characteristics. But if we alter the circulation by lessening the stream of gas, the shape of the flame changes, because now the disposition of the molecules on both sides is different. Thus the study of the gas-jet gives us, even in detail, the features we find in the structure of the cell.

The scientific soundness of this metaphor is all the more notable as the phrase, "the flame of life," has long been familiar both in poetry and popular parlance.

In the sense in which science usually employs the word "organism," and in which we employ it here, it is equivalent to "living thing" or "living body." The opposite to it, in the broad sense, is the anorganic or inorganic body. Hence the word "organism" belongs to physiology, and connotes essentially the visible life-activity of the body, its metabolism, nutrition, and reproduction.

However, in most organisms we find, when we examine their structure closely, that this consists of various parts, and that these parts are put together for the evident purpose of accomplishing the vital functions. We call them organs, and the manner in which they are combined, apparently on a definite plan, is their organization. In this respect, we compare the organism to a machine in which some one has similarly combined a number of (lifeless) parts for a definite purpose, but according to a preconceived and rationally initiated design.

The familiar comparison of an organism to a machine has given rise to very serious errors in regard to the former, and has, of late, been made the base of false dualistic principles. The modern "machine-theory of life" which is raised thereon demands an intelligent design and a deliberate constructing engineer for the origin of the organism, just as we find in the case of the machine. The organism is then very freely compared to a watch or a locomotive. In order to secure the regular working of such a complicated mechanism, it is necessary to arrange for a perfect co-operation of all its parts, and the slightest accident to a single wheel suffices to throw it out of gear. This figure was particularly employed by Louis Agassiz (1858), who saw "an incarnate thought of the Creator" in every species of animal and plant. Of late years it has been much used by Reinke in the support of his theosophic dualism. He described God, or "the world-soul," as the "cosmic intelligence," but ascribes to this mystic immaterial being the same attributes that the catechism and the preacher give to the Creator of heaven and earth. He compares the human intelligence which the watch-maker has put into the elaborate structure of the watch with the "cosmic intelligence" which the Creator has put in the organism, and insists that it is impossible to deduce its purposive organization from its material constituents. In this he entirely overlooks the immense difference between the "raw material" in the two cases. The "organs" of the watch are metallic parts, which fulfil their purpose in virtue only of their physical properties (hardness, elasticity, etc.). The organs of the living organism, on the other hand, perform their functions chiefly in virtue of their chemical composition. Their soft plasma-body is a chemical laboratory, the highly elaborate molecular structure of which is the historical product of countless complicated processes of heredity and adaptation. This invisible and hypothetical molecular structure must not (as is often done) be confused with the real and microscopically discoverable structure of the plasm, which is of great importance in the question of organization. If one is disposed to assume for this molecular structure a simple chemical substance, a deliberate design, and an "intelligent natural force" for cause, one is bound to do the same for powder, and say that the molecules of charcoal, sulphur, and saltpetre have been purposively combined to produce an explosion. It is well known that powder was not made according to a theory, but accidentally discovered in the course of experiment. The whole of this favorite machine-theory of life, and the far-reaching dualistic conclusions drawn from it, tumble to pieces when we study the simplest organisms known to us, the monera; for these are really organisms without organs—and without organization!

I endeavored in my Generelle Morphologie(1866) to draw the attention of biologists to these simplest and lowest organisms which have no visible organization or composition from different organs. I therefore proposed to give them the general title of monera. The more I have studied these structureless beings—cells without nuclei!—since that time, the more I have felt their importance in solving the greatest questions of biology—the problem of the origin of life, the nature of life, and so on. Unfortunately, these primitive little beings are ignored or neglected by most biologists to-day. O. Hertwig devotes one page of his three-hundred-page book on cells and tissues to them; he doubts the existence of cells without nuclei. Reinke, who has himself shown the existence of unnucleated cells among the bacteria (beggiatoa), does not say a word about their general significance. Bütschli, who shares my monistic conception of life, and has given it considerable support by his own thorough study of plasma-structures and the artificial production of them in oil and soap-suds, believes, like many other writers, that the "composition of even the simplest elementary organism from cell-nucleus and protoplasm" (the primitive organs of the cell) is indispensable. These and other writers suppose that the nucleus has been overlooked in the protoplasm of the monera I have described. This may be true for one section of them; but they say nothing about the other section, in which the nucleus is certainly lacking. To this class belong the remarkable chromacea (phycochromacea or cyanophycea), and especially the simplest forms of these, the chroococcacea (chroococcus, aphanocapsa, glœocapsa, etc.). These plasmodomous (plasma-forming) monera, which live at the very frontier of the organic and inorganic worlds, are by no means uncommon or particularly difficult to find; on the contrary, they are found everywhere, and are easy to observe. Yet they are generally ignored because they do not square with the prevailing dogma of the cell.

I ascribe this special significance to the chromacea among all the monera I have instanced because I take them to be the oldest phyletically, and the most primitive of all living organisms known to us. In particular their very simple forms correspond exactly to all the theoretic claims which monistic biology can make as to the transition from the inorganic to the organic. Of the chroococcacea, the chroococcus, glœocapsa, etc., are found throughout the world; they form thin, usually bluish-green coats or jelly-like deposits on damp rocks, stones, bark of trees, etc. When a small piece of this jelly is examined carefully under a powerful microscope, nothing is seen but thousands of tiny blue-green globules of plasma, distributed irregularly in the common structureless mass. In some species we can detect a thin structureless membrane enclosing the homogeneous particle of plasm; its origin can be explained on purely physical principles by "superficial energy"—like the firmer surface-layer of a drop of rain, or of a globule of oil swimming in water. Other species secrete homogeneous jelly-like envelopes—a purely chemical process. In some of the chromacea the blue-green coloring matter (phyocyan) is stored in the surface-layer of the particle of plasm, while the inner part is colorless—a sort of "central body." However, the latter is by no means a real, chemically and morphologically distinct, nucleus. Such a thing is completely lacking. The whole life of these simple, motionless globules of plasm is confined to their metabolism (or plasmodomism, chapter x.) and the resulting growth. When the latter passes a certain stage, the homogeneous globule splits into two halves (like a drop of quicksilver when it falls). This simplest form of reproduction is shared by the chromacea (and the cognate bacteria) with the chromatella or chromatophora, the green particles of chlorophyll inside ordinary plant-cells; but these are only parts of a cell. Hence no unprejudiced observer can compare these unnucleated and independent granules of plasm with real (nucleated) cells, but must conceive them rather as cytodes. These anatomic and physiological facts may easily be observed in the chromacea, which are found everywhere. The organism of the simplest chromacea is really nothing more than a structureless globular particle of plasm; we cannot discover in them any composition of different organs (or organella) for definite vital functions. Such a composition or organization would have no meaning in this case, since the sole vital purpose of these plasma-particles is self-maintenance. This is attained in the simplest fashion for the individual by metabolism; for the species it is effected by self-cleavage, the simplest conceivable form of reproduction.

Modern histologists have discovered a very intricate and delicate structure in many of the higher unicellular protists and in many of the tissue-cells of the higher animals and plants (such as the nerve-cells). They wrongly conclude that this is universal. In my opinion, this complication of the structure of the elementary organism is always a secondary phenomenon, the slow and gradual result of countless phylogenetic processes of differentiation, initiated by adaptation and transmitted to posterity by heredity. The earliest ancestors of all these elaborate nucleated cells were at first simple, unnucleated cytodes, such as we find to-day in the ubiquitous monera. We shall see more about them in the ninth and fifteenth chapters.

Naturally, this lack of a visible histological structure in the plasma-globule of the monera does not exclude the possession of an invisible molecular structure. On the contrary, we are bound to assume that there is such a structure, as in all albuminoid compounds, and especially all plasmic bodies. But we also find this elaborate chemical structure in many lifeless bodies; some of these, in fact, show a metabolism similar to that of the simplest organisms. We will return subsequently to this subject of catalysis. Briefly, the only difference between the simplest chromacea and inorganic bodies that have catalysis is in the special form of their metabolism, which we call plasmodomism (formation of plasm), or "carbon-assimilation." The mere fact that the chromacea assume a globular form is no sign whatever of a morphological vital process; drops of quicksilver and other inorganic fluids take the same shape when the individual body is formed under certain conditions. When a drop of oil falls into a fluid of the same specific gravity with which it cannot mix (such as a mixture of water and spirits of wine), it immediately assumes a globular shape. Inorganic solids usually take the form of crystals instead. Hence the distinctive feature of the simplest organism, the plasma-particles of the monera, is neither anatomic structure nor a certain shape, but solely the physiological function of plasmodomism—a process of chemical synthesis.

The difference between the monera I have described and any higher organism is, I think, greater in every respect than the difference between the organic monera and the inorganic crystals. Nay, even the difference between the unnucleated monera (as cytodes) and the real nucleated cells may fairly be regarded as greater still. Even in the simplest real cell we find the distinction between two different organella, or "cell-organs," the internal nucleus and the outer cell-body. The caryoplasm of the nucleus discharges the functions of reproduction and heredity; the cytoplasm of the cell-body accomplishes the metabolism, nutrition, and adaptation. Here we have, therefore, the first, oldest, and most important process of division of labor in the elementary organism. In the unicellular protists the organization rises in proportion to the differentiation of the various parts of the cell; in the tissue-forming histona it rises again in proportion to the distribution of work (or ergonomy) among the various organs. Darwin has given us in his theory of selection a mechanical explanation of the apparent design and purposiveness in this.

In order to have a correct monistic conception of organization, it is important to distinguish the individuality of the organism in its various stages of composition. We shall treat this important question, about which there is a good deal of obscurity and contradiction, in a special chapter (vii.). It suffices for the moment to point out that the unicellular beings (protists) are simple organisms both in regard to morphology and physiology. On the other hand, this is only true in the physiological sense of the histona, the tissue-forming animals and plants. From the morphological point of view they are made up of innumerable cells, which form the various tissues. These histonal individuals are called sprouts in the plant world and persons in the animal world. At a still higher stage of organization we have the trunk or stem (cormus), which is made up of a number of sprouts or persons, like the tree or the coral-stem. In the fixed animal stems the associated individuals have a direct bodily connection, and take their food in common; but in the social aggregations of the higher animals it is the ideal link of common interest that unites the individuals, as in swarms of bees, colonies of ants, herds of mammals, etc. These communities are sometimes called "animal-states." Like human polities, they are organisms of a higher type.

However, in order to avoid misunderstanding, we must take the word "organism" in the sense in which most biologists use it—namely, to designate an individual living thing, the material substratum of which is plasm or "living substance"—a nitrogenous carbon-compound in a semi-fluid condition. It leads to a good deal of misunderstanding when separate functions are called organisms, as is done sometimes in speaking of the soul or of speech. It would be just as correct to call seeing or running an organism. It is advisable also in scientific treatises to refrain from calling inorganic compounds as such "organisms," as, for instance, the sea or the whole earth. Such names, having a purely symbolical value, may very well be used in poetry. The rhythmic wave-movement of the ocean may be regarded as its respiration, the surge as its voice, and so on. Many scientists (like Fechner) conceive the whole earth with all its organic and inorganic contents as a gigantic organism, whose countless organs have been arranged in an orderly whole by the world-reason (God). In the same way the physiologist, Preyer, regards the glowing heavenly bodies as "gigantic organisms, whose breath is, perhaps, the glowing vapor of iron, whose blood is liquid metal, and whose food may be meteorites." The danger of this poetic application of the metaphorical sense of organism is very well seen in this instance, as Preyer builds on it a quite untenable hypothesis of the origin of life (see chapter xv.).

In the wider sense the word "organic" has long been used in chemistry as an antithesis to inorganic. By organic chemistry is generally understood the chemistry of the compounds of carbon, that element being distinguished from all the others (some seventy-eight in number) by very important properties. It has, in the first place, the property of entering into an immense variety of combinations with other elements, and especially of uniting with oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and sulphur to form the most complicated albuminoids (see the Riddle, chapter xiv.). Carbon is a biogenetic element of the first importance, as I explained in my carbon-theory in 1866. It might even be called "the creator of the organic world." At first these organogenetic compounds do not appear in the organism in organized form—that is to say, they are not yet distributed into organs with definite purposes. Such organization is a result, not the cause, of the life-process.

I have already shown in the fourteenth chapter of the Riddle(and at greater length in the fifteenth chapter of my History of Creation) that the belief in the essential unity of nature, or the monism of the cosmos, is of the greatest importance for our whole system. I gave a very thorough justification of this cosmic monism in 1866. In the fifth chapter of the Generelle Morphologie I considered the relation of the organic to the inorganic in every respect, pointing out the differences between them on the one hand, and their points of agreement in matter, form, and force on the other. Nägeli some time afterwards declared similarly for the unity of nature in his able Mechanisch-physiologische Begründung der Abstammungslehre(1884). Wilhelm Ostwald has recently done the same, from the monistic point of view of his system of energy, in his Naturphilosophie, especially in the sixteenth chapter. Without being acquainted with my earlier work, he has impartially compared the physico-chemical processes in the organic and inorganic worlds, partly adducing the same illustrations from the instructive field of crystallization. He came to the same monistic conclusions that I reached thirty-six years ago. As most biologists continue to ignore them, and as, especially, modern vitalism thrusts these inconvenient facts out of sight, I will give a brief summary once more of the chief points as regards the matter, form, and forces of bodies.

Chemical analysis shows that there are no elements present in organisms that are not found in inorganic bodies. The number of elements that cannot be further analyzed is now put at seventy-eight; but of these only the five organogenetic elements already mentioned which combine to form plasm—carbon, oxygen, hydrogen, nitrogen, and sulphur—are found invariably in living things. With these are generally (but not always) associated five other elements—phosphor, potassium, calcium, magnesium, and iron. Other elements may also be found in organisms; but there is not a single biological element that is not also found in the inorganic world. Hence the distinctive features which separate the one from the other can be sought only in some special form of combination of the elements. And it is carbon especially, the chief organic element, that by its peculiar affinity enters into the most diverse and complicated combinations with other elements, and produces the most important of all substances, the albuminoids, at the head of which is the living plasm (cf. chapter vi.).

An indispensable condition of the circulation of matter (metabolism) which we call life is the physical process of osmosis, which is connected with the variations in the quantity of water in the living substance and its power of diffusion. The plasm, which is of a spongy or viscous consistency, can take in dissolved matter from without (endosmosis) and eject matter from within (exosmosis). This absorptive property (or "imbibition-energy") of the plasm is connected with the colloidal character of the albuminoids. As Graham has shown, we may divide all soluble substances into two groups in respect of their diosmosis—crystalloids and colloids. Crystalloids (such as soluble salt and sugar) pass more easily into water through a porous wall than colloids (such as albumen, glue, gum, caramel). Hence we can easily separate by dialysis two bodies of different groups which are mixed in a solution. For this we need a flat bottle with side walls of india-rubber and bottom of parchment. If we let this vessel float in a large one containing plenty of water, and pour a mixture of dissolved gum and sugar into the inner vessel, after a time nearly all the sugar passes through the parchment into the water, and an almost pure solution of gum remains in the bottle. This process of diffusion, or osmosis, plays a most important part in the life of all organisms; but it is by no means peculiar to the living substance, any more than the absorptive or viscous condition is. We may even have one and the same substance—either organic or inorganic—in both conditions, as crystal or as colloid. Albumen, which usually seems to be colloidal, forms hexagonal crystals in many plant-cells (for instance, in the aleuron-granules of the endosperm), and tetrahedric hœmoglobin-crystals in many animal-cells (as in the blood corpuscles of mammals). These albuminoid crystals are distinguished by their capacity for absorbing a considerable quantity of water without losing their shape. On the other hand, mineral silicon, which appears as quartz in an immense variety (more than one hundred and sixty) of crystalline forms, is capable in certain circumstances (as metasilicon) of becoming colloidal and forming jelly-like masses of glue. This fact is the more interesting because silicium behaves in other ways very like carbon, is quadrivalent like it, and forms very similar combinations. Amorphous (or non-crystalline) silicium (a brown powder) stands in relation to the black metallic silicon-crystals just as amorphous carbon does to graphite-crystals. There are other substances that may be either crystalloid or colloid in different circumstances. Hence, however important colloidal structure may be for the plasm and its metabolism, it can by no means be advanced as a distinctive feature of living matter.

Nor is it possible to assign an absolute distinction between the organic and the inorganic in respect of morphology any more than of chemistry. The instructive monera once more form a connecting bridge between the two realms. This is true both of the internal structure and the outward form of both classes of bodies—of their individuality (chapter vii.) and their type (chapter viii.). Inorganic crystals correspond morphologically to the simplest (unnucleated) forms of the organic cells. It is true that the great majority of organisms seem to be conspicuously different from inorganic bodies by the mere fact that they are made up of many different parts which they use as organs for definite purposes of life. But in the case of the monera there is no such organization. In the simplest cases (chromacea, bacteria) they are structureless, globular, discoid, or rod-shaped plasmic individuals, which accomplish their peculiar vital function (simple growth and subdivision) solely by means of their chemical constitution, or their invisible molecular structure.

The comparison of cells with crystals was made in 1838 by the founders of the cell-theory, Schleiden and Schwann. It has been much criticised by recent cytologists, and does not hold in all respects. Still it is of importance, as the crystal is the most perfect form of inorganic individuality, has a definite internal structure and outward form, and obtains these by a regular growth. The external form of crystals is prismatic, and bounded by straight surfaces which cut each other at certain angles. But the same form is seen in the skeletons of many of the protists, especially the flinty shells of the diatomes and radiolaria; their silicious coverings lend themselves to mathematical determination just as well as the inorganic crystals. Midway between the organic plasma-products and inorganic crystals we have the bio-crystals, which are formed by the united plastic action of the plasm and the mineral matter—for instance, the crystalline flint and chalk skeletons of many of the sponges, corals, etc. Further, by the orderly association of a number of crystals we get compound crystal groups, which may be compared to the communities of protists—for instance, the branching ice-flowers and ice-trees on the frozen window. To this regular external form of the crystal corresponds a definite internal structure which shows itself in their cleavage, their stratified build, their polar axes, etc.

If we do not restrict the term "life" to organisms properly so-called, and take it only as a function of plasm, we may speak in a broader sense of the life of crystals. This is seen especially in their growth, the phenomenon which Baer regarded as the chief character of all individual development. When a crystal is formed in a matrix, this is done by attracting homogeneous particles. When two different substances, A and B, are dissolved in a mixed and saturated solution, and a crystal of A is put in the mixture, only A is crystallized out of it, not B; on the other hand, if a crystal of B is put in, A remains in solution and B alone assumes the solid crystalline form. We may, in a certain sense, call this choice assimilation. In many crystals we can detect internally an interaction of their parts. When we cut off an angle in a forming crystal, the opposite angle is only imperfectly formed. A more important difference between the growth of crystals and monera is that the former only grow by apposition, or the deposit of fresh solid matter at their surface; while the monera grow, like all cells, by intussusception, or the taking of new matter into their interior. But this difference is easily explained by their difference in consistency, the crystal being solid and the plasm semi-fluid. Moreover, the difference is not absolute; there are intermediary stages between apposition and intussusception. A colloid globule suspended in a salt solution in which it is not dissolved may grow by intussusception.

It was once the custom to restrict sensation and movement to animals, but they are now recognized to be present in nearly all living matter. They are, in fact, not altogether lacking in crystals, as the molecules move in crystallization in definite directions, and unite according to fixed laws; they must, therefore, also possess sensation, as we could not otherwise understand the attraction of the homogeneous particles. We find in crystallization, as in every chemical process, certain movements which are unintelligible without sensation—unconscious sensation, of course. In this respect, also, then, the growth of all bodies follows the same laws (cf. chapters xiii. and xv.).

The growth of a crystal is restricted like the growth of a moneron or of any cell. If the limit is passed and the conditions remain favorable to growth, we find an instance of that excessive or transgressive growth which we call reproduction in the case of living individuals. But we find just the same kind of extension in the inorganic crystal. Every crystal grows in a supersaturated medium only up to a definite size, which is determined by its chemical-molecular constitution. When this limit is reached a number of small crystals appear on the large one. Ostwald, who has made a thorough comparison of the process of growth in crystals and monera, especially notices the striking analogy between a bacterium (a plasmophagous moneron) growing and multiplying in its nutritive fluid and a crystal in its matrix. When the water slowly evaporates from a supersaturated solution of Glauber-salt, not only does a crystal slowly grow in it, but several young crystals appear on it. The analogy with the bacterium multiplying in its nutritive fluid can even be followed as far as its permanent forms or "spores." This quiescent form is assumed by the bacterium if its supply of food is exhausted; if fresh food is added, the multiplication by cleavage begins again. In the same way the crystals of Glauber-salt begin to decay when the solution is evaporated; they lose their crystal water, but not their power of multiplication. Even the amorphous powder of the salt causes again the formation of new watery crystals when put in a supersaturated solution. But the powder loses this property when it is heated, just as the dormant forms (or spores) of the bacteria lose their power of germination.

The exhaustive comparison of the growth of crystals and monera (as the simplest forms of unnucleated cells) is important, because it shows the possibility of tracing the vital function of reproduction—which had usually been regarded as a quite special "wonder of life"—to purely physical conditions. The division of the growing individual into several young ones must necessarily take place when the natural limit of growth has been passed, and when the chemical composition of the growing body and the cohesion of its molecules allow no further enlargement by the assumption of new matter. In order to illustrate the limit of this transgressive growth by a simple physical example, Ostwald imagines a ball placed in a small flat basin, built up high on one side. The ball is in a state of equilibrium in the basin; when it is lightly pushed aside it always returns to its original position. But when the push goes beyond a certain point, and the ball is thrust over the side of the basin, the balance is lost; the ball does not return, but falls to the ground. The crystal behaves just in the same way in a supersaturated solution when it exercises its power of forming new crystals; and it is just the same with the bacterium growing in a nutritive fluid when it passes the limit of its volume of growth, and divides into two individuals.

As we can find no morphological and little physiological difference between the living and non-living, we must look upon metabolism as the chief characteristic of organic life. This process causes the conversion of food into plasm; it is determined by the vital force itself, and is the formation of new living matter. It thus effects the nutrition and growth of the living being, and therefore its reproduction, which is merely transgressive growth. As I shall describe this metabolism fully in the tenth chapter, I will do no more here than emphasize the fact that this vital process also has analogies in inorganic chemistry, in the curious process of catalysis, especially that form of it which we call fermentation.

The distinguished chemist Berzelius discovered in 1810 the remarkable fact that certain bodies, by their mere presence, apart from their chemical affinity, set other bodies in decomposition or composition without being themselves affected. Thus, for instance, sulphuric acid changes the starch in sugar without undergoing any alteration itself. Finely ground platinum brought in contact with hydrogen-superoxide divides it into hydrogen and oxygen. Berzelius called this process catalysis; Mitscherlich, who discovered the cause of it to be the peculiar surface-action of many bodies, gave it the name of "contact-action." It was afterwards discovered that catalysis of this kind is very general, and that a special form of it—fermentation—plays an important part in the life of organisms.

This special form of contact-action which we call fermentation is always effected by catalytic bodies of the albuminoid class, and, in fact, of the group of non-coagulable proteins which are known as peptones. They have—in however small a quantity—the capacity to throw into decomposition large masses of organic matter (in the form of yeast, putrid matter, etc.) without themselves taking part in the decomposition. When these ferments are free and unorganized they are called enzyma, in opposition to organized ferments (bacteria, yeast-fungi, etc.); though the catalytic action of the latter also consists essentially in the production of enzyma. The recent investigations of Verworn, Hofmeister, Ostwald, etc., have shown that these catalyses play everywhere an important part in the life of the plasm. Many recent chemists and physiologists are of opinion that plasm is a colloid catalysator, and that all the varied activities of life are connected with this fundamental vital chemistry. Thus Franz Hofmeister (1901) says in his excellent work on The Chemical Organization of the Cell:

The belief that the agents of the chemical transformation in the cell are catalysators of a colloid nature is in complete accord with other facts that have been directly ascertained. What else are the chemists' ferments but colloid catalysators? The idea that the ferments are the essential chemical agency in the cell is calculated to meet the difficulty which arises from the smallness of the cell in appreciating its chemical processes. However large we suppose the colloid ferment molecules to be, there is room for millions of them in the smallest cell.

In the same way Ostwald attributes the greatest significance to catalysis in connection with the vital processes, and seeks to explain them on his theory of energy by reference to the duration of chemical processes. In the discourse "On Catalysis" that he delivered at Hamburg in 1901 he says:

We must recognize the enzyma as catalysators that arise in the organism during the life of the cells, and by their action relieve the living being of the greater part of its duties. Not only are digestion and assimilation controlled by enzyma from first to last, but the fundamental vital action of most organisms, the production of the necessary chemical energy by combustion at the expense of the oxygen in the air, takes place with the explicit co-operation of enzyma, and would be impossible without them. Free oxygen is, as is well known, a very inert body at the temperature of the living body, and the maintenance of life would be impossible without some acceleration of its rate of reaction.

In his further observations on catalysis and metabolism he says that they are both equally subject to the physico-chemical laws of energy.

Max Verworn has given us a very searching analysis of the molecular process in the catalytic aspect of metabolism in his Biogen Hypothesis (1903), "a critical and experimental study of the processes in living matter." He simplifies the catalytic theory of the enzyma by tracing all the phenomena of life to the catalytic metabolism of one single chemical compound, the plasm, and regards its active molecules, the biogens, as the ultimate chemical factors of the vital process. While the enzyma hypothesis assumes that there are in each cell a great number of different enzyma which are all co-ordinated, and each of which only performs its little special work, the biogen hypothesis deduces all the vital phenomena from one compound, the biogenetic plasm; and thus the biogen molecules, which increase by division into parts, are the sole factors of biological catalysis. Verworn also points out the analogy between this enzymatic process of metabolism and the inorganic processes of catalysis—for instance, in the manufacture of English sulphuric acid. A small and constant quantity of nitromuriatic acid, with the aid of air and water, converts an unlimited mass of sulphuretted acid into sulphuric acid without being changed itself; the molecule of the nitromuriatic acid breaks up steadily by the giving-off of oxygen, and is then restored by the assumption of oxygen.

The manifold and changeful phenomena of life and their sudden extinction at death seem to every thoughtful man to be something so wonderful and so different from all the changes in inorganic nature that from the very beginning of biological philosophy special forces were assumed to explain it. This was particularly due to the remarkable, orderly structure of the organism and the apparent purposiveness of the vital processes. Hence, in earlier days a special organic force (archæus insitus) was assumed, controlling the individual life and pressing the "raw forces" of inorganic matter into its service. In the same way a special formative impulse was supposed to preside over the wonderful processes of development. When physiology began to win its independence, about the middle of the eighteenth century, it explained the peculiar features of organic life by a specific vital force. The idea was generally received, and Louis Dumas endeavored thoroughly to establish it at the beginning of the nineteenth century (cf. chapter iii. of the Riddle).

As the theory of a vital force, or vitalism, plays an important part in the study of the wonders of life, has undergone the most curious modifications in the course of the nineteenth century, and has been lately revived with great force, we must give a short account of it in its various forms. The phrase can be interpreted in a monistic sense, if we understand by it the sum of the forms of energy which are especially distinctive of the organism, particularly metabolism and heredity. In this we pass no opinion on their nature, and do not say that they are specifically different from the forces of inorganic nature. We might call this monistic conception "physical vitalism." However, the usual metaphysical vitalism affirms in a thoroughly dualistic sense that the vital force is a teleological and super-mechanical principle, is essentially different from the ordinary forces of nature, and of a transcendental character. The special form in which this theory of a supernatural vital force has been presented for the last twenty years is often called Neovitalism; we might call the older form, by contrast, Palavitalism.

The older idea of the vital force as a special energy could very well be accepted in the first third of the nineteenth century, and in the eighteenth, because the physiology of the time was destitute of the most important aids to the founding of a mechanical theory. There was then no such thing as the cell-theory or as physiological chemistry; ontogeny and paleontology were still in their cradles. Lamarck's theory of descent (1809) had been done to death, like his fundamental principle: "Life is only an elaborate physical phenomenon." Hence we can easily understand how physiologists acquiesced in the vitalist hypothesis up to 1833, and supposed the wonders of life to be enigmatic phenomena that escaped physical explanation.

But the position of Palavitalism changed in the second third of the nineteenth century. In 1833 appeared Johannes Müller's classical Manual of Human Physiology, in which the great biologist not only made a comparative study of the vital phenomena in man and the animals, but sought to provide a sound basis for it in all its sections by his own observations and experiments. It is true that Müller retained to the last (1858) the current idea of a vital force, as the supreme regulator of all the vital activities. However, he did not regard it as a metaphysical principle (like Haller, Kant, and their followers), but as a natural force, subject, like all others, to fixed chemical and physical laws, and subordinate to the whole. In his comprehensive study of every single vital function—the organs of sense and the nervous system, metabolism and the action of the heart, speech and reproduction—Müller endeavored above all to establish, by close observation of the facts and careful experiments, the regularity of the phenomena, and to explain their development by a comparison of the higher and lower forms. Hence Johannes Müller is wrongly described—as he has been of late—as a vitalist; he was rather the first physiologist to provide a physical foundation for the current metaphysical vitalism. He really gives an indirect proof of the reverse theory, as E. Dubois-Reymond rightly observed in his brilliant memorial speech. In the same way Schleiden (1843) cut the ground from under vitalism in botany. By his cell-theory (1838) he showed the unity of the multicellular organism to be the resultant of the functions of all the cells which compose it.

The physical explanation of the vital processes and the rejection of Palavitalism were general in the last third of the nineteenth century. This was due most of all to the great advance in experimental physiology, which Carl Ludwig and Felix Bernard led as regards the animal body, and Julius Sachs and Wilhelm Preyer for the plant. While these and other physiologists used the remarkable results of modern physics and chemistry in the experimental study of the vital functions, and sought to determine their complicated course in terms of mass and weight and formulate their discoveries as mathematically as possible, they brought a great number of the wonders of life under the same fixed laws that were recognized in the physics and chemistry of the inorganic world. On the other hand, vitalism met with a powerful opponent in Charles Darwin, who solved, by his theory of selection, one of the most obscure biological problems, the constantly repeated question: How can we give a mechanical explanation of the orderly structures of the living being? How was this ingenious machine of the animal or plant body unconsciously produced by natural means, without supposing that some intelligent artificer or creator had deliberately designed and produced it?

The further development of Darwin's theory of selection in the last four decades, and the increasing support which has been given to the theory of descent in the great advance of ontogeny, phylogeny, comparative anatomy, and physiology, did much to establish the monistic conception of life. It took the shape more and more of a definite anti-vitalism. Hence it is strange to find that in the course of the last twenty years the old vitalism that everybody had thought dead has lifted up its head once more, though in a new and modified form.[4] This modern vitalism comprises two essentially different tendencies.

The partisans of the modern vital force are divided into two groups, which may be designated the sceptical and the dogmatic. Sceptical Neovitalism was first formulated by Bunge, of Basle (1887), in the introduction to his Manual of Physiological Chemistry. While he granted the possibility of a full explanation of one part of the vital phenomena by mechanical causes, or the physical and chemical forces of lifeless nature, he rejected it for the other half, especially for psychic activities. He insists that the latter cannot be explained mechanically, and that there is nothing analogous to them in inorganic nature; only a supra-mechanical vital force can produce them, and this is transcendental and beyond the range of scientific inquiry. Much the same was said later by Rindfleisch (1888), more recently by Richard Neumeister in his Studies of the Nature of Vital Phenomena (1903), and by Oscar Hertwig in the lecture on "The Development of Biology in the Nineteenth Century," which he delivered at Aachen in 1900.

This sceptical Neovitalism is far surpassed by the dogmatic system, the chief actual representatives of which are the botanist Johannes Reinke and the metaphysician Hans Driesch. The vitalist writings of the latter, which are devoid of any grasp of historical development, have gained a certain vogue through the extraordinary arrogance of their author and the obscurity of his mystic and contradictory speculations. Reinke, on the other hand, has presented his transcendental dualism in clever and attractive form in two works which deserve notice on account of their consistent dualism. In the first of these, The World as Reality (1899), Reinke gives us "the outline of a scientific theory of the universe." The second work (1901) has the title, Introduction to Theoretical Biology. The two works have the same relation to each other as my Riddle of the Universe and the present supplementary volume. As our philosophic convictions are diametrically opposed in the main issues, and as we both think ourselves consistent in developing them, the comparison of them is not without interest in the great struggle of beliefs. Reinke is an avowed supporter of dualism, theism, and teleology. He reduces all the phenomena of life to a supernatural miracle.

Second Table

ANTITHESIS OF THE MONISTIC AND DUALISTIC THEORIES OF ORGANIC LIFE

III

MIRACLES

Miracle and natural law—Belief in miracles of savages (fetichism), of semi-civilized (idolatry), of civilized (theism), and of educated people (dualism)—Religious belief in miracles—Apostles' Creed—Article relating to creation—Article relating to redemption—Article relating to immortality—Philosophic belief in miracles—Academic thinkers and Free-thinkers—Dualism of Plato and Kant—Belief in miracles in the nineteenth century, in modern metaphysics, theology, and politics.

In ordinary parlance the word "miracle" means a number of different things. We say a phenomenon is miraculous or wonderful[5] when we cannot explain it and trace its causes. But we say a natural object or a work of art is wonderful when it is unusually beautiful and imposing—when it passes the ordinary limits of our experience. In this work I do not take the word in this relative sense, but in the absolute sense in which a phenomenon is said to transcend the limits of natural law and lie beyond the range of rational explanation. In this sense it means the same as "supernatural" or "transcendental." We can know natural phenomena by our reason and bring them within our cognizance. The miraculous can only be accepted on faith.

The belief in supernatural miracles is in contradiction to pure reason, which lays the foundations of all science. Kant, who won so great a vogue for the term "pure reason," understood by this originally "reason as independent of experience." The phrase was used in a narrower sense subsequently to express independence of dogma and prejudice, as the base of pure and unprejudiced science. In this sense we oppose pure reason to superstition.

I have dealt in the sixteenth chapter of the Riddle with the important question of the relations of knowledge and faith. But I must return to the subject here, as what I said has given rise to a good deal of misunderstanding and criticism. I by no means claimed, as my opponents allege, to "know everything," or to have solved every problem. In fact, I said repeatedly that there are narrow limits to our knowledge, and always will be. I had also expressly stated that the irresistible impulse to learn in the intelligent man, or reason's constant demand to know causes, presses us to fill up the gaps in our knowledge by faith. But I had at the same time pointed out the contrast between scientific (natural) and religious (supernatural) faith. The one leads us to form hypotheses and theories; the other ends in myths and superstition. Scientific faith fills the gaps in our knowledge of natural law with temporary hypotheses; but mystic religious faith contradicts natural law, and transcends its limits in the form of a belief in miracles.

The great triumph of the progress of science in the nineteenth century, its theoretical value in the formation of a rational philosophy of life, and its practical value on the various sides of modern civilization, consist, above all, in the absolute recognition of fixed natural laws. That relation of things to each other, which we call causation, makes it possible for us to understand and explain facts. We feel that our thirst for a knowledge of the causes of things is contented when science points out the "sufficient reason" of them. In the whole province of inorganic cosmology natural law is now generally recognized to be all-powerful; in astronomy, geology, physics, and chemistry all phenomena are reduced to fixed laws, and in the long-run to the all-embracing law of substance, the great law of the conservation of matter and force (Riddle, chapter xii.).

It is otherwise in biology, or the organic section of cosmology. Here we still find miracles set up in opposition to the law of substance, and the transgression of natural laws by supernatural forces. The belief in miracles of this kind, which pure reason calls superstition, is still very wide-spread—much more prevalent than is usually thought. For my part, I hold that superstition and unreason are the worst enemies of the human race, while science and reason are its greatest friends. Hence it is our duty and task to attack the belief in miracles wherever we find it, in the interest of the race. We have to prove that the reign of natural law extends over the whole world of phenomena as far as we can reach it. A general survey of the history of faith on the one hand and of science on the other clearly shows that the advance of the latter has always been accompanied by an increasing knowledge of fixed natural laws and the shrinking of superstition into an ever-lessening area. To-day we convince ourselves of this by an impartial examination of mental culture at the various stages of civilization. For this purpose I take the four chief stages of mental development which Fritz Schultze has given in his Physiology of Uncivilized Races, and Alexander Sutherland in his work, On the Origin and Growth of the Moral Instinct: 1, savages; 2, barbarians; 3, civilized races; 4, educated races (cf. chapter i.).

The mental life of savages rises little above that of the higher mammals, especially the apes, with which they are genealogically connected. Their whole interest is restricted to the physiological functions of nutrition and reproduction, or the satisfaction of hunger and thirst in the crudest animal fashion. Without fixed habitation, constantly struggling for existence, they live on the raw produce of nature—fruits, the roots of wild plants, and the animals they fish in the water or catch on land. Their intelligence moves within the narrowest bounds, and one can no more (or no less) speak of their reason than of that of the more intelligent animals. Of art and science there is no question. Their impulse to discover causes is satisfied with the simplest association of phenomena which have a merely external connection, but no intimate relation to each other. Thus arises their fetichism, that irrational trust in fetiches which Fritz Schultze has traced to four distinct causes: their false estimate of the value of an object, their anthropomorphic conception of nature, the imperfect association of their ideas, and the strength of their emotions, especially hope and fear. Any favorite object, a stone or a bone, may work miracles as a fetich and exercise all kinds of good or evil influence, and is therefore honored, feared, and worshipped. At first the worship was paid to the invisible spirit that dwelt in the particular object; but it was often transferred afterwards to the dead object itself. Among the different savage races the belief in fetiches presents a number of stages, corresponding to the beginnings of reason. The lowest stage is found in the lowest races, such as the Veddahs of Ceylon, the Andaman Islanders, Bushmen, and Akkas (of New Guinea). A somewhat higher stage is met in the middle races (Australian negroes, Tasmanians, Hottentots, and Tierra del Fuegians); and a still higher intellectual development is shown by the next group (most of the Indians of North and South America, the aboriginal inhabitants of India, etc.). Modern comparative ethnography and evolution and prehistoric and anthropological research have shown us that our own ancestors, ten thousand and more years ago, were (like the prehistoric ancestors of all races of men) savages, and that their earliest belief in miracles was a crude fetichism.

By barbarians we understand the races that are found between savage and civilized peoples. They show the first beginnings of civilization, and are superior to savages chiefly in the possession of agriculture and the keeping of cattle. They make a provident use of the productive forces of organic nature, artificially produce large quantities of food, and are thus enabled by the abundance of food to turn their minds to other interests. We find that they have the rudiments of art and science. Their religion does not at first rise much above fetichism, but soon reaches the stage of animism, lifeless objects in nature being credited with souls. Worship is no longer paid to favorite dead objects (stones, bones, etc.), but generally to living things, trees and animals, and especially to images of gods which have the form of animals or men, and are believed to possess souls. As demons or spirits, these have a great influence on the fortunes of men. At first this soul is conceived to be purely material; it disappears at the death of the body and lives apart. As the breathing and the beat of the pulse and heart cease when a man dies, the seat of the soul is thought to be the lungs, heart, or some other part of the body. The idea of the immortality of the soul takes on innumerable forms among them, like the belief in the miracles which are worked by the gods, demons, spirits, etc. Evolution again points out a long gradation of forms of faith, if we compare the lower, middle, and higher races.

Civilized races are distinguished from barbaric by the formation of states with an extensive division of labor. The social organism is not only larger and more powerful, but is capable of a greater variety of achievements, the functions of the various states and classes of workers being more highly differentiated and mutually complementary (like the cells and tissues in the higher animal body of the metazoa). Nutrition is easier and more luxurious. Art and science are well developed. A great advance is seen in regard to religion, the numerous gods being generally conceived as manlike spirits, and finally subordinated to a chief god. The belief in miracles flourishes greatly in poetry; in philosophy it is more and more restricted. In the end, the working of miracles is limited monotheistically to one god, or to his priests and other men to whom he communicates the power.

Modern civilization in the narrower sense, as a contrast to the older civilization, opens, in my opinion, at the beginning of the sixteenth century. At that time took place some of the greatest achievements of human thought among civilized peoples, and these broke the chains of tradition and gave a fresh impetus to progress. Men's own mental outlook was widened by the system of Copernicus and the Reformation freed them from the yoke of the papacy. Shortly before, the discovery of the New World and the circumnavigation of the globe had convinced men of the rotundity of the earth; geography, natural history, medicine, and other sciences gained inspiration and independence; printing and engraving provided an important means of spreading the new knowledge. This fresh impetus was chiefly of service to philosophy, which now more and more rejected the dictation of the Church and superstition; though it was far from casting off the fetters altogether. This was not generally possible until the nineteenth century, when empirical science assumed an enormous importance, and in the ensuing period of speculation the physical conception of the world gained more and more on the metaphysical. Pure knowledge, thus grounded on science, entered into sharper conflict than ever with religious faith. If, as in the preceding cases, we distinguish three stages in the development of modern civilization, we recognize the progressive liberation from superstition by scientific knowledge.

When we compare the higher forms of religion of civilized nations we find the same emotional cravings and thought-processes constantly recurring, and the belief in miracles developing in much the same way. The three founders of the great monotheistic Mediterranean religion—Moses, Christ, and Mohammed—were equally regarded as wonder-working prophets, having direct intercourse with God in virtue of their special gifts, and transmitting his commands to men in the shape of laws. The extraordinary authority they enjoy, which has given so much prestige to the religions they founded, is grounded for ordinary people on their miraculous powers—the healing of the sick, the raising of the dead, the expulsion of devils, and so on. If we examine the miracles of Christ as they are given in the gospels, they run counter to the laws of nature and rational explanation just in the same way as the similar miracles of Buddha and Brahma in Hindoo mythology, or of Mohammed in the Koran. The same must be said of the belief in the miracle of the bread and wine in the Lord's supper, and the like. The Creed which was probably drawn up by the leaders of the Christian communities of the second century, and received its final and present form in the Church of South Gaul in the fourth and fifth centuries, has been obligatory for Christians for fifteen hundred years, and recognized by both Church and State as compulsory. This Apostles' Creed was also recognized in Luther's catechism to be fundamental, and is taught in all Protestant and Roman Catholic schools (though not in the Greek Catholic) as the foundation of religious instruction. This extraordinary prestige of the Apostles' Creed, and its great influence on the education of the young, no less than its glaring inconsistency with rational knowledge, compel us to devote a few pages to a critical examination of its three articles.

The first article of the Creed deals with creation, and runs: "I believe in God, the Father Almighty, Creator of heaven and earth." The modern science of evolution has shown that there never was any such creation, but that the universe is eternal and the law of substance all-ruling. God himself is anthropomorphically conceived as an "Almighty Creator" and the Father of man; heaven (in the sense of the geocentric system) is imagined as a great blue vault spanning the earth. The notion of this "personal God" as an intelligent, immaterial being, creating the material world out of nothing, is wholly irrational and meaningless. That Luther accepted this childish and scientifically worthless idea is clear from his commentary on the first article—"What is that?"

The second article of the Creed deals with the dogma of salvation in the following words: "I believe in Jesus Christ, his only son, our Lord, who was conceived of the Holy Ghost, born of the Virgin Mary, suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, dead, and buried, descended into hell, on the third day rose again from the dead, ascended into heaven, sitteth at the right hand of God, the Father Almighty, whence he will come to judge the living and the dead." As these dogmas of the second article contain the chief points of the redemption theory, and are still treasured by millions of educated people, it is necessary to point out their flagrant opposition to pure reason. The chief evil of such creeds is that children, who are yet incapable of reflecting, are forced to learn them by heart. They then remain unchallenged as revealed truths.

The myth of the conception and birth of Jesus Christ is mere fiction, and is at the same stage of superstition as a hundred other myths of other religions. Of the three persons who are mysteriously blended in the triune God, the son Christ is supposed to be begotten by both Father and Holy Ghost, parthenogenetically through the Virgin Mary. I have dealt with the physiology of parthenogenesis in the seventeenth chapter of the Riddle. The curious adventures of Christ after his death, the descent into hell, resurrection, and ascension, are also fantastic myths due to the narrow geocentric ideas of an uneducated people. Troelslund has admirably explained the strong influence they have had in his interesting book, The Idea of Heaven and of the World.[6] The idea of the "last judgment," with Christ sitting on the right hand of the Father, as many famous mediæval pictures represent (notably Michael Angelo's in the Sistine Chapel at the Vatican), is another outcome of a thoroughly childish and anthropomorphic attitude.

It is remarkable that this second article of the Creed says nothing about "redemption," which forms its heading [in Germany]. Luther has dealt with it in his commentary. Christ is believed to have suffered a painful death, like many thousand other martyrs, for his conviction of the truth of his faith and teaching—which reminds one of the more than a hundred thousand men who were done to death by the Inquisition and in the religious wars of the Middle Ages; but not one of the millions of ministers who preach on it every Sunday seems to have shown a rational causal connection of this death with the alleged redemption from sin and death. The whole of this story of redemption has sprung from the primitive, obscure, ethical ideas of uneducated races, especially the crude belief in the propitiatory power of human sacrifice. It has no practical moral value except for those who believe in personal immortality—a scientifically untenable dogma. Whoever builds on this empty promise of a better life beyond may soothe himself with this hope, and reconcile himself to the thousand ills and defects of this world. But the man who studies this life as it really is will not find that the belief in redemption has brought any real improvement. Want and misery and sin are as prevalent as ever; indeed, our modern civilization has, in many respects, increased them.

The third and last article of the Apostles' Creed runs: "I believe in the Holy Ghost, the holy Catholic Church, the communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the body, and life everlasting." In the curious commentary that Luther made on this article in his catechism, he said that "man cannot believe of his own reason in Jesus Christ"—which is very true—but the Holy Ghost must lead him thereto with his grace; but how the third person of the Trinity effects this enlightenment and sanctification he did not explain. What is meant by the "communion of saints" and the "holy Catholic Church" must be gathered in the light of their history—especially the history of Romanism. This most powerful and still influential section of the Christian Church, which especially claims the title of Catholic and "the one ark of salvation," is really a most pitiful caricature of pure primitive Christianity. It has, with consummate skill, succeeded in preaching the beneficent teaching of Christ in theory and doing just the opposite in practice; we need only recall the Inquisition, the dark history of the Middle Ages, and the political hierarchy which still dominates so much of civilization.

However, by far the most important clause in the third article is the final expression of belief in "the resurrection of the body and life everlasting." That this greatest "wonder of life" was originally conceived in a purely material form is evident from thousands of pictures in which famous painters have realistically depicted the resurrection of the dead, the aërial flight of the happy souls of the blessed, and the torments of the damned in hell. It is thus conceived still by the majority of believers who take eternal life to be an "enlarged and improved edition" of life here below. This is equally true of Christian and Mohammedan pictures and of the athanatist ideas that prevailed in other religions long before Christ was born, even of the first rudiments of the belief in primitive races. As long as the geocentric theory prevailed, and the heavens were thought to be a sort of blue glass bell, illumined by thousands of little stars and the lamp of the sun, arching like a vault over the flat earth, and the fires of hell burned in the cellars below, this barbaric notion of a resurrection of the body and a last judgment could easily be maintained. But its roots were destroyed when Copernicus refuted the geocentric theory in 1545; and athanatism became quite untenable when Darwin shattered the dogma of anthropocentricism. Not only the crude older materialistic idea of eternal life, but also the refined new spiritualistic version, has been rendered untenable by the progress of science in the nineteenth century. I have shown this in the eleventh chapter of the Riddle, which closes with the words: "If we take a comprehensive glance at all that modern anthropology, psychology, and cosmology teach with regard to athanatism, we are forced to this definite conclusion. The belief in the immortality of the human soul is in hopeless contradiction with the most solid empirical truths of modern science."[7]

The great influence which has been exercised on civilized nations by the Christian beliefs, supported by the practical exigencies of the state, for thousands of years, was chiefly seen in the crude superstition of the mass of the people. Confessions of faith became as much a matter of routine as the latest fashion in dress or the latest custom, etc. But even the majority of the philosophers were more or less subordinated to the influence. It is true that a few great thinkers freed themselves by the use of pure reason at an early date from the prevalent superstition, and framed systems apart from tradition and the priests. But most philosophers could not rise to the altitude of these brave Free-thinkers; they remained "school-men" in the literal sense, dependent on the dictation of authority, the traditions of the school, and the dogmas of the Church. Philosophy was the "handmaid" of theology and ecclesiasticism. If we examine the history of philosophy in this light, we find in it a struggle for twenty-five hundred years between two great tendencies—the dualism of the majority (with theological and mystic leanings) and the monism of the minority (with rationalistic and naturalistic disposition).

Especially notable are those great Free-thinkers of classic antiquity who taught a monistic view of life in the sixth century before Christ—the Ionic natural philosophers, Thales, Anaximander, and Anaximenes; and a little later, Heraclitus, Empedocles, and Democritus. They made the first thorough attempt to explain the world on rational principles, independently of all mythological tradition and theological dogmas. However, these remarkable efforts to found a primitive monism, which found so finished an expression in the De rerum natura of the great poet-philosopher, Lucretius Carus (98-54 B.C.), were shortly thrust out by the spread—through Plato's curious dualism—of the belief in the immortality of the soul and the transcendental world of ideas.

The Eleatics, Parmenides and Zeno, had foreshadowed in the fifth century the division of philosophy into two branches; but Plato and his pupil Aristotle (in the fourth century B.C.) succeeded in gaining general acceptance for this dualism and antithesis of physics and metaphysics. Physics devoted itself on the ground of experience to the study of the phenomena of things, leaving their real essences (or noumena) that lay behind the phenomena to metaphysics. These inner essences are transcendental and inaccessible to empirical research; they form the metaphysical world of eternal ideas, which is independent of the real world, and has its highest unity in God, as the Absolute. The soul, an eternal idea that dwells for a time in the passing human body, is immortal. This consistent dualism of Plato's system, with its sharp antithesis of this world and the next, of body and soul, of world and God, is its chief characteristic. It became all the more influential when Plato's pupil Aristotle blended it with his empirical metaphysics, based on ample scientific experience, and pointed out the idea in the entelechy, or purposively acting principle, of every being; and especially when Christianity (three hundred years afterwards) found in this dualism a welcome philosophic support of its own transcendental tendency.

In the course of the thousand years which historians call the Middle Ages, and which are usually dated from the fall of the Roman Empire (476) to the discovery of America (1492), the superstition of civilized races reached its highest development. The authority of Aristotle was paramount in philosophy; it was used by the dominant Church for its own purposes. But the influence of the Christian faith, with all the gay coloring which the fairy-tales of the Bible added to its structure of dogmas, was seen much more in practical life. In the foreground of belief were the three central dogmas of metaphysics, to which Plato had first given complete expression—the personal God as creator of the world, the immortality of the soul, and the freedom of the human will. As Christianity laid the greatest theoretical stress on the first two dogmas and the greatest practical stress on the third, metaphysical dualism soon prevailed on all sides. Especially inimical to scientific inquiry was the Christian contempt of nature and its belittlement of earthly life in view of the eternal life to come. As long as the light of philosophical criticism in any form was extinguished, the flower-garden of religious poetry flourished exceedingly and the idea of miracle was taken as self-evident. We know what the practical result of this superstition was from the ghastly history of the Middle Ages, with its Inquisition, religious wars, instruments of torture, and drowning of witches. In the face of the current enthusiasm for the romantic side of mediævalism, the Crusades and Church art, we cannot lay too much stress on these dark and bloody pages of its chronicles.

An impartial study of the immense progress made by science in the course of the nineteenth century shows convincingly that the three central metaphysical dogmas established by Plato have become untenable for pure reason. Our clear modern insight into the regularity and causative character of natural processes, and especially our knowledge of the universal reign of the law of substance, are inconsistent with belief in a personal God, the immortality of the soul, and the freedom of the will. If we find this threefold superstition still widely prevalent, and even retained by academic philosophers as an unshakable consequence of "critical philosophy," we must trace this remarkable fact chiefly to the great prestige of Immanuel Kant. His so-called critical system—really a hybrid product of the crossing of pure reason with practical superstition—has enjoyed a greater popularity than any other philosophy, and we must stop to consider it for a moment.

I have described in chapters xiv. and xx. of the Riddle the profound opposition between my monistic system and Kant's dualistic philosophy. In the appendix to the popular edition, especially, I have pointed out the glaring contradictions of his system, which other philosophers have often detected and criticised. Whenever there is question of his teaching one must ask: "Which Kant do you mean? Kant I., the founder of the monistic cosmogony, the critical formulator of pure reason; or Kant II., the author of the dualistic criticism of judgment, the dogmatic discoverer of practical reason?" These contradictions are partly due to the psychological metamorphoses which Kant underwent (Riddle, chapter vi.), partly to the perennial conflict between his scientific bias towards a mechanical explanation of this world and his religious craving (an outcome of heredity and education) and mystic belief in a life beyond. This culminates in the distinction between the world of sense and the world of spirit. The sense world (mundus sensibilis) lies open to our senses and our intellect, and is empirically knowable within certain limits. But behind it there is the spiritual world (mundus intelligibilis) of which we know, and can know, nothing; its existence (as the thing in itself) is, however, assured by our emotional needs. In this transcendental world dwells the power of mysticism.

It is said to be the chief merit of Kant's system that he first clearly stated the problem: "How is knowledge possible?" In trying to solve this problem introspectively, by a subtle analysis of his own mental activity, he reached the conviction that the most important and soundest of all knowledge—namely, mathematical—consists of synthetic a priori judgments, and that pure science is only possible on condition that there are strict a priori ideas, independent of all experience, without a posteriori judgments. Kant regarded this highest faculty of the human mind as innate, and made no inquiry into its development, its physiological mechanism, and its anatomic organ, the brain. Seeing the very imperfect knowledge which human anatomy had of the complicated structure of the brain at the beginning of the nineteenth century, it was impossible to have at that time a correct idea of its physiological function.

What seems to us to-day to be an innate capacity, or an a priori quality, of our phronema, is really a phylogenetic result of a long series of brain-adaptations, formed by a posteriori sense-perceptions and experiences.

Kant's much-lauded critical theory of knowledge is therefore just as dogmatic as his idea of "the thing in itself," the unintelligible entity that lurks behind the phenomena. This dogma is erroneously built on the correct idea that our knowledge, obtained through the senses, is imperfect; it extends only so far as the specific energy of the senses and the structure of the phronema admit. But it by no means follows that it is a mere illusion, and least of all that the external world exists only in our ideas. All sound men believe, when they use their senses of touch and space, that the stone they feel fills a certain part of space, and this space does really exist. When all men who can see agree that the sun rises and sets every day, this proves a relative motion of the two heavenly bodies, and so the real existence of time. Space and time are not merely necessary forms of intuition for human knowledge, but real features of things, existing quite independently of perception.

The increasing recognition of fixed natural laws which accompanied the growth of science in the nineteenth century was bound to restrict more and more the blind faith in miracles. There are three chief reasons why we find this, nevertheless, still so prevalent—the continued influence of dualistic metaphysics, the authority of the Christian Church, and the pressure of the modern state in allying itself with the Church. These three strong bulwarks of superstition are so hostile to pure reason and the truth it seeks that we must devote special attention to them. It is a question of the highest interests of humanity. The struggle against superstition and ignorance is a fight for civilization. Our modern civilization will only emerge from it in triumph, and we shall only eliminate the last barbaric features from our social and political life, when the light of true knowledge has driven out the belief in miracles and the prejudices of dualism.

The remarkable history of philosophy in the nineteenth century, which has not yet been written with complete impartiality and knowledge, shows us in the first place an ever-increasing struggle between the rising young sciences and the paramount authority of tradition and dogma. In the first half of the century the various branches of biology made progress without coming into direct collision with natural philosophy. The great advance of comparative anatomy, physiology, embryology, paleontology, the cell-theory, and classification, provided scientists with such ample material that they attached little importance to speculative metaphysics. It was otherwise in the second half of the nineteenth century. Soon after its commencement the controversy about the immortality of the soul broke out, in which Moleschott (1852), Büchner, and Carl Vogt (1854) contended for the physiological dependence of the soul on the brain, while Rudolph Wagner endeavored to maintain the prevailing metaphysical idea of its supernatural character. Then Darwin especially initiated in 1859 that vast reform in biology which brought to light the natural origin of species and shattered the miracle of creation. When the application of the theory of descent and the biogenetic law to man was made by anthropogeny (1874), and his evolution from a series of other mammals was proved, the belief in the immortality of the soul, the freedom of the will, and an anthropomorphic deity lost its last support. Nevertheless, these three fundamental dogmas continued to find favor in academic philosophy, which mostly followed the paths opened out by Kant. Most of the representatives of philosophy at the universities are narrow metaphysicians and idealists, who think more of the fiction of the "intelligible world" than of the truth of the world of sense. They ignore the vast progress made by modern biology, especially in the science of evolution; and they endeavor to meet the difficulties which it creates for their transcendental idealism by a sort of verbal gymnastic and sophistry. Behind all these metaphysical struggles there is still the personal element—the desire to save one's immortality from the wreck. In this it comes into line with the prevailing theology, which again builds on Kant. The pitiful condition of modern psychology is a characteristic result of this state of things. While the empirical physiology and pathology of the brain have made the greatest discoveries, the comparative anatomy and histology of the brain have thrown light on the details of its elaborate structure, and the ontogeny and phylogeny of the brain have proved its natural origin, the speculative philosophy of the schools stands aside from it all, and in its introspective analysis of the functions of the brain will not hear a word about the brain itself. It would explain the working of a most complicated machine without paying any attention to its structure. It is, therefore, not surprising to find that the dualistic theories established by Kant flourish at our universities as they did in the Middle Ages.

If the official philosophers, whose formal duty it is to study truth and natural law, still cling to the belief in miracles in spite of all the advance of empirical science, we shall not be surprised to find this in the case of official theology. Nevertheless, the sense of truth has prompted many unprejudiced and honorable theologians to look critically at the venerable structure of dogma, and open their minds to the streaming light of modern science. In the first third of the nineteenth century a rationalistic section of the Protestant Church attempted to rid itself of the fetters of dogma and reconcile its ideas with pure reason. Its chief leader, Schleiermacher, of Berlin, though an admirer of Plato and his dualist metaphysics, approached very close to modern pantheism. Subsequent rationalistic theologians, especially those of the Tübingen school (Baur, Zeller, etc.), devoted themselves to the historical study of the gospels and their sources and development, and thus more and more destroyed the base of Christian superstition. Finally, the radical criticism of David Friedrich Strauss showed, in his Life of Jesus (1835), the mythological character of the whole Christian system. In his famous work, The Old and New Faith (1872), this honorable and gifted theologian finally abandoned the belief in miracles, and turned to natural knowledge and the monistic philosophy for the construction of a rational view of life on the basis of critical experience. This work has lately been continued by Albert Kalthoff. Moreover, many modern theologians (such as Savage, Nippold, Pfleiderer, and other liberal Protestants) have endeavored in various ways to obtain a certain recognition for the claims of progressive science, and reconcile them with theology, while discarding the belief in the miraculous. However, these rationalistic efforts, based on monistic or pantheistic views, are still isolated and apparently without effect. The great majority of modern theologians adhere to the traditional teaching of the Church, whose columns and windows are still everywhere adorned with miracles. While a few liberal Protestants restrict their faith to the three fundamental dogmas, most of them still believe in the myths and legends which fill the pages of the gospels. This orthodoxy is, moreover, encouraged of late by the conservative and reactionary attitude taken up by many governments on political grounds.

Most modern governments maintain the connection with the Church in the idea that the traditional belief in the miraculous is the best security for their own continuance. Throne and altar must protect and support each other. However, this conservative-Christian policy meets two obstacles in an increasing measure. On the one hand, the ecclesiastical hierarchy is always trying to set its spiritual power above the secular and make the state serve its own purposes; and, on the other hand, the modern right of popular representation affords an opportunity to make the voice of reason heard and oppose the reactionary conservatives with opportune reforms. The chief rulers and the ministers of public instruction, who have a great influence in this struggle, generally favor the teaching of the Church, not out of conviction of its truth, but because they think knowledge brings unrest, and because docile and ignorant subjects are easier to rule than educated and independent citizens. Hence it is that we now hear so much on every occasion, in speeches from the throne and at banquets, at the opening of churches and the unveiling of monuments, from able and influential speakers, of the value of faith. They would give the palm to faith in its struggle with knowledge. Thus we get this paradoxical situation in educated countries (such as Prussia), that encouragement is given at once to modern science and technical training and to the orthodox Church, which is its deadly enemy. As a rule, it is not stated in these florid orations to how many and what kind of miracles this precious faith must extend. Nevertheless, we may yet, in view of the spread of intellectual reaction in Germany, see it made obligatory for at least all priests, teachers, and other servants of the state to profess a belief in the three fundamental mysteries—the triune God of the catechism, the personal immortality of the soul, and the absolute freedom of the human will—and even in many of the other miracles which are found in the gospels, sacred legends, and religious journals of our time.

The refined belief in the miraculous embodied in Kant's practical philosophy assumed many different forms among his followers, the Neo-Kantians, approaching sometimes more and sometimes less to the conventional beliefs. Through a long series of variations, which still continue to develop, it is gradually passing into the cruder form of superstition which we find popular to-day as spiritism, and which provides the basis for what is called occultism. Kant himself, in spite of his subtle and clear critical faculty, had a decided leaning to mysticism and positive dogmatism, which showed itself especially in his later years. He thought a good deal of Swedenborg's idea of the spirit world forming a universe apart, and compared this to his mundus intelligibilis. Among the natural philosophers of the first half of the nineteenth century, Schelling (in his later writings), Schubert (in his History of the Soul and Observations on the Dark Side of Science), and Perty (in his mystic anthropology) especially investigated the mysterious phenomena of mental action, and sought to connect them with the physiological functions of the brain on the one hand and supernatural spiritual agencies on the other. Modern spook-seeking has no more value than mediæval magic, cabalism, astrology, necromancy, dream-interpretation, and invocation of the devil.

We must put at the same stage of superstition the spiritism and occultism we find mentioned so much in modern literature. There are always thousands of credulous folk in educated countries who are taken in by the performances of the spiritists and their media, and are ready to believe the unbelievable. Spirit-rapping, table-turning, spirit-writing, the materialization and photographing of deceased souls, find credit, not only among the uneducated masses, but even among the most cultured, and sometimes among imaginative scientists. It has been proved without avail by numbers of impartial observations and experiments that these occultist performances depend partly on conscious fraud and partly on careless self-deception. Mundus vult decipi—"the world wishes to be taken in"—as the old saying has it. This spiritistic fraud is particularly dangerous when it clothes itself with the mantle of science, makes use of the physiological phenomena of hypnotism, and even assumes a monistic character. Thus, for instance, one of the best-known occultist writers, Karl du Prel, has written, not only a Philosophy of Mysticism and Studies of Scientific Subjects, but also (1888) a Monistic Psychology, which is dualistic from beginning to end. In these popular writings lively imagination and brilliant presentation are combined with a most flagrant lack of critical sense and of knowledge of the elements of biology (cf. chapter xvi. of the Riddle). It seems that the hereditary bias towards mysticism and superstition is not yet eliminated even from the educated mind of our time. It is to be explained phylogenetically by inheritance from prehistoric barbarians and savages, in whom the earliest religious ideas were wholly dominated by animism and fetichism.

IV

THE SCIENCE OF LIFE

Object of biology—Relation to the other sciences—General and special biology—Natural philosophy—Monism: hylozoism, materialism, dynamism—Naturalism—Nature and spirit—Physics—Metaphysics—Dualism—Freedom and natural law—God in biology—Realism—Idealism—Branches of biology—Morphology and physiology—Anatomy and biogeny—Ergology and perilogy.

The broad realm of science has been vastly extended in the course of the nineteenth century. Many new branches have established themselves independently; many new and most fruitful methods of research have been discovered, and have been applied with the greatest practical success in furthering the advance of modern thought. But this enormous expansion of the field of knowledge has its disadvantages. The extensive division of labor it has involved has led to the growth of a narrow specialism in many small sections; and in this way the natural connection of the various provinces of knowledge, and their relation to the comprehensive whole, have been partly or wholly lost sight of. The importation of new terms which are used in different senses by one-sided workers in the various fields of science has caused a good deal of misunderstanding and confusion. The vast structure of science tends more and more to become a tower of Babel, in the labyrinthic passages of which few are at their ease and few any longer understand the language of other workers. In these circumstances, it seems advisable, at the commencement of our philosophic study of "the wonders of life," to form a clear idea of our task. We must carefully define the place of biology among the sciences, and the relation of its various branches to each other and to the different systems of philosophy.

In the broadest sense in which we can take it, biology is the whole study of organisms or living beings. Hence not only botany (the science of plants) and zoology (the science of animals), but also anthropology (the science of man), fall within its domain. We then contrast with it all the sciences which deal with inorganic or lifeless bodies, which we may collectively call abiology (or anorganology); to this belong astronomy, geology, mineralogy, hydrology, etc. This division of the two great branches of science does not seem difficult in view of the fact that the idea of life is sharply defined physiologically by its metabolism and chemically by its plasm; but when we come to study the question of abiogenesis (chapter xv.) we shall find that this division is not absolute, and that organic life has been evolved from inorganic nature. Moreover, biology and abiology are connected branches of cosmology, or the science of the world.

While the idea of biology is now usually taken in this broad sense in most scientific works and made to embrace the whole of living nature, we often find (especially in Germany) a narrower application of the term. Many authors (mostly physiologists) understand by it a section of physiology—namely, the science of the relations of living organisms to the external world, their habitat, customs, enemies, parasites, etc. I proposed long ago to call this special part of biology œcology (the science of home-relations), or bionomy. Twenty years later others suggested the name of ethology. To call this special study any longer biology in the narrower sense is very undesirable, because it is the only name we have for the totality of the organic sciences.

Like every other science, biology has a general and a special part. General biology contains general information about living nature; this is the subject of the present study of the wonders of life. We might also describe it as biological philosophy, since the aim of true philosophy must be the comprehensive survey and rational interpretation of all the general results of scientific research. The innumerable discoveries of detailed facts which observation and experiment give us, and which are combined into a general view of life in philosophy, form the subject of empirical science. As the latter, on the side of the organic world, or as empirical biology, forms the first object of the science of life, and seeks to effect in the system of nature a logical arrangement and summary grouping of the countless special forms of life, this special biology is often wrongly called the science of classification.

The first comprehensive attempt to reduce to order and unity the ample biological material which systematic research had accumulated in the eighteenth century was made by what we call "the older natural philosophy" at the beginning of the nineteenth century. Reinhold Treviranus (of Bremen) had made a suggestive effort to accomplish this difficult task on monistic principles in his Biology, or Philosophy of Living Nature (1802). Special importance attaches to the year 1809, in which Jean Lamarck (of Paris) published his Philosophie Zoologique, and Lorentz Oken (of Jena) his Manual of Natural Philosophy. I have fully appreciated the service of Lamarck, the founder of the theory of descent, in my earlier writings. I have also recognized the great merit of Lorentz Oken, who not only aroused a very wide interest in this science by his General Natural History, but also put forward some general observations of great value. His "infamous" theory of a primitive slime, and the development of infusoria out of it, is merely the fundamental idea of the theory of protoplasm and the cell which was long afterwards fully recognized. These and other services of the older natural philosophy were partly ignored and partly overlooked, because they went far beyond the scientific horizon of the time, and their authors to an extent lost themselves in airy and fantastic speculations. The more scientists confined themselves in the following half-century to empirical work and the observation and description of separate facts, the more it became the fashion to look down on all "natural philosophy." The most paradoxical feature of the situation was that purely speculative philosophy and idealist metaphysics had a great run at the same time, and their castles in the air, utterly destitute of biological foundation, were much admired.

The magnificent reform of biology which Darwin initiated in 1859 by his epoch-making Origin of Species gave a fresh impulse to natural philosophy. As this work not only used the rich collection of facts already made in proof of the theory of descent, but gave it a new foundation in the theory of selection (Darwinism properly so called), everything seemed to call for the embodiment of the new conception of nature in a monistic system. I made the first effort to do this in my General Morphology (1866). As this found few supporters among my colleagues, I undertook in my History of Creation (1868) to make the chief points of the system accessible to the general reader. The remarkable success of this book (a tenth edition of it appearing in 1902) emboldened me at the end of the nineteenth century to state the general principles of my monistic philosophy in my Riddle of the Universe. About the same time (1899) there appeared the work of the Kiel botanist, Johannes Reinke, The World as Reality; and two years afterwards he followed it up with a supplementary volume, Introduction to Theoretic Biology. As Reinke treats the general problems of natural philosophy from a purely mystic and dualistic point of view, his ideas are diametrically opposed to my monistic and naturalistic principles.

The history of philosophy describes for us the infinite variety of ideas that men have formulated during the last three thousand years on the nature of the world and its phenomena. Überweg has given us, in his excellent History of Philosophy, a thorough and impartial account of these various systems. Fritz Schultze has published a clear and compendious "tabulated outline" of them in thirty tables in his genealogical tree of philosophy, and at the same time shown the phylogeny of ideas. When we survey this enormous mass of philosophic systems from the point of view of general biology, we find that we can divide them into two main groups. The first and smaller group contains the monistic philosophy, which traces all the phenomena of existence to one single common principle. The second and larger group, to which most philosophic systems belong, constitutes the dualistic philosophy, according to which there are two totally distinct principles in the universe. These are sometimes expressed as God and the world, sometimes as the spiritual world and material world, sometimes as mind and matter, and so on. In my opinion, this antithesis of monism and dualism is the most important in the whole history of philosophy. All other systems are only variations of one or the other of these, or a more or less obscure combination of the two.

The form of monism which I take to be the most complete expression of the general truth, and which I have advocated in my writings for thirty-eight years, is now generally called hylozoism. This expresses the fact that all substance has two fundamental attributes; as matter (hyle) it occupies space, and as force or energy it is endowed with sensation (cf. chapter xix.). Spinoza, who gave the most perfect expression to this idea in his "philosophy of identity," and most clearly treated the notion of substance (as the all-embracing essence of the world), clothes it with two general attributes—extension and thought. Extension is identical with real space, and thought with (unconscious) sensation. The latter must not be confused with conscious human thought; intelligence is not found in substance, but is a special property of the higher animals and man. Spinoza identifies his substance with nature and God, and his system is accordingly called pantheism; but it must be understood that he rejects the anthropomorphic, personal idea of deity.

A good deal of the infinite confusion that characterizes the conflicts of philosophers over their systems is due to the obscurity and ambiguity of many of their fundamental ideas. The words "substance" and "God," "soul" and "spirit," "sensation" and "matter," are used in the most different and changing senses. This is especially true of the word "materialism," which is often wrongly taken to be synonymous with monism. The moral bias of idealism against practical materialism (or pure selfishness and sensualism) is forthwith transferred to theoretical materialism, which has nothing to do with it; and the strictures which are justly urged against the one are most unjustifiably applied to the other. Hence it is important to distinguish very carefully between these two meanings of materialism.

Theoretical materialism (or hylonism), as a realistic and monistic philosophy, is right in so far as it conceives matter and force to be inseparably connected, and denies the existence of immaterial forces. But it is wrong when it denies all sensation to matter, and regards actual energy as a function of dead matter. Thus, in ancient times Democritus and Lucretius traced all phenomena to the movements of dead atoms, as did also Holbach and Lamettrie in the eighteenth century. This view is held to-day by most chemists and physicists. They regard gravitation and chemical affinity as a mere mechanical movement of atoms, and this, in turn, as the general source of all phenomena; but they will not allow that these movements necessarily presuppose a kind of (unconscious) sensation. In conversation with distinguished physicists and chemists I have often found that they will not hear a word about a "soul" in the atom. In my opinion, however, this must necessarily be assumed to explain the simplest physical and chemical processes. Naturally I am not thinking of anything like the elaborate psychic action of man and the higher animals, which is often bound up with consciousness; we must rather descend the long scale of the development of consciousness until we reach the simplest protists, the monera (chapter ix.). The psychic activity of these homogeneous particles of plasm (for instance, the chromacea) rises very little above that of crystals; as in the chemical synthesis in the moneron, so in crystallization we are bound to assume that there is a low degree of sensation (not of consciousness), in order to explain the orderly arrangement of the moving molecules in a definite structure.

The prejudice against theoretical materialism (or materialistic monism) which still prevails so much is partly due to its rejection of the three central dogmas of dualist metaphysics, and partly to a confusion of it with hedonism. This practical materialism in its extreme forms (as Aristippus of Cyrene and the Cyrenaic school, and afterwards Epicurus, taught it) finds the chief end of life in pleasure—at one time crude, sensual pleasure, and at others spiritual pleasure. Up to a certain point, this thirst for happiness and a pleasant and enjoyable life is innate in every man and higher animal, and so far just; it only began to be censured as sinful when Christianity directed the thoughts of men to eternal life, and taught them that their life on earth was only a preparation for the future. We shall see afterwards, when we come to weigh the value of life (chapter xvii.), that this asceticism is unjustifiable and unnatural. But as every legitimate enjoyment can become wrong by excess, and every virtue be turned into vice, so a narrow hedonism is to be condemned, especially when it allies itself with egoism. However, we must point out that this excessive thirst for pleasure is in no way connected with materialism, but is often found among idealists. Many convinced supporters of theoretical materialism (many scientists and physicians, for instance) lead very simple, blameless lives, and are little disposed to material pleasures. On the other hand, many priests, theologians, and idealist philosophers, who preach theoretical idealism, are pronounced hedonists in practice. In olden times many temples served at one and the same time for the theoretic worship of the gods and for practical excesses in the way of wine and love; and even in our day the luxurious and often vicious lives of the higher clergy (at Rome, for instance) do not fall far short of the ancient models. This paradoxical situation is due to the special attractiveness of everything that is forbidden. But it is utterly unjust to extend the natural feeling against excessive and egoistic hedonism to theoretical materialism and to monism. Equally unjust is the habit, still widely spread, of depreciating matter, as such, in favor of spirit. Impartial biology has taught us of late years that what we call "spirit" is—as Goethe said long ago—inseparably bound up with matter. Experience has never yet discovered any spirit apart from matter.

On the other hand, pure dynamism, now often called energism (and often spiritualism), is just as one-sided as pure materialism. Just as the latter takes one attribute of substance, matter, as the one chief cause of phenomena, dynamism takes its second attribute, force (dynamis). Leibnitz most consistently developed this system among the older German philosophers; and Fechner and Zöllner have recently adopted it in part. The latest development of it is found in Wilhelm Ostwald's Natural Philosophy (1902). This work is purely monistic, and very ingeniously endeavors to show that the same forces are at work in the whole of nature, organic and inorganic, and that these may all be comprised under the general head of energy. It is especially satisfactory that Ostwald has traced the highest functions of the human mind (consciousness, thought, feeling, and will), as well as the simplest physical and chemical processes (heat, electricity, chemical affinity, etc.), to special forms of energy, or natural force. However, he is wrong when he supposes that his energism is an entirely new system. The chief points of it are found in Leibnitz; and other Leipzig scientists, especially Fechner and Zöllner, had come very close to similar spiritualistic views—the latter going into outright spiritism. Ostwald's chief mistake is to take the terms "energy" and "substance" to be synonymous. Certainly his universal, all-creating energy is, in the main, the same as the substance of Spinoza, which we have also adopted in our "law of substance." But Ostwald would deprive substance of the attribute of matter altogether, and boasts of his Refutation of Materialism (1895). He would leave it only the one attribute, energy, and reduce all matter to immaterial points of force. Nevertheless, as chemist and physicist, he never gets rid of space-filling substance—which is all we mean by "matter"—and has to treat it and its parts, the physical molecules and chemical atoms (even if only conceived as symbols), daily as "vehicles of energy." Ostwald would reject even these in his pursuit of the illusion of a "science without hypotheses." As a fact, he is forced every day, like every other exact scientist, to assume and apply in practice the indispensable idea of matter, and its separate particles, the molecules and atoms. Knowledge is impossible without hypotheses.

Monism is best expressed as hylozoism, in so far as this removes the antithesis of materialism and spiritualism (or mechanicism and dynamism), and unites them in a natural and harmonious system. Our monistic system has been charged with leading to pure naturalism; one of its most vehement critics, Frederick Paulsen, attaches so much importance to this stricture that he thinks it as dangerous as dogmatic clericalism. We may, therefore, usefully consider the idea of naturalism, and point out in what sense we accept it and identify it with monism. The key to the position is in our monistic anthropogeny, our unprejudiced conviction, supported by every branch of anthropological research, of "man's place in nature," as we have established it in the first section of the Riddle (chapters ii.-v.). Man is a purely natural being, a placental mammal of the order of primates. He was phylogenetically evolved in the course of the Tertiary Period from a series of the lower primates (directly from the anthropoid apes, but earlier from the cynocephali and lemures). Savage man, as we have him to-day in the Veddah or Australian negro, is physiologically nearer to the apes than to highly civilized men.

Anthropology (in the widest sense) is only a particular branch of zoology, to which we must assign a special position on account of its extreme importance. Hence all the sciences which relate to man and his psychic activity—especially what are called the moral sciences—must be regarded from our monistic point of view as special branches of zoology and as natural sciences. Human psychology is inseparably connected with comparative animal psychology, and this again with that of the plants and protists. Philology studies in human speech a complicated natural phenomenon, which depends on the combined action of the brain-cells of the phronema, the muscles of the tongue, and the vocal cords of the larynx, as much as the cry of mammals and the song of birds do. The history of mankind (which we, in our curious anthropocentric mood, call the history of the world), and its highest branch, the history of civilization, is connected by modern prehistoric science directly with the stem-history of the primates and the other mammals, and indirectly with the phylogeny of the lower vertebrates. Hence, when we consider the subject without prejudice, we do not find a single branch of human science that passes the limits of natural science (in the broadest sense), any more than we find nature herself to be supernatural.

Just as monism, or naturalism, embraces the totality of science, so on our principles the idea of nature comprises the whole scientifically knowable world. In the strict monistic sense of Spinoza the ideas of God and Nature are synonymous for us. Whether there is a realm of the supernatural and spiritual beyond nature we do not know. All that is said of it in religious myths and legends, or metaphysical speculations and dogmas, is mere poetry and an outcome of imagination. The imagination of civilized man is ever seeking to produce unified images in art and science, and when it meets with gaps in these in the association of ideas it endeavors to fill them with its own creations. These creations of the phronema with which we fill the gaps in our knowledge are called hypotheses when they are in harmony with the empirically established facts, and myths when they contradict the facts: this is the case with religious myths, miracles, etc. Even when people contrast mind with nature, this is only a result, as a rule, of similar superstitions (animism, spiritism, etc.). But when we speak of man's mind as a higher psychic function, we mean a special physiological function of the brain, or that particular part of the cortex of the brain which we call the phronema, or organ of thought. This higher psychic function is a natural phenomenon, subject, like all other natural phenomena, to the law of substance. The old Latin word natura (from nasci, to be born) stands, like the corresponding Greek term physis (from phyo—to grow), for the essence of the world as an eternal "being and becoming"—a profound thought! Hence physics, the science of the physis, is, in the broadest sense of the word, "natural science."

The extensive division of labor which has taken place in science, on account of the enormous growth of our knowledge in the nineteenth century and the rise of many new disciplines, has very much altered their relations to each other and to the whole, and has even given a fresh meaning and connotation to the term. Hence by physics, as it is now taught at the universities, is usually understood only that part of inorganic science which deals with the molecular relations of substance and the mechanism of mass and ether, without regard to the qualitative differences of the elements, which are expressed in the atomic weight of their smallest particles, the atoms. The study of the atoms and their affinities and combinations belongs to chemistry. As this province is very extensive and has its special methods of research, it is usually put side by side with physics as of equal importance; in reality, however, it is only a branch of physics—chemistry is the physics of the atoms. Hence, when we speak of a physico-chemical inquiry or phenomenon, we might justly describe it briefly as physical (in the wider sense). Physiology, again, a particularly important branch of it, is in this sense the physics of living things, or the physico-chemical study of the living body.

Since Aristotle dealt with the eternal phenomena of nature in the first part of his works, and called this physics, and with their inner nature in the second part, to which he gave the name of metaphysics, the two terms have undergone many and considerable modifications. If we restrict the term "physics" to the empirical study of phenomena (by observation and experiment), we may give the name of metaphysics to every hypothesis and theory that is introduced to fill up the gaps in it. In this sense the indispensable theories of physics (such as the assumption that matter is made up of molecules and atoms and electrons) may be described as metaphysical; such also is our assumption that all substance is endowed with sensation as well as extension (matter). This monistic metaphysics, which recognizes the absolute dominion of the law of substance in all phenomena, but confines itself to the study of nature and abandons inquiry into the supernatural, is, with all its theories and hypotheses, an indispensable part of any rational philosophy of life. To claim, as Ostwald does, that science must be free from hypotheses is to deprive it of its foundations. But it is very different with the current dualistic metaphysics, which holds that there are two distinct worlds, and which we find in a hundred forms as philosophic dualism.

If we understand by metaphysics the science of the ultimate ground of things, springing from the rational demand for causes, it can only be regarded, from the physiological point of view, as a higher and late-developed function of the phronema. It could only arise with the complete development of the brain in civilized man. It is completely lacking among savages, whose organ of thought rises very little above that of the most intelligent animals. The laws of the psychic life of the savage have been closely studied by modern ethnology. It teaches us that the higher reason is not found in savages, and that their power of abstract thought and of forming concepts is at a very low level. Thus, for instance, the Veddahs, who live in the forests of Ceylon, have not the general idea of trees, though they know and give names to individual trees. Many savages cannot count up to five; they never reflect on the ground of their existence or think of the past or future. Hence it is a great error for Schopenhauer and other philosophers to define man as a "metaphysical animal," and to seek a profound distinction between man and the animal in the need for a metaphysic. This craving has only been awakened and developed by the progress of civilization. But even in civilized communities it (like consciousness) is not found in early youth, and only gradually emerges. The child has to learn to speak and think. In harmony with our biogenetic law, the child reproduces in the various stages of its mental development the whole of the gradations which lead from the savage to the barbarian, and from the barbarian to the half-civilized, and on to the fully educated man. If this historical development of the higher human faculties had always been properly appreciated, and psychology had been faithful to the comparative and genetic methods, many of the errors of the current metaphysical systems would have been avoided. Kant would not then have produced his theory of a priori knowledge, but would have seen that all that now seems to be a priori in civilized man was originally acquired by a posteriori experiences in the long evolution of civilization and science. Here we have the root of the errors which are distinctive of dualism and the prevailing metaphysical transcendentalism.

Like all science, biology is realistic—that is to say, it regards its object, the organisms, as really existing things, the features of which are to an extent knowable through our senses (sensorium) and organ of thought (phronema). At the same time, we know that these cognitive organs, and the knowledge they bring us, are imperfect, and that there may be other features of organisms that lie beyond our means of perception altogether. But it by no means follows from this that, as our idealist opponents say, the organisms (and all other things) exist only in our mind (in the images in our cortex). Our pure monism (or hylozoism) agrees with realism in recognizing the unity of being of each organism, and denying that there is any essential distinction between its knowable phenomenon and its internal hidden essence (or noumenon), whether the latter be called, with Plato, the eternal "idea," or, with Kant, the "thing in itself." Realism is not identical with materialism, and may even be definitely connected with the very opposite, dynamism or energism.

As realism generally coincides with monism, so idealism is usually identical with dualism. The two most influential representatives of dualism, Plato and Kant, said that there were two totally distinct worlds. Nature, or the empirical world, is alone accessible to our experience, while the spiritual or transcendental world is not. The existence of the latter is known to us only by the emotions or by practical reason; but we can have no idea of its nature. The chief error of this theoretical idealism is the assumption that the soul is a peculiar, immaterial being, immortal and endowed with a priori knowledge. The physiology and ontogeny of the brain (together with the comparative anatomy and histology of the phronema) prove that the soul of man is, like that of all other vertebrates, a function of the brain, and inseparably bound up with this organ. Hence this idealist theory of knowledge is just as inconsistent with realistic biology as is the psycho-physical parallelism of Wundt or the psychomonism of more recent physiologists, which in the end issues in a complete dualism of body and mind. It is otherwise with practical idealism. When this presents the symbols or ideals of a personal God, an immortal soul, and the free-will as ethical stimuli, and uses them for their pedagogical worth in the education of the young, it may have a good influence for a time, which is independent of their theoretical untenability.

The many branches of biology which have been developed independently in the course of the nineteenth century ought to remain in touch with one another, and co-operate with a clear apprehension of their task, if they are to attain their high purpose of framing a unified science embracing the whole field of organic life. Unfortunately, this common aim is often lost sight of in the specialization of study; the philosophical task is neglected in favor of the empirical. The confusion that has ensued makes it desirable to determine the mutual positions of the various biological disciplines. I went into this somewhat fully in my academic speech on the development and aim of zoology in 1869. But as this essay is little known, I will briefly resume the chief points of it.

In correspondence with the long-established distinction between the plant and the animal, the two chief branches of biology, zoology and botany, have developed side by side, and are represented by two different chairs in the universities. Independently of these, there arose at the very beginning of scientific activity that field of inquiry which deals with human life in all its aspects—the anthropological disciplines and the so-called "mental sciences" (history, philology, psychology, etc.). Since the theory of descent has proved man's origin from vertebrate ancestors, and thus anthropology has been recognized as a part of zoology, we have begun to understand the inner historic connection between these various branches of anthropology, and to combine them in a comprehensive science of man. The immense extent and the great importance of this science have justified the creation of late years of special chairs of anthropology. It seems desirable to do the same for the science of the protists, or unicellular organisms. The cell theory, or cytology, as an elementary part of anatomy, has to be dealt with in both botany and zoology; but the lowest unicellular representatives of both kingdoms, the primitive plants (protophyta) and the primitive animals (protozoa), are so intimately connected, and throw so great a light, as independent rudimentary organisms, on the tissue cells in the histon, or multicellular organism, that we must regard as a sign of progress the recent proposal of Schaudinn to found a special institute and journal for the science of protists. One very important section of it is bacteriology.

The practical division of biology, according to the extent of the organic kingdom, leads us to mark out four chief provinces of research: protistology (the science of the unicellulars), botany (the science of plants), zoology (the science of animals), and anthropology (the science of man). In each of these four fields we may then distinguish morphology (the science of forms) and physiology (the science of functions) as the two chief divisions of scientific work. The special methods and means of observation differ entirely in the two sections. In morphology the work of description and comparison is the most important as regards both outer form and inner structure. In physiology the exact methods of physics and chemistry are especially demanded—the observation of vital activities and the attempt to discover the physical laws that govern them. As a correct knowledge of human anatomy and physiology is indispensable for scientific medicine, and the work requires a particularly large apparatus, these two sciences have long been studied separately, and have been handed over to the medical facility in the division of the academic curriculum.

The broad field of morphology may be divided into anatomy and biogeny; the one deals with the fully developed, and the other with the developing, organism. Anatomy, the study of the formed organism, studies both the external form and the inner structure. We may distinguish as its two branches the science of structures (tectology) and the science of fundamental forms (promorphology). Tectology investigates the features of the structure in the organic individual, and the composition of the body out of various parts (cells, tissues, and organs). Promorphology describes the real form of these individual parts and of the whole body, and endeavors to reduce them mathematically to certain fundamental forms (chapter viii.). Biogeny, or the science of the evolution of organisms, is also divided into two parts—the science of the individual (ontogeny) and of the stem or species (phylogeny); each follows its own peculiar methods and aims, but they are most intimately connected by the biogenetic law. Ontogeny deals with the development of the individual organism from the beginning of its existence to death; as embryology it observes the growth of the individual within the fœtal membranes; and as metamorphology (or the science of metamorphoses) it follows the subsequent changes in post-fœtal life (chapter xvi.). The task of phylogeny is to trace the evolution of the organic stem or species—that is to say, of the chief divisions in the animal and plant worlds, which we describe as classes, orders, etc.; in other words, it traces the genealogy of species. It relies on the facts of paleontology, and fills up the gaps in this by comparative anatomy and ontogeny.

The science of the vital phenomena, which we call physiology, is for the most part the physiology of work, or ergology; it investigates the functions of the living organism, and has to reduce them as closely as possible to physical and chemical laws. Vegetable ergology deals with what are called the vegetative functions, nutrition and reproduction; animal ergology studies the animal activities of movement and sensation. Psychology is directly connected with the latter. But the study of the relations of the organism to its environment, organic and inorganic, also belongs to physiology in the wider sense; we call this part of it perilogy, or the physiology of relations. To this belong chorology, or the science of distribution (also called biological geography, as it deals with geographical and topographical distribution), and œcology or bionomy (also recently called ethology), the science of the domestic side of organic life, of the life-needs of organisms and their relations to other organisms with which they live (biocenosis, symbiosis, parasitism).

Third Table

SYNOPSIS OF THE CHIEF BRANCHES OF BIOLOGY (1869)

Biology = The Science of Life

V

DEATH

Life and death—Individual death—Immortality of the unicellulars—Death of the protists and tissue-organisms—Causes of physiological death—Using up of the plasma—Regeneration—Biotonus—Perigenesis of the plastidules: memory of the biogens—Regeneration of protists and tissue-organisms—Senile debility—Disease—Necrobiosis—The lot of death—Providence—Chance and fate—Eternal life—Optimism and pessimism—Suicide and self-redemption—Redemption from evil—Medicine and philosophy—Maintenance of life—Spartan selection.

Nothing is constant but change! All existence is a perpetual flux of "being and becoming"! That is the broad lesson of the evolution of the world, taken as a whole or in its various parts. Substance alone is eternal and unchangeable, whether we call this all-embracing world-being Nature, or Cosmos, or God, or World-spirit. The law of substance teaches us that it reveals itself to us in an infinite variety of forms, but that its essential attributes, matter and energy, are constant. All individual forms of substance are doomed to destruction. That will be the fate of the sun and its encircling planets, and of the organisms that now people the earth—the fate of the bacterium and of man. Just as the existence of every organic individual had a beginning, it will also undeniably have an end. Life and death are irrevocably united. However, philosophers and biologists hold very different views as to the real causes of this destiny. Most of their opinions are at once out of court, because they have not a clear idea of the nature of life, and so can have no adequate idea of its termination—death.

The inquiry into the nature of organic life which we instituted in the second chapter has shown us that it is, in the ultimate analysis, a chemical process. The "miracle of life" is in essence nothing but the metabolism of the living matter, or of the plasm. Recent physiologists, especially Max Verworn and Max Kassowitz, have pointed out, in opposition to modern vitalism, that "life consists in a continuous alternation between the upbuild and the decay of the highly complicated chemical unities of the protoplasm. And if this conception is admitted, we may rightly say that we know what we mean by death. If death is the cessation of life, we must mean by that the cessation of the alternation between the upbuild and the dissolution of the molecules of protoplasm; and as each of the molecules of protoplasm must break up again shortly after its formation, we have in death to deal only with the definite cessation of reconstruction in the destroyed plasma-molecules. Hence a living thing is not finally dead—that is to say, absolutely incompetent to discharge any further vital function—until the whole of its plasma-molecules are destroyed." In the exhaustive justification with which Kassowitz follows up this definition in the fifteenth chapter of his General Biology, the natural causes of physiological death are fully described.

Among the numerous and contradictory views of recent biologists on the nature of death we find many errors and misunderstandings, due to a lack of clear distinction between the duration of the living matter in general and that of the individual life-form. This is particularly noticeable in the contradictory views which have been elicited by August Weismann's theory (1882) of the immortality of the unicellulars. I have shown in the eleventh chapter of the Riddle that it is untenable. But as the distinguished zoologist has again taken up his theory with energy in his instructive Lectures on the Theory of the Descent (1902), and has added to it erroneous observations on the nature of death, I am obliged to return to the point. Precisely because this interesting work gives most valuable support to the theory of evolution, and maintains Darwin's theory of selection and its consequences with great effect, I feel it is necessary to point out considerable weaknesses and dangerous errors in it. The chief of these is the important theory of the germ-plasm and the consequent opposition to the inheritance of acquired characteristics. Weismann deduces from this a radical distinction between the unicellular and the multicellular organisms. The latter alone are mortal, the former immortal; "between the unicellular and the multicellular lies the introduction of physiological—that is to say, normal—death." We must say, in opposition to this, that the physiological individuals (bionta) among the protista are just as limited in their duration as among the histona. But if the chief stress in the question is laid, not on the individuality of the living matter, but on the continuity of the metabolic life-movement through a series of generations, it is just as correct to affirm a partial immortality of the plasm for the multicellulars as for the unicellulars.

The immortality of the unicellulars, on which Weismann has laid so much stress, can only be sustained for a small part of the protists even in his own sense—namely, for those which simply propagate by cleavage, the chromacea and bacteria among the monera (chapter ix.), the diatomes and paulotomes among the protophyta, and a part of the infusoria and rhizopods among the protozoa. Strictly speaking, the individual life is destroyed when a cell splits into two daughter-cells. One might reply with Weismann that in this case the dividing unicellular organism lives on as a whole in its offspring, and that we have no corpse, no dead remains of the living matter, left behind. But that is not true of the majority of the protozoa. In the highly developed ciliata the chief nucleus is lost, and there must be from time to time a conjugation of two cells and a mutual fertilization of their secondary nuclei, before there can be any further multiplication by simple cleavage. However, in most of the sporozoa and rhizopoda, which generally propagate by spore formation, only one portion of the unicellular organism is used for this; the other portion dies, and forms a "corpse." In the large rhizopods (thalamophora and radiolaria) the spore-forming inner part, which lives on in the offspring, is smaller than the decaying outer portion, which becomes the corpse.

Weismann's view of the secondary "introduction of physiological death in the multicellulars" is just as untenable as his theory of the immortality of the unicellulars. According to this opinion, the death of the histona—both the metaphyta and metazoa—is a purposive outcome of adaptation, only introduced by selection when the multicellular organism has reached a certain stage of complexity of structure, which is incompatible with its original immortality. Natural selection would thus kill the immortal and preserve only the mortal; it would interfere with the multiplication of the immortals in the bloom of their years, and only use the mortal for rearing posterity. The curious conclusions which Weismann reached in developing this theory of death, and the striking contradictions to his own theory of the germ-plasm which he fell into, have been pointed out by Kassowitz in the forty-ninth chapter of his General Biology. In my opinion, this paradoxical theory of death has no more basis than the germ-plasm theory he has ingeniously connected with it. We may admire the subtlety and depth of the speculations with which Weismann has worked out his elaborate molecular theory. But the nearer we get to its foundations the less solid we find them. Moreover, not one of the many supporters of the theory of germ-plasm has been able to make profitable use of it in the twenty years since it was first published. On the other hand, it has had an evil influence in so far as it denied the inheriting of acquired characters, which I hold, with Lamarck and Darwin, to be one of the soundest and most indispensable supports of the theory of descent.

In discussing the question of the real causes of death, we confine our attention to normal or physiological death without considering the innumerable causes of accidental or pathological death, by illness, parasites, mishaps, etc. Normal death takes place in all organisms when the limit of the hereditary term of life is reached. This limit varies enormously in different classes of organisms. Many of the unicellular protophyta and protozoa live only a few hours, others several months or years; many one-year plants and lower animals live only a summer in our temperate climate, and only a few weeks or months in the arctic circle or on the snow-covered Alps. On the other hand, the larger vertebrates are not uncommonly a hundred years old, and many trees live for a thousand years. The normal span of life has been determined in all species in the course of their evolution by adaptation to special conditions, and has then been transmitted to offspring by heredity. In the latter, however, it is often subject to considerable modifications.

The organism has been compared, on the modern "machine theory" of life, to an artificially constructed mechanism, or an apparatus in which the human intelligence has put together various parts for the attainment of a certain end. This comparison is inapplicable to the lowest organisms, the monera, which are devoid of such a mechanical structure. In these primitive "organisms without organs" (chromacea and bacteria) the sole cause of life is the invisible chemical structure of the plasm and the metabolism effected by this. As soon as this ceases death takes place (cf. chapter ix.). In the case of all other organisms the comparison is useful in so far as the orderly co-operation of the various organs or parts accomplishes a certain task by the conversion of virtual into active force. But the great difference between the two is that in the case of the machine the regularity is due to the purposive and consciously acting will of man, whereas in the case of the organism it is produced by unconscious natural selection without any design. On the other hand, the two have another important feature in common in the limited span of life which is involved in their being used up. A locomotive, ship, telegraph, or piano, will last only a certain number of years. All their parts are worn out by long use, and, in spite of all repairing, become at last useless. So in the case of all organisms, the various parts are sooner or later worn out and rendered useless; this is equally true of the organella of the protist and the organs of the histon. It is true that the parts may be repaired or regenerated; but sooner or later they cease to be of service, and become the cause of death.

When we take the idea of regeneration, or the recuperation of parts that have been rendered useless, in the widest sense, we find it to be a universal vital function of the greatest importance. The whole metabolism of the living organism consists in the assimilation of plasm, or the replacing of the plasma-particles which are constantly used up by dissimilation (cf. chapter x.). Verworn has given the name of biogens to the hypothetical molecules of living matter—which I regard with Hering as endowed with memory, and (1875) have called plastidules. He says: "The biogens are the real vehicles of life. In their constant decay and reconstruction consists the process of life, which expresses itself in the great variety of vital phenomena." The relation of assimilation (the building-up of the biogens) to dissimilation (the decay of the biogens) may be expressed by a fraction to which the name biotonus is given A/D. It is of radical importance in the various phenomena of life. The variations in the size of this fraction are the cause of all change in the life-expression of every organism. When the biotone increases, and the metabolism quotient becomes more than one, we have growth; when, on the other hand, it falls below one, and the biotone decreases, we have atrophy, and finally death. New biogens are constructed in regeneration. In generation or reproduction groups of biogens (as germ-plasm) are released from the parent in consequence of redundant growth, and form the foundation of new individuals.

The phenomena of regeneration are extremely varied, and have of late years been made the subject of a good deal of comprehensive experiment, especially on the side of what is called "mechanical embryology." Many of these experimental embryologists have drawn far-reaching conclusions from their somewhat narrow experiments, and have partly urged them as objections to Darwinism. They imagine that they have disproved the theory of selection. Most of these efforts betray a notable lack of general physiological and morphological knowledge. As they also generally ignore the biogenetic law, and take no account of the fundamental correlation of embryology and stem history, we can hardly wonder that they reach the most absurd and contradictory conclusions. Many examples of this will be found in the Archiv für Entwickelungsmechanik. When, however, we make a comprehensive survey of the interesting field of regeneration processes, we discover a continuous series of development from the simplest repair of plasm in the unicellular protists to the sexual generation of the higher histona. The sperm-cells and ova of the latter are redundant growth-products, which have the power of regenerating the whole multicellular organism. But many of the higher histona have also the capacity to produce new individuals by regeneration from detached pieces of tissue, or even single cells. In the peculiar mode of metabolism and growth which accompanies these processes of regeneration, the memory of the plastidule, or the unconscious retentive power of the biogens, plays the chief part (cf. my Perigenesis of the Plastidule, 1875). In the most primitive kinds of the unicellular protists we find the phenomena of death and regeneration in the simplest form. When an unnucleated moneron (a chromaceum or bacterium) divides into two equal halves, the existence of the dividing individual comes to an end. Each half regenerates itself in the simplest conceivable way by assimilation and growth, until it, in turn, reaches the size of the parent organism. In the nucleated cells of most of the protophyta and protozoa it is more complicated, as the nucleus becomes active as the central organ and regulator of the metabolism. If an infusorium is cut into two pieces, only one of which contains the nucleus, this one alone grows into a complete nucleated cell; the unnucleated portion dies, being unable to regenerate itself.

In the multicellular body of the tissue-forming organisms we must distinguish between the partial death of the various cells and the total death of the whole organism, or cell-state, which they make up. In many of the lower tissue-plants and tissue-animals the communal link is very loose and the centralization slight. Odd cells or groups of cells may be set loose, without any danger to the life of the whole histon, and grow into new individuals. In many of the algæ and liverworts (even in the bryophyllum, closely related to the stone-crop, or sedum)—as well as in the common fresh-water polyp, hydra, and other polyps—every bit that is cut off is capable of growing into a complete individual. But the higher the organization is developed and the closer the correlation of the parts and their co-operation in the life of the centralized stock or person, the slighter we find the regenerative faculty of the several organs. Even then, however, many used-up cells may be removed and replaced by regenerated new cells. In our own human organism, as in that of the higher animals, thousands of cells die every day, and are replaced by new cells of the same kind, as, for instance, epidermic cells at the surface of the skin, the cells of the salivary glands or the mucous lining of the stomach, the blood-cells, and so on. On the other hand, there are tissues that have little or nothing of this repairing power, such as many of the nerve-cells, sense-cells, muscle-cells, etc. In these cases a number of constant cell-individuals remain with their nucleus throughout life, although a used-up portion of their cell-body may be replaced by regeneration from the cytoplasm. Thus our human body, like that of all the higher animals and plants, is a "cell-state" in another sense. Every day, nay, every hour, thousands of its citizens, the tissue-cells, pass away, and are replaced by others that have arisen by cleavage of similar cells. Nevertheless, this uninterrupted change of our personality is never complete or general. There is always a solid groundwork of conservative cells, the descendants of which secure the further regeneration.

Most organisms meet their death through external or accidental causes—lack of sufficient food, isolation from their necessary environment, parasites and other enemies, accidents and disease. The few individuals who escape these accidental causes of death find the end of life in old age or senility, by the gradual decay of the organs and dwindling of their functions. The cause of this senility and the ensuing natural death is determined for each species of organisms by the specific nature of their plasm. As Kassowitz has lately pointed out, the senility of individuals consists in the inevitable increase in the decay of protoplasm and the metaplastic parts of the body which this produces. Each metaplasm in the body favors the inactive break-up of protoplasm, and so also the formation of new metaplasms. The death of the cells follows, because the chemical energy of the plasm gradually falls off from a certain height, the acme, of life. The plasm loses more and more the power to replace by regeneration the losses it sustains by the vital functions. As, in the mental life, the receptivity of the brain and the acuteness of the senses gradually decay, so the muscles lose their energy, the bones become fragile, the skin dry and withered, the elasticity and endurance of the movements decrease. All these normal processes of senile decay are caused by chemical changes in the plasm, in which dissimilation gains constantly on assimilation. In the end they inevitably lead to normal death.

While the gradual decay of the bodily forces and the senile degeneration of the organs must necessarily cause the death of the soundest organism in the end, the great majority of men pass away through illness long before this normal term of life is reached. The external causes of this are the attacks of enemies and parasites, accidents, and unfavorable conditions of life. These cause changes in the tissues and their component cells, which first occasion the partial death of particular sections, and then the total death of the whole individual. The modifications of the living matter which produce disease and premature death are called necrobioses. They consist partly of histolyses—that is to say, degeneration of the cells by atrophy, dissolution, withering (mortification), or colliquation; and partly of metaplasmosisms, or metamorphoses of the plasm—fatty, mucous, chalky, or amyloid metamorphoses of the cells. It was the great merit of Rudolph Virchow that he proved, in his epoch-making Cellular Pathology (1858), that all diseases in man and other organisms may be reduced to such modifications of the cells which make up the tissues. Hence disease, with its pain, is a physiological process, a life under injurious and dangerous conditions. As in all normal vital phenomena, so in abnormal or pathological, the ultimate ground must be sought in the physical and chemical processes in the plasm. Pathology is a part of physiology. This discovery has cut the ground from under the older notion of disease as a special entity, a devil, or a divine punishment.

The natural physical explanation of death, which has been made possible by modern physiology and pathology, has shattered, not only all the old superstitious ideas about disease and death, but also a number of important metaphysical dogmas which built upon them. Such was, for instance, the naïve belief in a conscious Providence, controlling the fate of individuals and determining their death. I do not fail to appreciate the great subjective value which such a trust in a protecting Providence has for men amid their countless dangers. We may envy the childish temper for the confidence and hope which it derives from this belief. But as we do not seek to have our emotions gratified by poetic fictions, we are bound to point out that reason cannot detect the shadow of a proof of the existence and action of this conscious Providence, or "loving Father in heaven." We read daily in our journals of accidents and crimes of all kinds that cause the unexpected death of happy human beings. Every year we read with horror the statistics of the thousands of deaths from shipwreck and railway accidents, earthquakes and landslips, wars and epidemics. And then we are asked to believe in a loving Providence that has decreed the death of each of these poor mortals! We are asked to console ourselves in face of the tragedy with the hollow phrases: "God's will be done," or "God's ways are wonderful." Simple children and dull believers may soothe themselves with such phrases. They no longer impose on educated people in the twentieth century, who prefer a full and fearless knowledge of the truth.

When our monistic and rational conception of death is described as dreary and hopeless, we may answer that the prevalent dualistic view is merely an outcome of hereditary habits of thought and mystic training in early youth. When these are displaced by progressive culture and science, it will be clear that man has lost nothing, but gained much, as regards his life on earth. Convinced that there is no eternal life awaiting him, he will strive all the more to brighten his life on earth and rationally improve his condition in harmony with that of his fellows. If it is objected that then everything will depend on mere "chance," instead of being controlled by a conscious Providence or a moral order of the world, I must refer the reader for my reply to the close of the fourteenth chapter of the Riddle, where I have dealt with fate, providence, end, aim, and chance. And if it is further claimed that our realistic view of life leads to pessimism, there is no better ground for such an accusation.

I have given, in the eleventh chapter of the Riddle, the scientific reasons which forbid us to accept the personal immortality of the soul. But as the most vehement attacks have been made on this chapter by metaphysicians of the prevailing school and by Christian theologians, I must return to the question here. I am convinced, from numbers of letters I have received and conversation with educated people of all classes, that no other dogma is so firmly established and highly valued as athanatism, or the belief in personal immortality. Most men will not give up at any price the hope that a better life awaits them beyond the grave, which will compensate them for all the pain and suffering they endure here. In the picturing of this future life the mediæval geocentric idea still forms the chief feature. Troelslund has shown, in his Idea of Heaven and of the World, how this theory still dominates the metaphysics of the majority of men; in spite of Copernicus and Laplace, heaven is still for most people the semicircular blue glass bell that overarches the earth. We still hear the praises of our life in this heaven sung daily in sermons and speeches and festive orations. The orator extends his right hand "upward" to the infinite starry space of heaven, forgetting that the radius of the direction he is pointing towards changes every second, and in twelve hours reaches the precisely opposite direction, and becomes "downward." Other believers endeavor to be still more concrete, and point out definite celestial bodies as the homes of immortal souls. Modern cosmology, astronomy, and geology entirely exclude these pretty fictions from science; and modern psychology, physiology, ontogeny, and phylogeny rigorously refuse an inch of ground for athanatism.

Optimism regards the world on its good and bright and admirable side: pessimism looks to the shades and tragedies of life. In some philosophic and religious systems one or other of these tendencies is consistently and exclusively worked out; but in most systems the two are mingled. Pure and consistent realism is generally neither optimistic nor pessimistic. It takes the world as it is, a unified whole, the nature of which is neither good nor bad. Dualistic idealism, however, generally combines the two, and distributes them between its two worlds; it describes this world as a "vale of tears," and the next as a glorious city of joy and happiness. This view is a conspicuous feature in most of the dualistic religions, and has still a considerable influence, both practically and theoretically, on the minds of educated people.

The founder of systematic optimism was Gottfried Leibnitz, whose philosophy sought to achieve an ingenious harmony between divergent systems, but is really a form of dynamism, or a monism somewhat akin to the energism of Ostwald. Leibnitz gave a compendious statement of his system in his Monadology (1714). He taught that the world consists of an infinite number of monads (which almost correspond to our psychic atoms), but this pluralism was converted into a monism by making God, as the central monad, bind all together in a substantial unity. In his Theodicy (1710) he taught that God (the "all-wise, all-good, and almighty creator of the world") had with perfect consciousness created "the best of all possible worlds"; that his infinite goodness, wisdom, and power are seen everywhere in the pre-established harmony of things; but that the individual human being, and humanity taken as a whole, have only a limited capacity for development. The man who knows the real features of the world, who has honestly confronted the tragic struggle for life that rules throughout living nature, who has sympathy for the infinite sum of misery and want of every kind in the life of men, can scarcely understand how an acute and informed thinker like Leibnitz could entertain such optimism as this. It would be more intelligible in the case of a one-sided and nebulous metaphysician like Hegel, who held that "all that is real is rational and all that is rational is real."

Pessimism is the direct opposite of systematic optimism. While the one holds the universe to be the best, the other regards it as the worst, of all possible worlds. This pessimistic conception has found expression in the oldest and most popular religions of Asia, Brahmanism and Buddhism. Both these Hindoo religions were originally pessimistic, and at the same time atheistic and idealistic. Schopenhauer especially pointed out this, declaring that they were the most perfect of all religions, and importing their leading ideas into his own system. He considers it "a glaring absurdity to attempt to prove this miserable world the best of all possible ones—this cock-pit of tortured and suffering beings, who can only survive by destroying one another, in which the capacity for pain grows with knowledge, and so reaches its height in man. Truly optimism cuts so sorry a figure in this theatre of sin, suffering, and death that we should have to regard it as a piece of sarcasm if Hume had not given us an explanation of its origin (the wish to flatter God and hope for some result from it). To the palpable sophistry of Leibnitz, who would prove this world the best of all possible, we can oppose a strict and honest proof that it is the worst of all possible." However, neither Schopenhauer nor the most important of modern pessimists, Edward Hartmann, has drawn the strict practical conclusion from pessimism. That would be to deny the will to live, and put an end to suffering by suicide.

The mention of suicide as the logical consequence of pessimism may serve as an occasion to glance at the curious and contradictory views that are expressed about it. There are few problems of life (apart from immortality and the freedom of the will) on which such absurd and contradictory things have been said even down to our own time. The theist who regards life as a gift of God may hesitate to reject or return it—although the offering of one's self as a victim for other men is considered a high virtue. Most educated people still look upon suicide as a great sin, and in some countries (such as England) the attempt is punished by law. In the Middle Ages, when a hundred thousand men were burned alive for heresy or witchcraft, suicides were punished by a disgraceful burial. As Schopenhauer says: "Clearly there is nothing in the world to which a man has a plainer right than his own life and person. It is simply ridiculous for criminal justice to deal with suicide." The advance of embryology in the last thirty years has made it clear that the individual life of a man (and all other vertebrates) begins at the moment when the male sperm-cell and the maternal ovum coalesce. In this blind chance plays an important part, as in so many other important aspects of life—taking "chance" in the scientific sense, which I have explained in chapter xiv. of the Riddle. Hence, the real cause of personal existence is not the favor of the Almighty, but the sexual love of one's earthly parents; very often this consequence of the act of love has been anything but desired. If, then, the circumstances of life come to press too hard on the poor being who has thus developed, without any fault of his, from the fertilized ovum—if, instead of the hoped-for good, there come only care and need, sickness and misery of every kind—he has the unquestionable right to put an end to his sufferings by death. Every religion assents to this under certain conditions, even Christianity when it says: "If thine eye scandalize thee, cast it from thee." It is true that the conventional morality condemns suicide under any circumstances; but the reasons it alleges are ridiculously slight, and are not improved by having the mantle of religion wrapped about them.

The voluntary death by which a man puts an end to intolerable suffering is really an act of redemption. We should, therefore, describe it as self-redemption, and look on it with Christian sympathy, not brand it pharisaically as "self-murder." As a fact, this contemptuous phrase has no meaning, since murder is the taking away of a man's life against his will, while the suicide dies voluntarily. Hence, he usually deserves our sympathy, not contempt, and certainly not punishment. Our conventional morality is, as so often happens, full of senseless contradictions. Modern states have introduced conscription; they demand that every citizen shall give up his life for his country on command, and kill as many other men as he can (an admirable commentary on the Scriptural "Love your enemies") for some political reason or other. But they never secure to each citizen the means of honorable existence and free development of his personality—not even the right to work by which he may maintain himself and his family.

I fully recognize the advance that social politics has made in improving the conditions of the poorer classes, the promotion of hygiene and education and the bodily and mental welfare of citizens; but we are still very far from the attainable ideal of general prosperity and happiness which reason dictates to every civilized nation. Misery and want are increasing among the poor, as the division of labor and over-population increase. Thousands of strong and active men come to grief every year without any fault of theirs, often precisely because they were quiet and honest; thousands are hungry because, with the best will in the world, they cannot find work; thousands are sacrificed to the heartless demands of our iron age of machinery with its exacting technical and industrial requirements. On the other hand, we see thousands of contemptible characters prospering because they have been able to deceive their fellows by unscrupulous speculations, or because they have flattered and served the higher authorities. It is no wonder that the statistics of suicide increase so much in the more civilized communities. No feeling man who has any real "Christian love of his neighbor" will grudge his suffering brother the eternal rest and the freedom from pain which he has obtained by his self-redemption.

The seventh petition of the Lord's Prayer, which is repeated daily by millions of Christians, is: "Deliver us from evil." Luther explains this as a prayer to be saved "from all evil of body and soul" in this life and the next. When we consider this in the light of our monistic principles, we have naturally to set aside the superstitious ideas of the Middle Ages regarding the future life, and deal only with the petition as regards this life. The number and variety and gravity of these evils have grown in civilized communities in the nineteenth century, notwithstanding all the progress we have made in art and science and the rational reform of our personal and social life. Civilization has gained infinitely in value by the change we have made in our conceptions of time and space in this age of steam and electricity. We can make our domestic and public life much pleasanter, and avail ourselves of a far greater number of luxuries, than was possible to our grandfathers a hundred years ago. But all this has caused a much greater expenditure of nerve-energy. The brain has to bear a much greater strain, and is worn out earlier, the body is more stimulated and overworked than it was a hundred years ago. Many diseases of modern civilization are making appalling progress; neurasthenia, especially, and other diseases of the nerves, carry off more victims every year. Our asylums grow bigger and more numerous every year, and we have sanatoria on every side in which the baited victim of modern civilization seeks refuge from his evils. Some of these evils are quite incurable, and the sufferers have to meet a certain death in terrible pain. Many of these poor creatures look forward to their redemption from evil and the end of their miserable lives. The important question arises whether, as compassionate men, we should be justified in carrying out their wish and ending their sufferings by a painless death.

This question is of great importance, both in practical philosophy and in juridical and medical practice, and, as opinions differ very much on the subject, it seems advisable to deal with it here. I start from my own personal opinion, that sympathy is not only one of the noblest and finest functions of the human brain, but also one of the first conditions of the social life of the higher animals. The precepts of Christian charity which the gospels rightly place in the very foreground of morality, were not first discovered by Christ, but they were successfully urged by him and his followers at a time when refined selfishness threatened the Roman civilization with decay. These natural principles of sympathy and altruism had arisen thousands of years before in human society, and are even found among all the higher animals that live a social life. They have their first roots in the sexual reproduction of the lower animals, the sexual love and the care of the young on which the maintenance of the species depends. Hence the modern prophets of pure egoism, Friedrich Nietzsche, Max Stirner, etc., commit a biological error when they would substitute their morality of the strong for universal charity, and when they ridicule sympathy as a weakness of character or an ethical blunder of Christianity. It is just in its insistence on sympathy that the Christian teaching is most valuable, and this part of its system will survive long after its dogmas have sunk into oblivion. However, this lofty duty must not be confined to men, but extended to "our relations," the higher vertebrates, and, in fact, to all animals whose brain-organization seems to point to the possession of sensation and a consciousness of pleasure and pain. Thus, for instance, in the case of the domestic animals which we use daily in our service, and which have an undoubted psychic affinity to ourselves, we must take care to increase their pleasures and mitigate their sufferings. Faithful dogs and noble horses, with which we have lived for years and which we love, are rightly put to death and relieved from pain when they fall hopelessly ill in old age. In the same way we have the right, if not the duty, to put an end to the sufferings of our fellow-men. Some severe and incurable disease makes life unbearable for them, and they ask for redemption from evil. However, medical men hold very different opinions on the matter, as I have found in conversation with them. Many experienced physicians, who practise their profession in a spirit of sympathy and without dogmatic prejudice, have no scruple about cutting short the sufferings of the incurable by a dose of morphia or cyanide of potassium when they desire it; very often this painless end is a blessing both to the invalids and their families. However, other physicians and most jurists are of opinion that this act of sympathy is not right, or is even a crime; that it is the duty of the physician to maintain the life of his patients as long as he can in all circumstances. I should like to know why.

While I am dealing with this important and—for the medical conscience—difficult question of social ethics, I may take the opportunity to consider the general attitude of physicians to the monistic philosophy. It is now half a century since I visited the wards in the Julius hospital at Würtzburg as a medical student. It is true that—happily for me and my patients!—I practised the profession only for a short time after I had passed my examinations in 1857; but the thorough acquaintance with the human organism, its anatomic structure and physiological functions, which I then obtained has been of incalculable service to me. I owe to it not only the solid empirical foundation of the special study of my life, zoology, but also the monistic tendency of my whole system. As the medical training in its widest sense includes anthropology—and so should include psychology also—its value for speculative philosophy cannot be exaggerated. The scholastic metaphysicians who still regard the chairs of philosophy at our universities as their monopoly would have avoided most of their dualistic errors if they had had a thorough training in human anatomy, physiology, ontogeny, and phylogeny. Even pathology, the science of the diseased organism, is very instructive for the philosopher. The psychologist especially acquires, by the study of mental disease and the visiting of the asylum wards, a profound insight into the mental life which no speculative philosophy could give him. There are few experienced and thoughtful physicians who retain the conventional belief in the immortality of the soul and God. What would the immortal soul do on the other side of eternity when it is already utterly ruined in this life, or was even born as an idiot? How can a just God condemn the criminal to the fires of hell when he himself has tainted the man with an hereditary bias, or has placed him in an environment in which, seeing the absence of free-will, crime was a necessity for him? And how can this all-loving God answer for the immeasurable sum of want and misery, and pain and unhappiness, which he sees accumulated before him every year in the lives of families and states, cities and hospitals? It is no wonder that the old saying ran: Ubi tres medici, duo sunt athei (Of three doctors two are sure to be atheists). One of my medical colleagues was an old, experienced, and sympathetic physician who had travelled all over the world, and had then, as director of a large hospital, been a close witness of the sufferings of humanity. Religiously educated by pious parents, and endowed with keen sensitiveness, he was, after long struggles, forced by his medical studies to part with the faith of his boyhood—like myself, in his twenty-first year. We were talking about the great mysteries of life shortly before his death, and he said to me: "I have been unable to reconcile belief in the immortality of the soul and the freedom of the will with my psychological experiences, and I have been just as unable to discover throughout the whole world a single trace of a moral order or a beneficent providence. If it is true that an intelligent Deity rules the world, he cannot be a God of love, but an all-powerful demon, whose constant entertainment is an eternal and merciless play of being and becoming, building up and destroying." However, we do still find here and there informed and intelligent physicians who adhere to the three central dogmas of metaphysics—a proof of the immense power of dogmatic tradition and religious prejudice.

We must class as a traditional dogma the wide-spread belief that man is bound under all circumstances to maintain and prolong life, even when it has become utterly useless—a source of pain to the incurable and of endless trouble to his friends. Hundreds of thousands of incurables—lunatics, lepers, people with cancer, etc.—are artificially kept alive in our modern communities, and their sufferings are carefully prolonged, without the slightest profit to themselves or the general body. We have a strong proof of this in the statistics of lunacy and the growth of asylums and nerve-sanatoria. In Prussia alone there were 51,048 lunatics cared for in the asylums (six thousand in Berlin) in 1890; more than one-tenth of them were quite incurable (four thousand of them suffering from paralysis). In France, in 1871, there were 49,589 in the asylums (or 13.8 per thousand of the population), and in 1888 there were 70,443 (or 18.2 per thousand); thus, in the course of seventeen years, the absolute number of the unsound rose nearly 30 per cent. (29.6), while the total population only increased 5.6 per cent. In our day the number of lunatics in civilized countries is, on the average, five-sixths per thousand. If the total population of Europe is put at three hundred and ninety to four hundred millions, we have at least two million lunatics among them, and of these more than two hundred thousand are incurable. What an enormous mass of suffering these figures indicate for the invalids themselves, and what a vast amount of trouble and sorrow for their families, what a huge private and public expenditure! How much of this pain and expense could be spared if people could make up their minds to free the incurable from their indescribable torments by a dose of morphia! Naturally this act of kindness should not be left to the discretion of an individual physician, but be determined by a commission of competent and conscientious medical men. So, in the case of other incurables and great sufferers (from cancer, for instance), the "redemption from evil" should only be accomplished by a dose of some painless and rapid poison when they have expressed a deliberate wish (to be afterwards juridically proved) for this, and under the control of an authoritative commission.

The ancient Spartans owed a good deal of their famous bravery, their bodily strength and beauty, as well as their mental energy and capacity, to the old custom of doing away with new-born children who were born weakly or crippled. We find the same custom to-day among many savage races. When I pointed out the advantages of this Spartan selection for the improvement of the race in 1868 (chapter vii. of the History of Creation) there was a storm of pious indignation in the religious journals, as always happens when pure reason ventures to oppose the current prejudices and traditional beliefs. But I ask: What good does it do to humanity to maintain artificially and rear the thousands of cripples, deaf-mutes, idiots, etc., who are born every year with an hereditary burden of incurable disease? Is it not better and more rational to cut off from the first this unavoidable misery which their poor lives will bring to themselves and their families? It is no use to reply that religion forbids it. Christianity also bids us give up our life for our brethren, and to cast it from us when it hurts us—that is to say, when it only causes useless pain to us and our friends. The truth is, the opposition is only due to sentiment and the power of conventional morality—that is to say, to the hereditary bias which is clothed in early youth with the mantle of religion, however irrational and superstitious be its foundation. Pious morality of this sort is often really the deepest immorality. "Laws and rights creep on like an eternal sickness;" this is equally true of the social customs and morals on which laws and rights are founded. Sentiment should never be allowed to usurp the place of reason in these weighty ethical questions. As I pointed out in the first chapter of the Riddle, sentiment is a very amiable, but a very dangerous, function of the brain. It has no more to do with the attainment of the truth than what is called revelation. That is well seen in Kant's dualism, for his mundus intelligibilis is essentially an outcome of his religious sentimentality

VI

PLASM

Plasm is the universal living substance—Definition of protoplasm, chemically and morphologically—Physical character—Viscous condition—Chemical analysis—Colloid character of albumin—Albuminoid molecules—Elementary structure of plasm—Work of plasm—Protoplasm and metaplasm—Structures of metaplasm—Frothy structure—Skeletal structure—Fibrous structure—Granular structure—Molecular structure—Plasma molecules—Plastidules and biogens—Micella and biophora—Caryoplasm and cytoplasm—Nuclear matter—Chromatin and achromin—Nucleolus and centrosoma—Caryotheka and caryolymph—Cellular matter—Plasma products—Internal plasma products—External plasma products—Cell membranes—Intercellular matter—Cuticular matter.

By plasm, in the widest sense of the word, we mean the living matter, or all bodies that are found to constitute the material foundations of the phenomena of life. It is usual to give this matter the name of protoplasm; but this older and historically important designation has suffered so many changes of meaning through the variety of its applications that it is better now to use it only in the narrower sense. Moreover, recent research on protoplasm has been greatly developed, and several new names have been invented, which are formed from the word "plasm" with a qualifying prefix. These are special varieties of the general idea of plasm, or special modifications of the general matter, such as metaplasm, archiplasm, and so on.

The botanist, Hugo Mohl, who first introduced the name "protoplasm" in 1846, used it to designate a part of the contents of the ordinary plant-cell—namely, the viscous matter that Schleiden called "cell-mucus," which is found on the inner surface of the cell-wall, and often forms a varying net-work or skeleton in the watery fluid in the cell, and exhibits characteristic movements. Mohl gave the name of "primordial skin" to this important wall-layer (the chief element of the plant-cell), and called the material of it, as being chemically different from the other parts of the cell, protoplasm—that is to say, the first (proton) or earliest formation of the organism. It is important to notice that Mohl, the author of the name, conceived it in a purely chemical, not a morphological, sense, like Oscar Hertwig and other recent cytologists. I intend to retain this early chemical idea of protoplasm—or, briefly, plasm. It was also taken in this sense by Max Schultze, who pointed out (in 1860) its extreme significance and wide distribution in all living cells, and introduced an important reform of the cell-theory which we will see later.

The mixing of the chemical and the morphological ideas of protoplasm has been very mischievous in recent biology, and has led to great confusion. It generally comes from a failure to formulate clearly the difference between the two essential elements of the modern notion of the cell—the anatomic distinction between the nucleus and the body of the cell. The internal nucleus (or caryon) had the appearance of a solid, definite, morphologically distinct constituent of the cell; the outer and softer mass which we now call the cell-body (celleus or cytosoma) seemed to be a formless and only chemically definable protoplasm. It was only discovered at a later date that the chemical composition of the nucleus is closely akin to that of the cell-body, and that we may properly associate the caryoplasm of the one with the cytoplasm of the other under the general heading of plasm. All the other materials that we find in the living organism are products or derivatives of the active plasm.

In view of the extraordinary significance which we must assign to the plasm—as the universal vehicle of all the vital phenomena (or "the physical basis of life," as Huxley said)—it is very important to understand clearly all its properties, especially the chemical ones. This is rendered somewhat difficult from the circumstance that the plasm is, in most of the organic cells, closely bound up with other substances—the various plasma products; it can rarely be isolated in its purity, and can never be had pure in any quantity. Hence we are for the most part dependent on the imperfect, and often ambiguous, results of microscopic and microchemical research.

In every case where we have with great difficulty succeeded in examining the plasm as far as possible and separating it from the plasma-products, it has the appearance of a colorless, viscous substance, the chief physical property of which is its peculiar thickness and consistency. The physicist distinguishes three conditions of inorganic matter—solid, fluid, and gaseous. Active living protoplasm cannot strictly be described as either fluid or solid in the physical sense. It presents an intermediate stage between the two which is best described as viscous; it is best compared to a cold jelly or solution of glue. Just as we find the latter substance in all stages between the solid and the fluid, so we find in the case of protoplasm. The cause of this softness is the quantity of water contained in the living matter, which generally amounts to a half of its volume and weight. The water is distributed between the plasma molecules, or the ultimate particles of living matter, in much the same way as it is in the crystals of salts, but with the important difference that it is very variable in quantity in the plasm. On this depends the capacity for absorption or imbibition in the plasm, and the mobility of its molecules, which is very important for the performance of the vital actions. However, this capacity of absorption has definite limits in each variety of plasm; living plasm is not soluble in water, but absolutely resists the penetration of any water beyond this limit.

The chemistry of living matter is the most important and interesting, but at the same time the most difficult and obscure, part of the whole of biological chemistry. In spite of the innumerable and careful investigations which have been made of it by the ablest physiologists and chemists in the second half of the nineteenth century, we are still far from a satisfactory solution of this fundamental problem of biology. This is due partly to the extraordinary difficulty of isolating pure living plasm and subjecting it to chemical analysis, and partly to the many errors and misunderstandings that have arisen through one-sided treatment of the subject, and especially through confusion of the chemical and morphological features of plasm. We can thus understand the contradictory views that are still put forward by distinguished chemists and physiologists, zoologists and botanists. As I cannot deal here with the very extensive, elaborate, and contradictory literature of the subject, I must be content to give a brief summary of the conclusions I have reached by my reading and my own studies of plasm (begun in 1859).

To begin with, we must clearly understand that protoplasm—in the most general sense in which we here take it—is a chemical substance, not a "mixture of different substances," or a "mixture of a small quantity of solid matter with a good deal of fluid." As Richard Neumeister very well observes: "We seek the nature of protoplasm in the peculiar processes which take place in its constituent matter. Protoplasm is for us a chemical matter, so pronounced, in fact, that the highest chemical actions that we know of are embodied in it." I must, from my point of view, entirely reject Oscar Hertwig's conception of living matter as a "mixture" of a number of chemical elements; because chemistry applies this phrase to various gases and powdery substances which are completely indifferent to each other—a property which we certainly do not find in the constituents of protoplasm. When we speak of the living matter or protoplasm, the general phrase does not imply that the substance may not have a distinctive composition in each particular case. And when we find many biologists still conceiving protoplasm as a mixture of various substances, the error is generally due to a confusion of the chemical idea with the morphological, and to a belief that certain structural features of the plasm are primary, whereas they are only secondary, products of the vital process itself in the cell-body.

The older biologists who first introduced the name protoplasm and studied it carefully recognized that this living matter belonged to the albuminous (or proteid) group. The many characteristics which distinguish these nitrogenous carbon-compounds from all other chemical compounds—their behavior towards acids and bases, their peculiar color-reaction towards certain salts, their decomposition-products, etc.—are found in all the plasma-substances, and in all the other albuminoids. This is quite in agreement with the results of quantitative analysis. However differently the various plasma-substances behave in detail, they always exhibit the same general composition as the other albuminoids out of the five "organogenetic elements"—namely, in point of weight, fifty-one to fifty-four per cent. carbon, twenty-one to twenty-three per cent. oxygen, fifteen to seventeen per cent. nitrogen, six to seven per cent. hydrogen, and one to two per cent. sulphur. However, there is a good deal of variety and complication in the way in which the atoms of these five elements are combined in albumin and their molecules are grouped. Hence the question of the chemical nature of the plasma-substances compels us now to look for a moment at the larger group of albuminoids to which they belong.

The carbon-compounds which we comprise under the chemical title of the albumins or proteids are the most remarkable, but also, unfortunately, the least known, of all bodies. The attempt to examine them closely encounters extraordinary difficulties, greater than in any other group of chemical compounds. Everybody is familiar with the appearance of ordinary albumin, from the transparent viscous albumin that surrounds the yolk in the hen's egg, and which becomes a white, opaque, and solid mass when it is cooked. However, this special form of albumin, which we can get so easily in any quantity from the eggs of birds and reptiles, is only one of the innumerable kinds of albumin, or species of protein, that are to be found in the bodies of the various animals and plants. Chemists have hitherto tried in vain to master the chemical structure of these obscure protein-compounds. They are only rarely to be found in chemically pure form as crystals. As a rule, they are in the colloid form, or uncrystallized jelly-like masses, which offer a much greater resistance than crystals to the passage through a porous medium by diosmosis (see p. 39). However, although we have not yet succeeded in penetrating the molecular constitution of the albumins, the laborious research of chemists has yielded some general results which are of great importance for our purpose. We have, in the first place, a general idea of their molecular constitution.

Molecules are the smallest homogeneous parts into which a body can be divided without altering its chemical character. Hence the molecules of every chemical compound are made up of two or more atoms of different kinds. The greater the number of atoms in each compound, the higher is its molecular weight. The space between the molecules and their component atoms is filled with imponderable and highly elastic ether. As even the largest molecules occupy only a very tiny space, and remain far below the range of the most powerful microscope, all our ideas of their composition depend on general physical theories and special chemical hypotheses. Nevertheless, stereochemistry, the modern science of the molecular structure of chemical compounds, is not only a perfectly legitimate section of natural philosophy, but it yields the most important conclusions as to the mutual attractions of the elements and the invisible movements of the atoms in combining. It further enables us to calculate approximately the relative size of the molecules and the number of atoms that are grouped together in them. However, the albuminoids present the greatest difficulty of all in this calculation, and their structural features are still very obscure. Nevertheless, science has reached certain general conclusions, which we may formulate in the following propositions:

1. The molecule of albumin is unusually large, and therefore its molecular weight is very high (higher than in most or all other compounds).

2. The number of atoms composing it is very large (probably much more than a thousand).

3. The disposition of the atoms and groups of atoms in the albuminous molecule is very complicated, and at the same time very unstable—that is to say, very changeable and easily altered.

These characters, which are ascribed to all albuminous bodies by modern chemistry, hold good of all plasma-substances; and, in fact, are true in a higher degree of these, as the metabolism of the living matter causes a constant displacement of the atoms. This is caused, according to the view of Franz Hofmeister and others, by the formation of ferments or enzyma—in other words, by catalysators of a colloidal structure. Verworn has, on physiological grounds, given the name of biogens to these plasma-molecules.

The profound insight which comparative anatomy has given us into the significance and nature of organs, and comparative histology into those of the cells, has naturally excited a desire to penetrate in the same way the mystery of the elementary structure of the plasm, the chief active constituent of the cell. The improved methods of modern cytology, and the great progress which this science of the cell owes to the microtome and to microchemistry with its delicate coloring processes, etc., have prompted many observers of the last three decades to study the finest structural features of the elementary organism, and on this foundation build hypotheses as to the elementary structure of protoplasm. In my opinion, all these theoretical ideas, in so far as they would explain the finer structure of pure plasm, have a very serious defect; they relate to microscopic structures which do not belong to the plasm as such (as a chemical body), but to the cell-body (or cytosoma), the chief active constituent of which is certainly the plasm. These microscopic structures are not the efficient causes of the life-process, but products of it. They are phylogenetic outcomes of the manifold differentiations which the originally homogeneous and structureless plasm has undergone in the course of many millions of years. Hence I regard all these "plasma-structures" (the comb, threads, granules, etc.), not as original and primary, but as acquired and secondary. In so far as these structures affect the plasm as such, it must take the name of metaplasm, or a differentiated plasm, modified by the life-process itself. The true protoplasm, or viscous and at first chemically homogeneous substance, cannot, in my opinion, have any anatomic structure. We shall see, when we come to consider the monera, that very simple specimens of such organisms without organs still actually exist.

By far the greater part of the plasm that comes under investigation as active living matter in organisms is metaplasm, or secondary plasm, the originally homogeneous substance of which has acquired definite structures by phyletic differentiations in the course of millions of years. To this modified plasm we must oppose the original simple primary plasm, from the modification of which it has arisen. The name "protoplasm," in the narrower sense, could very properly be retained for this originally homogeneous form of structureless plasm; but, as the term has now almost lost definite meaning and is used in many different senses, it is, perhaps, better to call this pure homogeneous primary plasm archiplasm. It is still found—firstly, in the body of many (but not all) of the monera, part of the chromacea and bacteria, and the protamœba and protogenes; and, secondly, in the body of many very young protists and tissue-cells. In the latter case, however, there is already a chemical differentiation of the inner caryoplasm and outer cytoplasm. When we examine these young cells under a high power of the microscope, with the aid of the modern coloring methods, their protoplasm seems to be perfectly homogeneous and structureless, or, at the most, there are merely very fine granules regularly distributed in it which are believed to be products of metabolism. This is best seen in many of the rhizopods, especially the amœbæ, thalamophora, and mycetozoa. There are large amœbæ, which thrust out strongly mobile feet from their unicellular body, broad, flaplike processes of the naked cell body which constantly change their form, size, and place. If they are killed and examined with the aid of the best methods of coloring, it is quite impossible to detect any structure in them; and this is also true of the pseudopodia of the mycetozoa and many other rhizopods. Moreover, the slow flowing movement of the fluid protoplasm shows clearly that there cannot be any composition out of fine fixed elements in the body. This is particularly clear in those amœbæ and mycetozoa in which a hyaline, firm, and non-granulated skin-layer (hyaloplasm) is more or less separated from a dark, softer, and granulated marrow-layer (polioplasm); as both of them are viscous and pass into each other without sharp limits, there cannot be any constant and fixed structural features in them.

Organic life—in its lowest and simplest form—is nothing but a form of metabolism, and therefore a purely chemical process. The whole vital activity of the chromacea, the simplest and oldest organisms that we know, is confined to that process of metabolism which we call plasmodomism or carbon-assimilation. The homogeneous and structureless globules of protoplasm, which represent the whole frame of these primitive protophyta (chroococcus, aphanocapsa, etc.) in the simplest conceivable way, expend their whole vital power in the process of self-maintenance. They maintain their individuality by a simple metabolism; they grow by the addition of fresh plasm obtained by it, and they split up into two equal globules of plasm when the growth passes a certain limit—reproduction by clevage, maintenance of the species. Thus these chromacea have neither special organs, or organella, that we can distinguish in their simple plasma-bodies, nor different functions in their life-process; it is wholly taken up with the primitive work of their vegetal metabolism. We shall see later on that this is a purely chemical process, something like catalysis in inorganic combinations; and for this neither special organs nor fine elementary structures in the plasm are needed. The "end" of their existence, self-maintenance, is attained just as simply as in the catalysis of any inorganic compound, or the formation of a crystal in its mother-water.

If we compare this very rudimentary life-process of the monera with that of the highly differentiated protists (diatomes, desmidiacea, radiolaria, and infusoria), the biological distance between them seems to be immense; and it is, naturally, far greater when we extend the comparison to the histona, the highly organized metaphyta and metazoa, in the bodies of which millions of cells co-operate in the work of the various tissues and organs.

In the great majority of cells—either the autonomous cells of the protists or the tissue-cells of the histona—we can detect more or less definite and constant fine structures in the plasm. We must regard these always as phyletic, secondary products of the life-process, and so call the differentiated plasm by the name of metaplasm. The very different interpretations of the microscopic pictures which this metaplasm affords have led to a good deal of controversy. In this the desire to discover in these secondary plasma-structures the first causes of vital action, or the real elementary organella of the cell, has played a great part. The most important of the theories that have been formulated are those of the frothy structure, the skeletal structure, the fibrous structure, and the granulated structure of the plasm. All these theories of structure apply to plasm in general, but particularly to its two chief forms, the caryoplasm of the nucleus and the cytoplasm of the cell-body.

Among the many different attempts to discover a definite structure in living matter, the theory of the frothy structure (also called the honeycomb structure) has lately found the most favor. Otto Bütschli, of Heidelberg, especially, has endeavored, on the basis of many years of careful study and experiment, to make it the foundation of his view of the plasm. It is undeniable that the living matter of many cells shows a delicate structure which may best be compared with fine soap-suds; innumerable globules are crowded close together in a fluid, and flatten each other by their pressure into polyhedrical shapes. In 1892 Bütschli artificially produced fine oil-suds by beating up cane sugar or potash in olive oil, and then put a small drop of the stuff in a drop of water under the microscope. The small particles of sugar then exercised an attractive action by diffusion on the particles of water; the latter penetrated into the oily matter, released the sugar, and formed tiny vesicles with it. As the vesicles of sugar do not mix with oil, they look like cavities isolated on all sides, and polyhedrically flattened by mutual pressure. The striking resemblance of this artificially produced "oil soap-suds" to the natural and microscopically visible structures of many kinds of plasm is strengthened from the fact that Bütschli, Georg Quincke, and others, have also observed similar flowing movements in both; and as these apparently spontaneous movements can be explained physically and reduced to adhesion, imbibition, and other mechanical causes, there seemed a prospect of reducing the "vital" movements of the living and flowing plasm to purely physical forces. Quite recently Ludwig Rhumbler, of Göttingen, an authority on the rhizopods, has endeavored to give in this sense a Physical analysis of the vital phenomena in the cell. To-day the froth theory is much the most popular of the many attempts to detect a fine plasm-structure as the essential anatomic foundation of an explanation of the physiological functions. It must be noted, however, that frequently very different phenomena are confused under this name, especially the coarser froth-formation by taking up water in the living matter and the invisible hypothetical molecular structure. Both these must be distinguished from the finer plasma-structure which is visible under a powerful microscope; but the limit between them is difficult to determine.

A second view of the finer structure of the plasm, which had been greatly esteemed before the acceptance of the froth theory, was formulated in 1875 by Carl Frommann and Carl Heitzmann, and supported by Leydig, Schwitz, and others. It puts another interpretation on the net-like appearance of the microscopic plasma-structure. It assumes that the plasma consists of a skeleton of fine threads or fibrils combined in the form of a net, and that these spread and cross in the body of the cell which is filled with fluid. It is also compared to a sponge, and is said to have a spongy structure. We can artificially produce such a skeletal structure by, for instance, causing coagulation in a thick solution of glue or albumin by adding alcohol or chromic acid. It is unquestionable that there are these "plasma-skeletons" both in the nucleus and the body of the cell; but they are generally (if not always) secondary products of organization in the elementary organism (or cell-organs), not primitive structures of its plasm. Moreover, an optical transverse action of a froth-structure or honeycomb, examined as a flat surface in the microscope, shows the same configuration as a fine skeleton. We can hardly see any difference between the two. We cannot accept the skeletal formation as a fundamental structure of the plasm.

As we notice very fine threads in the plasm of many cells, both in the caryoplasm of the nucleus and the cytoplasm of the cell body, the cytologist Flemming, of Kiel (1882), believed it was possible to discover them in the plasm of all cells, and based on this his filar theory of plasm. He says that we must distinguish two chemically different kinds of plasm in living matter—the filar (threadlike) and the inter-filar matter. The fine threads of the former are of different lengths, and sometimes run separately, at other times are bound in a sort of net-work (mitoma and paramitoma). In certain conditions of cell-life, especially in indirect cell-division, these filar formations play a great part; and also in the functions of highly differentiated cells, such as the ganglionic cells. But in many cases these plasma threads may be merely parts of a skeletal or frothy structure (honeycomb walls in section). In any case, we cannot regard the thread formation as a general elementary structure of plasm; in my opinion, it is always a secondary phyletic product of living matter, and never a primary feature of it.

Totally different from the three preceding theories of the finer structure of the plasm is the granular theory of Altmann (1890). He supposes that all living matter is originally made up of tiny round granules, and that these independently living bioblasts are the real "elementary organisms," the microscopic ultimate individuals; hence the cells which are formed by the combination of these granules must be looked on as individuals of the second order. Between the granules of the granulated substance (the real active living matter) there is always an inter-granular substance; the granules are regularly distributed and arranged in these. The granules themselves, or the bioblasts, are homogeneous, sometimes globular, and sometimes oval, or of other shapes. However, the distinction between these substances is quite arbitrary, and neither chemically nor morphologically well defined. Under the head of granules Altmann throws together the most different contents of the cell—fat granules, pigment granules, secretory granules, and other products of metabolism. Hence his granular theory is now generally rejected. However, there was a sound idea at the bottom of it—namely, the idea of explaining the vital properties and functions of living matter by small separate constituents which make up the plasm, and move in a viscous medium. But these real elementary parts are not microscopically visible; they belong to the molecular world, which lies far below the limit of microscopic power. In my opinion, Altmann's visible granules, like Flemming's threads and Frommann's skeleton and Bütschli's honeycomb, are not primary structures, but secondary products of plasma differentiation.

As the special properties and activities of any natural body depend on its chemical constitution, and this is, in the long-run, determined by the composition of its molecules, it is a matter of the greatest interest in biology to form as clear and distinct an idea as possible of the nature and properties of the molecules of plasm. Unfortunately, it is only possible to do this approximately, and to a slight extent. As the hypotheses of modern structural chemistry on the molecular formation of complicated organic compounds are often very unsafe, this is bound to be the case in the highest degree as regards the albuminoids and, the most important of all, the living matter or plasm. We have as yet no knowledge of the fundamental features of its very variable chemical structure. The one thing that bio-chemists have told us about it is that the molecule of plasm is very large, and made up of a great number of atoms (over a thousand); and that these are combined in smaller or larger groups, and are in a state of very unstable equilibrium, so that the life process itself causes constant changes in them.

Since the great problem of heredity was forced by Darwin in 1859 into the foreground of general biology, many different hypotheses and theories of it have been framed. All these have in the end to trace it to molecular features in the plasm of the germ-cells; because it is this germ-plasm of the maternal ovum and the paternal sperm-cell that conveys the characteristics of the parents to the child. Hence the great progress that has been made recently in the study of conception and heredity, by means of a number of remarkable observations and experiments, has been of service to our ideas on the molecular structure of the plasm. I have dealt with the chief of these theories in the ninth chapter of my History of Creation, and must refer the reader thereto. In chronological order we have: (1) the pangenesis theory of Darwin (1868), (2) the perigenesis theory of Haeckel (1875), (3) the idioplasm theory of Nägeli (1884), (4) the germ-plasm theory of Weismann (1885), and (5) the mutation-theory of De Bries (1889). None of these attempts, and none of the later theories of heredity, has given us a satisfactory and generally admitted idea of the plasma-structure. We are not even clear as to whether in the last resort life is to be traced to the several molecules, or to groups of molecules, in the plasm. With an eye to this latter difference, we may distinguish the plastidule and micellar theories as two different groups of relevant hypotheses.

In my essay on "The Perigenesis of the Plastidules" (1875) I formulated the hypothesis that in the last instance the plastidules are the vehicles of heredity—that is to say, plasma-molecules which have the property of memory. In this I found support in the ingenious theory of the distinguished physiologist, Ewald Hering, who had declared in 1870 that "memory is a general property of organic matter." I do not see still how heredity can be explained without this assumption! The very word "reproduction," which is common to both processes, expresses the common character of psychic memory (as a function of the brain). By plastidules I understand simple molecules; the homogeneous nature of the plasm in the monera (both chromacea and bacteria and rhizomonera) and the primitive simplicity of their life-functions do not dispose us to think that special groups of molecules are to be distinguished in these cases. Max Verworn has recently (1903) formulated his biogen-hypothesis in the same sense, as a "critical-experimental study of the processes in the living matter." He also takes the active plasma-molecules, which he calls biogens, as the ultimate individual factors of the life-process, and is convinced that in the simplest cases the plasm consists of homogeneous biogen-molecules.

The hypothesis of Nägeli (1884) and Weismann (1885) is totally different from the hypothesis of the plastidules and biogens as simple molecules of the plasm. According to this, the ultimate "vital unities" or individual vehicles of the life-process are not homogeneous plasma-molecules, but groups of molecules, made up of a number of different molecules. Nägeli calls them micella, and assigns them a crystalline structure. He supposes that these micella are combined chainwise into micellar ropes, and that the variety of the many forms and functions of plasm is due to the different configuration and arrangement of these. Weismann says: "Life can only arise by a definite combination of different kinds of molecules, and all living matter must be made up of these groups of molecules. A single molecule cannot live, can neither assimilate nor grow nor reproduce." I do not see the justice of this observation. All the chemical and physiological properties which Weismann afterwards attributes to his hypothetical biophora may be ascribed to a single molecule just as well as to a group of molecules. In the simplest forms of the monera (both the chromacea and the bacteria) the nature of their rudimentary life can be explained on the one supposition just as well as the other. Naturally, this does not exclude a very complicated chemical structure in the large plastidule or biogen as a single molecule. Verworn's biogen-hypothesis seems to me quite satisfactory when it represents the primitive molecule of living matter as really the ultimate factor of life.

The chief process in the evolutionary history of the plasm is its separation into the inner nuclear matter (caryoplasm) and the outer cellular matter (cytoplasm). When both kinds of plasm arose by differentiation from the originally simple plasm of the monera, there also took place the morphological separation of the nucleus (caryon) and cell-body (cytosoma or celleus). As these two chief forms of living matter are chemically different but nearly related, and as they may in certain circumstances (for instance, during indirect cell-division and the partial caryolysis connected therewith) enter into the closest mutual relations, we must suppose that the original severance of the two substances took place gradually and during a long period of time. It was not by a sudden bound or transformation, but by a gradual and progressive formation of the chemical antithesis of caryoplasm and cytoplasm, that the real nucleated cell (cytos) arose from the unnucleated cytode (or primitive cell). Both may correctly be comprised under the general head of plastids (or formative principles), as "ultimate individualities."

I regard as the chief cause of this important differentiation of the plasm the accumulation of hereditary matter—that is to say, of the internal characteristics of the plastids acquired by ancestors and transmitted to their descendants—within the plastids while their outer portion continued to maintain the intercourse with the outer world. In this way the inner nucleus became the organ of heredity and reproduction, and the outer cell-body the organ of adaptation and nutrition. I put forward this hypothesis in 1866 in my General Morphology: "The two functions of heredity and adaptation seem to be not yet distributed between differentiated substances in the unnucleated cytodes, but to inhere in the whole of the homogeneous mass of the plasm; while in the nucleated cell they are divided between the two active constituents of the cell, the inner nucleus taking over the transmission of hereditary characters and the outer plasm undertaking adaptation, or the accommodation to the features of the environment." This hypothesis was afterwards (1873) confirmed by the discoveries of Strasburger, the brothers Hertwig, and others, with regard to cell-cleavage and fertilization; it is particularly supported by the phenomena of caryokinesis(the movement of the nucleus) in sexual generation. Hence we can understand how it is that in the monera (chromacea and bacteria), which propagate by simple cleavage, there is no sexual generation and no nucleus.

The great significance of the nucleus in the life of the cell, as central organ of heredity, and also probably as "the soul of the cell," depends chiefly on the chemical properties of its albuminous matter, the caryoplasm. This one indispensable nuclear element is chemically akin to the cytoplasm of the cell-body, but differs from it in certain respects. The caryoplasm has a greater affinity for many coloring matters (carmine, hæmatoxylin, etc.) than the cytoplasm; and the former coagulates more quickly and firmly than the latter through acids (such as acetic and chromic acid). Hence we need only add a drop of diluted (two per cent.) acetic acid to cells that seem homogeneous to make perfectly clear the separation between the inner nucleus and outer body. As a rule, the firmer nucleus then stands out sharply as a globular or oval particle of plasm; occasionally it has other forms (cylindrical, conical, spiral, or branched). The caryoplasm seems to be originally quite homogeneous and structureless, as we find in many of the protists and many young cells of histona (especially young embryos). But in the great majority of cells the caryoplasm is divided into two or more different substances, the chief of them being chromatin and achromin.

The most common division of the caryoplasm in the cells of the animal and plant body, and the one of chief significance for their vital activity, is that into two chemically different substances, which are usually called chromatin (or nuclein) and achromin (or linin). Chromatin has a greater affinity for coloring (chromos) matter (carmine, hæmatoxylin, etc.), and so this "colorable nuclear matter" is particularly regarded as the vehicle of heredity. The achromin (or achromatin, or linin) is either not at all or less easily colorable, and is akin to the cytoplasm; in direct cell-division it enters into close relations with the latter. Achromin is usually found in the form of slender threads, and hence called "nuclear thread-matter" (linin). Chromatin is generally found in roundish or rod-shaped granules (chromosomata), which exhibit very characteristic changes of form (loop formation, etc.) in indirect cell-division. The chemical, physiological, and morphological difference between chromatin and achromin must not be regarded as an original property of cell nuclei (as is wrongly stated sometimes), but is the outcome of a very early phylogenetic differentiation in the originally homogeneous caryoplasm; and this holds also of two other parts of the nucleus—the nucleolus and centrosoma.

In a good many cells, but by no means universally, we find two other constituents of the nucleus, which owe their rise to a further differentiation of the caryoplasm. The nucleolus is a small globular or oval particle, which may be found singly or in numbers in the nucleus, and behaves somewhat differently towards coloring matter than the closely related chromatin. It has a special affinity for acid aniline colors, gosin, etc. Its substance has, therefore, been distinguished as plastin or paranuclein. The nucleolus is especially found in the tissue-cells of the higher animals and plants as an independent constituent; it is wanting in many of the unicellular protists. The same may be said of the centrosoma, or "central body" of the cell. This is an extremely small granule, on the very limit of visibility, the chemical composition of which is not known very well. We should have paid no attention to this constituent of the cell (distinguished in 1876) if it did not play an important, and perhaps leading, part in indirect cell-division. As the "polar body in the division of the nucleus," the centrosoma exercises a peculiar attraction on the granules distributed in the cytoplasm, which arrange themselves radially about this centre. The centrosomata grow independently and increase by cleavage, like the chromoplasts (chlorophyll particles, etc.). When they have split up, each of the daughter-microsomata acts in turn as a centre of attraction on its half of the cell. However, the great importance which modern cytologists have ascribed to it on this account is discounted by two circumstances. In the first place, we have not succeeded, in spite of all efforts, in discovering a centrosoma in the cells of the higher plants and many of the protists; and, in the second place, a number of recent chemical experiments have succeeded in producing centrosomata artificially (for instance, by the addition of magnesium chloride) in the cytoplasm. Hence many cytologists regard the centrosoma as a secondary product of differentiation in the cell-body, not the nucleus.

Two other parts of the nucleus that we find very often, but by no means universally, in the cells of the animal and plant body are the nuclear membrane (caryotheca) and the nuclear sap (caryolymph). A large number of cells—but not all—have the appearance of vesicles, having a thin skin enclosing a liquid content, the nuclear sap. The achromin then usually forms a frame-work of threads, with chromatin granules in its meshes or knots, within this round vesicle. This very thin nuclear membrane (often only visible as its contour) or caryotheca may be regarded as the result of surface-strain (at the planes of contact of caryoplasm and cytoplasm). The watery and usually clear and transparent nuclear sap (caryolymph) is formed by imbibition of watery fluid (like the frothy structure of the plasm in general). The separation of the nuclear membrane and nuclear sap is not a primary property of the nucleus, but is due to a secondary differentiation in the originally homogeneous caryoplasm.

Like the caryoplasm of the nucleus, the cytoplasm of the cell-body is originally a chemical modification of the simple and once homogeneous plasm (the archiplasm). This is clearly shown by the comparative biology of the protists, their unicellular organism presenting a much greater variety of stages of cell-organization than the subordinate tissue-cells in the bodies of the multicellular histona. However, in the great majority of cells the cytoplasm is separated into several, and frequently very numerous, parts, which have received diverse forms and functions in the division of labor. We then see very conspicuously the regularity of cell-organization, which is altogether wanting in the simple homogeneous plasma granules of the monera. As this great differentiation of the advanced elementary organism is incorrectly generalized by some recent cytologists and described as a universal feature of cells, it is necessary to insist explicitly that it is a secondary phylogenetic development, and is altogether wanting in the primitive organisms. The complexity of the physiological division of labor and the accompanying morphological separation of parts is extremely great in the cytoplasm. When we wish to arrange them in a few large groups from a general point of view, we may distinguish the active plasma-formations from the passive plasma-products; the former are due to a chemical metamorphosis of the living plasm, the latter lifeless excretions from it.

Under the head of plasm-formations, or products of differentiation in the cytoplasm, we comprise all formations that are due to partial metamorphosis of the living cell-body—not lifeless excretions from it, but living parts of its substance, undertaking special functions, and therefore chemically and morphologically differentiated from the primary cytoplasm. One of the commonest differentiations of this kind is the separation of the firm hyaline skin-layer (hyaloplasm) from the softer granular marrow-layer (polioplasm); though the two often pass into each other without clear limits. In most plant-cells special granules of plasm, mostly globular or roundish, are developed, called trophoplasts, and these undertake the work of metabolism. To this class belong the amyloplasts, which produce starch (amylum), the chloroplasts or chlorophyll-granules which form the green matter (chlorophyll) in the leaf, and the chromoplasts which form color-crystals of various sorts. In the cells of the higher animals the myoplasts form the special contractile tissue of the muscles, and the neuroplasts the psychic tissue of the nerve-matter. On the other hand, the distinction between the body-plasm (somoplasma) and the germ-plasm (germoplasma), which serves as the base of Weismann's untenable theory of the germ-plasm (cf. chapter xvi.), is purely hypothetical and without direct observation to support it.

The infinite variety of parts of the cell which arise as excretions of the living active cytoplasm, and so must be regarded as lifeless plasma-products, may be divided into two chief groups—internal and external. The former are stored within the living cytoplasm, the latter thrust out from it.

Internal plasma-products of common occurrence are the microsomata, very small and opaque particles which are generally regarded as products of metabolism. They consist sometimes of fat, sometimes of derivatives of albumin, sometimes of other substances of which we do not know the chemical composition. The same may be said of the large and variously-colored pigment-granules, which are very common and determine the color of tissues. Also very common in the cytoplasm are large accumulations of fat in the shape of oil-globules, fat-crystals, etc., besides other crystals of a very different sort, partly organic crystals (for instance, albuminous crystals in the aleuron-granules of plants), partly inorganic crystals (for instance, of oxalic-acid salts in many plant-cells, of calcareous salts in many animal-cells). The watery cell-sap (cytolymph) plays an important part in many of the larger cells. It is formed by the accumulation of fluid in the cytoplasm, and is found in its frothy structure. The large empty spaces which it forms are called vacuoles, with very regularly disposed alveoles. When the cell-sap gathers in great abundance within the cell, we get the large vesicular cells which are found in the tissues of the higher plants, the cartilages, etc.

As external excretions of the living cytoplasm that have acquired some importance, especially as protective organs, in the majority of cells, we have first of all the cell-membranes, the firm capsules or protective skins which enclose the soft cell-body, like a snail in its house. In the first period of the cell-theory (1838-1859) such an integument was ascribed to all cells, and often regarded as their chief constituent; but it was discovered afterwards that this protective skin is altogether wanting in many (especially animal) cells, and that it is not found in many when they are young, but grows subsequently. We now distinguish between naked cells (gymnocytes) and covered cells (thecocytes). As examples of naked cells we have the amœbæ, and many of the infusoria, the spores of algæ, the spermatozoa, and many animal tissue-cells.

The cell-covering (cytotheca) varies very much in size, shape, composition, and chemical character, especially in the rhizopods among the unicellular protists. The flint shells of the radiolaria and diatomes, the chalky cells of the thalamophora and calcocytea, the cellulose shells of the desmidiacea and syphonea, show the extraordinary plasticity of the constructive cytoplasm (cf. chapter viii.). Among the histona the tissue-plants are remarkable for the infinite variety of shape and differentiation of their cellulose capsules. The familiar properties of wood, cork, bast, the hard shells of fruit, etc., are due to the manifold chemical modification and morphological differentiation which the cellulose membrane undergoes in the tissues of plants. This is less frequently seen in the tissues of animals; but, on the other hand, the intercellular and the cuticular matter play a greater part in these.

The intercellular matter, an important external plasma-product, is formed by the social cells in the tissues of the histona thrusting out in common firm protective membranes. These protective structures are very common among communities of protists, in the form of masses of jelly, in which a number of cells of the same kind are united; such are the zooglœa of many of the bacteria and chromacea, the common jelly-like envelope of the volvocina and many diatomes, and the globular cell-communities of the polycyttaria (or social radiolaria). The chief part is played by intercellular matter in the body of the higher animals, in the form of mesenchyma-tissue; the connecting tissue, cartilages, and bones owe their peculiar property to the amount and quality of the intercellular matter that is deposited between the social cells.

When the socially joined epidermic cells at the surface of the tissue-body thrust forth in common a protective covering, we get the cuticles, which are often thick and solid armor-plates. In many of the metaphyta wax and flinty matter are deposited in the cellulose cuticles. The strongest formation is found in the invertebrate animals, where the cuticle often determines the whole shape and articulation, as in the calcareous shells of mollusks (mussel-shells, snail-shells, cockle-shells, etc.); and especially the coats of the articulata (the crab's coat of mail, and the skins of spiders and insects).