The Bible of Nature (Barnes & Noble Digital Library)

THE BIBLE OF NATURE

J. A. THOMSON

This 2011 edition published by Barnes & Noble, Inc.

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ISBN: 978-1-4114-6021-8

CONTENTS

I. THE WONDER OF THE WORLD

II. THE HISTORY OF THINGS

III. ORGANISMS AND THEIR ORIGIN

IV. THE EVOLUTION OF ORGANISMS

V. MAN'S PLACE IN NATURE

I

THE WONDER OF THE WORLD

The Sense of Wonder.—Perhaps even the most profane person has some secret shrine where he allows himself at least to wonder. What may not the object of this wonder be—the grandeur of the star-strewn sky, the mystery of the mountains, the sea eternally new, the way of the eagle in the air, the meanest flower that blows, the look in a child's eyes? Somewhere, sometime, somehow, every one confesses, This is too wonderful for me.

The sense of wonder varies in expression according to race and temperament, according to health and habits, according to its degree of culture and freedom. Caliban's is different from Ariel's, and Prospero's from both. But whatever be its particular expression, the sense of wonder is one of the saving graces of life, and he who is without it might as well be dead. It lies at the roots of both science and philosophy, and it has been in all ages one of the footstools of religion. When it dies one of the lights of life goes out. Keeping to the outer world of nature, let us illustrate what may be called the mainsprings of rational wonder.

Abundance of Power.—In ancient days when mastery of the forces of nature was not even dreamed of, men were almost overwhelmed by their sense of the abundance of power in the world. Unable to see much order in this power, unable to utilize it, they took what came and wondered. Often personifying the various forces, they brought thank-offerings when these were benign and sacrifices when they were hostile. Short-sighted and timorous, they paid heavy premiums to experience, and yet were slow to learn. It may be, however, that they excelled us, in whom familiarity has bred commonplaceness, in their keener sense of the abundance of power in the world. It seems sometimes as if we needed an earthquake, a volcanic eruption, a tornado, a comet, to re-awaken us to a sense of the world , to the powers that make our whole solar system travel in space toward an unknown goal, that keep our earth together and awhirling round the sun, that sway the tides and rule the winds, that mould the dew-drop and build the crystal, that clothe the lily and give us energy for every movement and every thought—in short that keep the whole system of things agoing.

"Trees in their blooming,

Tides in their flowing,

Stars in their circling,

Tremble with song."

And one note in that song is Power, which we cannot think of as beginning or as ending, which never seems to alter in quantity though it is always changing its quality, which is not a whit less wonderful though we say that it is "all electricity," and certainly not less wonderful if we are able to say

"God on His throne

Is Eldest of poets,

Unto His measures

Moveth the whole."

A Modern Instance.—Let us take a now familiar instance of this Power. Besides theoretical and possibly practical results, there has been some emotional gain in the recent startling discoveries which centre around the word radio-activity. From a ton of pitch-blende, the investigators extract less than a grain of radium, which, apart from living matter, is the most wonderful kind of matter in the world. Incessantly and without appreciable loss it pours forth heat and light; its rays penetrate thick plates of metal, excite phosphorescence in other bodies, discharge electroscopes from a distance, and have strange effects on living creatures. We are told that radium gives off not only rectilinear darting rays, but also a gaseous emanation which is radio-active, which precipitates itself as a something on various kinds of bodies and makes them also radio-active. It decays and becomes, in part at least, something else—namely, that rare stuff called Helium, which Sir Norman Lockyer found many years ago in the Sun, which also occurs in warm springs and rare minerals. One kind of radium ray is said to consist of streams of little bodies, which travel at the rate of 20,000 miles a second, 40,000 times faster than a rifle bullet; another kind is said to consist of streams of little bodies, darting forth at the prodigious rate of 100,000 miles a second; another kind is said to consist of pulses in the ether, which can penetrate a foot of solid iron. In spite of all the energy it gives off, radium is but slowly used up. It is possibly being continually formed afresh in the earth, perhaps from Uranium. A small quantity diffused in the earth will suffice to compensate for all the loss of heat by radiation; a fraction of one percent in the sun would compensate for all its immense loss of heat. Is this not too wonderful for us?

Power of Life.—We do not perhaps think much about it, but the abundance of power in living creatures is truly wonderful, just as wonderful as radium. Call them engines—animate systems which transform matter and energy—they are more perfect than our best engines, the perfection being measured by the relation between the energy which enters them and the work they do. Joule pointed out that not only does an animal much more nearly resemble in its function an electromagnetic engine than it resembles a steam-engine, but also that it is a much more efficient engine; that is to say, an animal, for the same amount of potential energy of food or fuel supplied to it—call it fuel, to compare it with other engines—gives you a larger amount converted into work than any engine which we can construct physically. Langley pointed out that a fire-fly is a much more economical light-producer than any human luminiferous device. As a physicist looking at life and puzzling over its dynamic mystery, Professor Joly advanced the following interesting and important proposition: While the transfer of energy into any inanimate material system is attended by effects retardative to the transfer and conducive to dissipation, the transfer of energy into any animate material system is attended by effects conducive to the transfer and retardative of dissipation. From a dynamic point of view it is wonderful to watch, let us say, a few water-mites imprisoned in a vessel where the supply of food is of the smallest. Day after day, week after week, we see them darting about with extreme rapidity, we hardly ever catch them napping. They cannot evade the law of the conservation of energy, but it certainly seems as if they did.

Or take another entirely different case—the destructive power of microbes. It seems certain that some microbes in certain phases can pass through the most carefully constructed water-filter and are invisible to the best microscope. We know that they pass through by the results; we can get cultures of them out of the water. Yet these invisibly minute creatures have so much constructive power that from one, in a few hours, a million may result, and so much destructive power that a small dose of them soon kills an ox.

Abundance of Life.—We need only allude to the actual abundance of life. The roll-call of animals includes so many tens of thousands of species that, so far as our power of realizing the total is concerned, it is hardly affected when we note that more than half of them are insects. More than two thousand years ago Aristotle recorded a total of about 500 animals, but there may be more new species in a single volume of the Challenger Reports. We speak of the number of stars, yet more than one family of insects is credited with including as many different species as there are stars to count with the unaided eye on a clear night. And besides the number of different kinds, think of the uncountable numbers of individuals.

"But what an endlesse worke have I on hand

To count the sea's abundant progeny

Whose fruitful seede farre passeth those on land,

And also those which wonne in th' azure sky,

How much more eath to tell the starres on hy,

Albe they endlesse seem in estimation,

Than to recount the sea's posterity,

So fertile be the floods in generation,

So huge their numbers and so numberless their nation."

The explorers of the Antarctic seas tell us that from these cold waters it was quite the usual thing to take from ten to thirty thousand specimens of a certain crustacean in a single haul. In short, the naturalist as well as the poet spoke when Goethe celebrated Nature's wealth: In floods of life, in a storm of activity, she moves and works above and beneath, working and weaving, an endless motion, birth and death, an infinite ocean, a changeful web, a glowing life; she plies at the roaring loom of time and weaves a living garment for God.

Immensities.—The simple and open mind is always impressed by the bigness of Nature. Our ancestors were thrilled by the apparently boundless and unfathomable sea, by the apparently unending plains, by the mountains whose tops were lost in the clouds, by the expanse of the heavens; and our children happily have still something of the same impression of the wide, wide world. It is the impression of immensity—of practical infinitude, and it is worth having and keeping. Nowadays, of course, we measure everything, and the wonder tends to fade. Every day we get some fresh instance of the way in which Science reaches forth her arms to feel from world to world, and charms her secret from the latest moon. We annihilate distance with our deep devices and make the ether carry our signals. We bring the moon so near that our maps of it are better than those of Africa three generations ago. We measure the distance of the stars; we analyze the chemical composition of the sun. It is enough to recall Fraunhofer's fine epitaph, Approximavit sidera.

Thus size and distance are ceasing to impress us as they impressed our forefathers. We are becoming accustomed to the immensities. Yet we do well to sit down quietly at times under the starry heavens, and remember that though light travels 186,000 miles a second, we might perchance observe the twinkling of a star that had gone out; that when we look at a Centauri, which lies some ten billions of miles nearer to us than any other known star, we see it, not as it is tonight, but as it was more than four years ago; that, though our sun is 93,000,000 of miles away (and no one of us has any mental picture of what a million is), the farthest star we can see is a million times farther off; that for every one of the few thousands (say 8,000) of stars we can see with our unaided eyes there are thousands unseen (say, a hundred millions); and that our whole solar system is equivalent in size to no more than a corner of the Milky Way. In the heavens the navigator sails in a practically infinite ocean; for leagues and leagues beyond there is always more sea. There is room for wonder.

Manifoldness.—Another primary impression of Nature is that of manifoldness. Star differs from star in glory. Every mountain has its individuality. There are over eighty different kinds of elements. The number of different minerals is legion. All flesh is not the same flesh, but there is one flesh of men, another flesh of beasts, another of fishes, and another of birds. From one small island (Great Britain) we have a record of over four hundred different kinds of birds, each a very distinctive personality. In the Challenger Report on Radiolarians, Haeckel deals with about five thousand different species, all of fascinating beauty. A single year's volume of the Zoological Record may register more new species than were included in the whole of Linné's Systema Naturae. Whether we gather shells on the shore or collect snow crystals; whether we study birds or brambles, hydroids or hawkweeds, we get the same impression of an overflowing form-fountain, of prodigal multiplicity, of endless resources.

Intricacy.—An allied impression, unknown to the ancients, is that of intricacy. The telescope reveals a hundred million heavenly bodies; the microscope reveals another unseen world of the infinitely small, each member of which is nevertheless intricate. One of President D. S. Jordan's epigrams is unforgetable, The simplest organism we know is far more complex than the Constitution of the United States. The body of an ant is many times more visibly intricate than a steam engine; its brain, as Darwin said, is perhaps the most marvellous speck of matter in the universe. Our brain is such a labyrinth of nerve paths that it takes years to become even superficially familiar with it. The body of an animal may consist of millions of unit-areas or cells; each shows a complex foam-like or net-like living matter, including a nucleus which is a microcosm in itself. Within each nucleus there are stainable bodies or chromosomes, twenty-four of them in each of our body-cells, and these are built up of smaller microsomes, and each chromosome is split longitudinally when the cell divides. And when we pass beyond the visibly intricate, to the coarse-grainedness which the physicists find it necessary to postulate in matter, the intricacy is multiplied beyond all our powers of picturing. They say that in a tiny organism no larger than a minute-hand on a dainty watch there is a molecular intricacy which might be represented by an Atlantic liner packed with such watches. Some say that the simplest of all atoms—an atom of hydrogen—must have a constitution as complex as a constellation, with about 800 separate parts. Here again there is room for some rational wonder.

Pervading Order.—In spite of all this multiplicity and intricacy, there is a pervading order. The world is not a curiosity shop, but a Kosmos. There do not seem to be many big collisions in the crowded heavens, and there is no hint of fortuity. The clockwork goes so steadily that the return of a comet can be predicted to a night. There have been cataclysms in the history of the Earth, but they are not more disorderly than the cracking of the sun-baked clay. There is order in the relations of the atomic weights of the chemical elements (Mendeleeff's Periodic Law), just as there is order in the relations of the planets. The wind bloweth where it listeth, and yet we know, as Tyndall said, that the Italian wind, gliding over the crest of the Matterhorn, is as firmly ruled as the earth in its orbital revolution round the sun; and the fall of its vapour into clouds is exactly as much a matter of necessity as the return of the seasons.¹ Our body is a most intricate engine, yet how smoothly it works if we give it a chance. Creatures living naturally may have parasites, but they hardly ever show any disease. That comes when man tampers with them or with their surroundings. Natural death is a most orderly phenomenon. And even the disorders which man brings about, are, as statistics show, appallingly orderly in their occurrence. In short, it is not a multiverse we live in, but a universe. It is not all weather.

We cannot deny that there are occurrences which give us pause in our assertion of pervading order—but most of these are within the human realm, and many of them are by no means inevitable. Man is extraordinary callous in the way of taking risks, and perhaps the terrible tragedy of much in human life is needed as a spur to incite us to put an end to it.