Fourth Meeting
After all, the last meeting was not such a failure as I had supposed. I asked Alfred to come earlier, and questioned him before the others arrived. He answered me with precision and common sense. He said: “All matter was once spirit, is the result of spirit.” When I said: “What we call matter is the medium through which spirit expresses itself,” he answered: “Yes, but spirit expresses itself in other ways, too.” “Think a minute,” said I, “does it? Can the spirit express itself through any other medium?” “No,” he said, after thinking a moment, “no, of course not.” “Nor,” said I, “do we at all know matter except through the intellect.” I told him that I wanted to speak to him alone because he was so silent at the club. Then Henry arrived. He said he enjoyed the last meeting very much, and thought he understood it all. The paper he wrote proved that he understood far better than I had supposed:
“To-day we first went over what we had said last week. The question arose as to which class of evil disease belongs. We came to the conclusion that it is the result or price of progress. We also spoke about the idea of a trinity. We had said at the last meeting that God is a divine self within us, and that when we know each other we will know God. Connecting each one of us to the other, there is a feeling of sympathy, a third element. That is to say, there is you, and myself, and, making the third part, that sympathetic understanding which brings us closer together.
“The chief topic to-day was that of Matter and Spirit. At first there was a little difference of opinion, but we finally agreed that in reality everything is spirit, and that which we call matter is only the expression of the spirit. As an example we took the sculptor, who, getting an idea through the mind, expresses this spirit in a statue, which we call matter. We speak of the body as matter, but it is spirit, in as much as it is the medium through which the spirit manifests itself.”
When I told the children I had decided to take up evolution before immortality, because evolution was the problem of creation, they were all satisfied and interested.
Then I read aloud Marian’s little paper:
“On Sunday, October 25th, the Seekers held a regular meeting. We first reviewed our discussion of the last week, and then took up the subject of Matter and Spirit. Our discussion was long, and the conclusion we reached was that matter is an expression of spirit. In the first place, matter is that which has form or qualities. Every material thing is the expression of a thought. If a man makes a table, he does so because he wishes to, because it is his will to do so. If he writes a book, that book is an expression of his thought, but it is what is commonly called matter. Matter is, in short, a result of spirit, is an expression of spirit. Our bodies are the expression of our minds, and the way in which we express ourselves to each other. If our bodies are not perfect, if they are diseased, it is merely that our minds have not advanced far enough to express the perfect body. Our talk this week helped me a great deal. Although we did not cover much ground, we reached a conclusion on one of the most difficult subjects, and I think almost every one was convinced.”
Ruth said she had thought all the week of what I had told them, and that she was sure she agreed with me now. The children’s thoughts seem to develop during the week, as if they shaped afterward, and slowly, all that had been said.
Virginia disagreed with Marian, that the perfect mind would make the perfect body. She said: “People with perfect bodies are often fools. And sickly people are often the most intelligent and fine spirited.”
Marian and Ruth both protested, but could not express themselves. So I said: “That is true. But still I believe the perfect mind would have the perfect body. Our bodies may be imperfect for several reasons: Perhaps we are suffering for the wrong spirit of our ancestors, through heredity. Or, again, the body which may be good enough, and quite perfect, even, with the fool’s mind, might not be strong enough for the active mind. That mind would have to create for itself a more perfect body. So, you see, our bodily imperfections are the price of progress. Our upright position, for instance, which is so great a help to the mind, is a strain on the body, and the cause of many of our ills.”
Ruth said: “I think our bodies will become so much better than they are now, that the best we know now will seem very poor.”
Virginia had written a little paper, which seemed to me at the first reading so vague and uncomprehending, that I did not wish to read it aloud. I was glad I did read it aloud, however, as her explanation and interpretation of herself showed that she understood. This is the paper:
MY IDEA OF MATTER
“Matter is a part of mind. Without it there would be no improvement of the mind. Mind, without matter, would be like a stunted child. It would still exist, but it would not grow. It seems as if matter were the medium between mind and progress.”
Virginia said that was her own idea, whether we agreed or not. It means, according to Virginia, that matter is the medium of expression of mind, and that mind could not grow without this medium. Very good, it seems to me; and we do agree.
I said, and Ruth and Henry joined me, that one must make a distinction, for convenience, at least, between the words “spirit” and “matter.” Marian said they had been separated so long, so completely and so foolishly, that she was glad to dwell upon their sameness.
Now I went on to speak of evolution.[1] I showed them how the theory of evolution, or descent from a common ancestor or ancestors, was a creation theory, just as much as Genesis was a creation theory.
I said: “There is no reason why you should believe this any more than any other history, or story, unless the proofs convince you.”
Alfred and Virginia said it was a reasonable, convincing theory. Marian saw what I meant, and, not knowing so much as they, asked for the proof.
I first gave them the proof of likeness of structure, and showed them pictures of the resemblances of bone and organ structure in various animals. Ruth said she was quite sure all little babies were like monkeys.
Then I gave the proof of the race-likeness of the young. (Examples and illustrations.)
Then that of rudimentary organs. (Examples and illustrations.)
Virginia suggested the geological proof in the finding of fossils. I enlarged on this, and spoke of series of living and extinct shells, etc.
I traced the general progress of evolution, the division into groups and branches.
I told them—what some knew—that evolution was an ancient, philosophical theory, and only the method of evolution Darwinian. Some of them said Darwin’s name always made them think of monkeys.
I now went on to explain Darwin’s theory of natural selection; spoke of variation in all directions as the law of life; then explained the struggle for food and place, and then protective colorings, and consequent elimination. The children gave as many examples and instances as myself. Then I went on to tell what artificial selection had been able to do, and showed a group of pictures of the dog, domesticated from a wolf-like animal. The pictures included prize bulldogs, St. Bernards, French poodles, tiny Japanese dogs and great Danes.
Now Florence, who has just had instruction in evolution by her helpful big brother, said:
“But a great many scientists no longer accept natural selection and the survival of the fittest as an explanation of development. There is the theory of isolation, too.”
“Yes,” I said, “and I am one of those who believe in natural selection only in part, but I wanted you to hear it all. Florence, explain the effect of isolation to us.”
She explained it, and gave a very good example, that of some birds in a species having stronger wings than others, and so flying farther to nest.
When I asked what any theory of the process of evolution failed to explain, Ruth answered “immortality.” I told her that evolutionary theories did not attempt to explain that.
I showed them how no theory explained change itself, explained the initial variation. I showed them, too, the limits of natural selection. When I took the eye as an example of a specialized organ too complex to be easily accounted for by natural selection, I found them hard to convince, because they did not realize the complexity of the eye. But when I spoke of the life and death value of any organic change as necessary for its selection, they saw how that limited selection in many ways.
We spoke of the relation of evolution to our idea of life. At once they said it was a proof of progress.
I insisted on its being a self-evolving, a will in life. They saw that. Alfred said: “Could the one-celled creature will; did it know enough?” Marian answered that it was a subconscious will.
Henry said: “Within living things is the inner will. But how about the earth? Isn’t there a will outside for other things?”
I answered that even the earth seemed self-impelled; that within the universe seemed to be an immense will, and we were a part of that will; it was our will within us.
I said that creatures could change only because they wanted to be different, because something wanted to be different. I said to change, and to change always in one direction, was progress; that what we wanted to do, and thought we had done, was to find that direction.
They saw at once how physical death was necessary to race progress, how the old died to make room for the young, and how each newborn creature had new possibilities of progress.
But when I spoke of all the progress of evolution, of even struggle and selection leading toward harmony, fitness and relationship, which is the thing we want, Ruth said:
“I don’t see how the lobster killing its fellows because it had a larger claw could lead to harmony and better relationship.”
That was a good point. But I scarcely had a chance to answer it, for Marian said that creatures had to develop themselves first.
Then I spoke again, in this relation, of changing standards of good and bad, how what was right for an animal, for the lobster, for instance, was wrong for us. I showed them how all animals were selfish, and had to be selfish and self-evolving alone; how we had to be unselfish only because we realized how vast we were. Marian spoke again of the criminal. She said: “If he were behind us, he, from his own point of view, would not be bad.”
“But he would have to be punished,” said Ruth, “and made to be good.”
“Yes,” I answered, “for he is human, and we expect human actions of him. But we would not dare to blame him.”
Henry said we would punish him not as a punishment to hurt him, but to teach him.
We spoke again of diversity as necessary to comprehension, to understanding. I told them I had a whimsical fancy that the first one-celled creature divided because it wanted company. If creatures never divided, and became different, they certainly could never understand each other. Marian said:
“I see now. It is like a girl who had always lived in her own family and developed pretty well there, but the more different people she met the better she would develop.”
“Yes,” I answered, “unlikeness gives us recognition.”
Virginia said: “If we were all one self, life would be uninteresting.”
“Yes,” said I, “but we might reach a self-conscious self which is unthinkable to us now. There is one way, however, in which evolution helps us, and that is such an obvious way that none of you has thought of it.”
For a moment they were puzzled. Then Alfred said: “It is that we are really all one self.”
“Oh, I see,” said Marian.
“Yes,” I answered, “it is that we are all physically related with all life.”
Then I went on to say that no one knew how life began, that there were theories, but they might be no better than fairy tales. They wanted to hear some. I said:
“One theory is that life is eternal in the shape of life-germs, or organic matter, and that these pass from planet to planet throughout the ether forever. But it is only a theory, and a doubtful one.”
“I like that theory,” said Virginia.
I said I thought beginnings concerned us no more than ends, that all things, histories, science, knowledge, theories concerned us only in so far as they helped us to understand, as they served the large aim of life and showed us how to go. I made Henry repeat again that the aim of life was complete understanding. I said: “To me it is like a measure by which I measure and value all things.” We tried to measure various things by it, such as the relative advancement of monkeys, birds and ants, and the greatness of Napoleon and Shakespeare. We came to few conclusions, except that the love of man made man lovable, and that Shakespeare must have been a lover of men.
Henry said: “I think he worked for his own sake, and not for others.”
“Yes,” I answered; “but he loved and understood his fellows, so he could not help serving them in serving himself. It was his joy.”
I said if we had that standard of understanding love, we would need no other morality. I quoted from St. Augustine’s Confessions:
“Love God, and do as you please.”
“But,” I said, “most of us do not love God, or the great good, enough to be able to do as we please without thinking. We still have to stop to measure.”
As they were going home, I said: “Next week we will speak of immortality.”
“Really, this time?” asked Ruth.
“Now, after this meeting,” said Marian, “I am afraid you may tell us, what I have sometimes heard, that we are immortal in the race. Will you?”
“No,” I answered, “I will not.”
[1]
For examples and illustrations I used the first volume of Romanes’ “Darwin and After Darwin” as more convenient and compact than Darwin himself.