Fifth Meeting
Henry said: “I told some one lately about our club and what we did, and he thought we spoke of things that were too deep and philosophical.”
“Do you think so?” I asked.
“No,” he answered, “of course I don’t.”
I said: “We are doing something unusual for boys and girls of your age. Most people would think you not able to understand and enjoy it. But I know you do, and you know it.”
Marian said: “Why should we not be able to talk of these things in a club, when we certainly do talk of them among ourselves?”
I read Henry’s paper:
“To-day we spoke on the theory of evolution. The theory tells us that we are descended from a single, one-celled animal. This animal grew and was divided into several cells, which in turn were divided. We find that when a race of animals needs something with which to protect itself, or with which to get food, that thing usually grows, as in the case of the mother bird, whose feathers are usually the color of the place where she has her nest. In this manner the one-celled animals may have developed, as the increasing numbers made it harder to get food, and brought other difficulties. Another way in which species may develop is that of isolation. For example, while a flock of birds is flying south to escape the cold, some of the weaker ones are left on the way. Here the cold may cause many feathers to grow, and the other conditions may have such an effect as to develop an entirely new kind of bird. We can also take as an example the different colors of men, caused by the conditions in which they live.
“The disappearance of certain species while others survive is, according to the idea of natural selection, only the survival of the fittest. We find that long ago there were animals larger than any of to-day, but they have completely died out, perhaps because they could not find food, while the smaller, weaker animals have survived because they were better fitted for the conditions. Looking back at history, we can see how at different periods one nation would wipe out another which was weaker, or how one people, more advanced than others, could better protect itself from the elements, and, therefore, lived while others died. The similarity of different animals gives a good foundation for this theory. A baby will often take attitudes exactly like those of a monkey, and while it is young crawl on all fours like animals. Different kinds of animals have bones and all other parts of the body just alike, and also like those of men.
“This theory teaches progression and is therefore useful. It teaches that we were once one, and we should therefore have sympathy with one another.”
I next read Florence’s paper:
“In our last talk we spoke of evolution and its bearing on progress. I shall simply try to give an idea of what we said about evolution itself. By evolution we mean that we all sprang from a common ancestral source, and have gradually developed into higher and different forms. In general, this change has been from the greatest simplicity, which we find in the one-celled animal, to the highest complexity.
“Darwin, although not the first to advance the theory of evolution, was the first to enlarge and further it. His deductions rest on three main theories—heredity, variation and natural selection. He thought that the offspring always inherited the parents’ qualities with something new in its composition. By natural selection Darwin meant the survival of the fittest, that is, that only the most fitted for life should live. In this way the offspring receiving traits from its parents, if they be to its advantage, will live and continue them, and those who have not got them will be killed. In other words, Darwin believed that the terrible struggle for existence, which usually destroys nine-tenths of each generation, must favor those who possess the best variation for their environment; and that these will in turn hand on to their successors these favoring variations. In this next generation the same process will be repeated, and in this way we get a steady though very gradual advance.
“To-day, however, looking at it broadly, we can see that all heredity and variation need is some way of separating those individuals having some peculiar variation from those who do not possess any. This we call isolation, and it can easily be seen that natural selection is only a subhead under this title. Another form of isolation beside natural selection is geographical.
“Our theories have advanced to this stage, and although it is quite a large move from the original ideas of Darwin, there are many questions still puzzling us, which have yet to be solved.”
Then came Marian’s paper:
“On Sunday, November 1st, the Seekers held a very interesting meeting. The subject we discussed was Evolution. The very lowest form of life is a one-celled animal. This divides into a two-celled one, which in turn continues to divide and differentiate until it takes the form of a plant or animal. All animals must have had some common ancestor. The proof of this is the existence of rudimentary organs, such as the appendix in man and the bones in the flipper of a whale where we should expect legs. Another proof is to be found in the remains and knowledge we have of prehistoric animals. Some of them were shaped like reptiles, and yet had wings. In connection with evolution, there are the theories of natural selection and isolation. Natural selection is the belief in the survival of the fittest. For instance, if one lobster happened to grow a large claw, which enabled it to fight better, its young were likely to inherit this tendency, and their young also, etc., until the larger-clawed lobsters, being better able to fight, would kill off most of the others. This theory would not always hold good, however. The theory of isolation is very interesting. If, for instance, a bird of one species was born with a longer bill than most of the others, and this bird found a warmer climate was better for it, and, after mating, flew farther south, its young would probably inherit this longer bill, and would also fly farther south than most of the species. Soon they would become entirely separated from the original species, and would become a new class of birds. The connection that Evolution has with our work is that evolution is progress and that our aim is progress. Evolution also helps us to understand animals and plants, and to come into a better understanding with nature. Disease is the price of progress. As we progress, one part goes ahead, often at the expense of some other part. Thus disease may be called the price of progress.”
Marian admitted that she was rather mixed up about the cells dividing and the long-billed bird going south for his health. But this is doing well for the unscientific Marian, who said a while ago that she did not see how science could have any effect on our view of life.
Then I read Virginia’s paper:
THEORY OF EVOLUTION
“The first life that appeared on the earth was a one-celled animal or plant that appeared beneath the water. The germs of life travel through the ether, and wherever there are conditions in which living things can thrive, there they settle. So that was the way in which life began on the earth.
“This one-celled animal, after a while, divided into more cells, and thus became more complicated. When land appeared, land animals and plants came into existence. And these animals became higher and higher. First the animals without a spine, then a more complicated specimen, in the lower forms of vertebrates. Then the reptiles, out of which came two branches, the birds and the immense reptiles of which none have survived that I know of. But out of them came the mammals. And after many thousands of years, man appeared.
“At first man was more like an animal, but after centuries he became less savage. He made implements for himself, and lived in tribes with his fellow men; and the more highly civilized man becomes, the more will he sympathize with the rest of mankind, so that when the highest civilization arrives, it will only mean complete love of all living things.”
I insisted that the theory of germ transmission was not a fact. I said she seemed to have avoided natural selection, that I thought she did not like it because it was too mathematical and too logical for her. Ruth thought perhaps that was why she did not like it much, either, though it interested her. I said: “It seems at first so ‘cruel’ a theory; it repels us until we remember that what is cruel in a man is not so in a beast.” Virginia answered that she did not think it cruel, because it was not meant cruelly. “They had to kill each other,” she said. Henry asked me whether I thought it cruel to eat animals. I answered it was not cruel, unless they were cruelly killed. Ruth added that some time we would get beyond the need of eating animals. “To hunt for fun is wicked,” said Virginia.
Marian said: “Perhaps we think natural selection not so cruel among animals, because we did not do the suffering.”
The children all said they did not remember just what relation evolution had to our idea of life. I answered that the very fact that we could not go on in our thought without it proved its relation, and that we would constantly come back to it, that I did not need to explain it now.
Then we spoke of prayer. I asked each one in turn what and how much they had thought of it.
Alfred said he had never thought of it, that he had prayed as a baby, but had stopped early and never felt the need. Florence said the same. Henry said he believed in prayer, especially in prayer for strength in any undertaking. “Of course,” he went on, “I don’t expect to be helped against the other fellow, but I get strength in praying for strength.”
“I agree with you,” said Ruth, “only don’t you pray to know whether you are right or not? For you might be wrong.”
“If I thought I might be wrong,” he answered, “I wouldn’t be doing the thing I was doing.” They argued it a bit. “But,” he went on, “I have no set formula for prayer, nor a definite time.”
Virginia said: “I have always prayed. When I was little I got in the habit of saying a silly little German prayer, so that I could not go to sleep without saying something. So when the little prayer seemed too silly to me, I began saying each evening the stanza of a poem.”
“What poem?” I asked.
“The last stanza of the ‘Chambered Nautilus.’ I could not go to sleep unless I said it.”
She recited it for us.
Marian said: “It depends on what you mean by prayer. I never learned to say any, nor ever wanted to, but I do have a prayer-feeling.”
We all agreed that the prayer which asked for something definite was folly. I said prayer was getting into oneness with the vast Self around and behind us, and drawing strength from that which was ours for the asking, which was ourself.
Marian said it was getting into harmony with the world.
We thought every one had that feeling of vastness, of oneness with God, at times. Virginia said she got it especially when she was by the sea.
“I feel it most,” said Marian, “when I am out of doors, and feel my close relation with nature.”
Henry said he felt it most in a big crowd of people.
“Yes,” answered Ruth; “then you feel how little all this is, and the vast, big life above it all.”
“You don’t mean, Ruth,” I asked “that you feel the crowd to be a little thing?”
“Oh, no,” she answered. “I feel it in the crowd.”
Henry said: “To be among people always arouses that feeling of sympathy.”
There are many ways of praying, I said; to speak certain words that aroused in us the prayer-feeling was a good way; but that the words were only to awaken the feeling in us, and were worth nothing by themselves. If one could feel the prayer without any words whatever, it would be just as well. Florence thought it very hard not to get to repeat words by rote. Henry said he always made a particular effort to think of the meaning of the words as he said them.
“I don’t believe,” said Virginia, “that it is so much thought as feeling. I don’t always think of the meaning of those words when I say them, but I get from them the feeling that I must have, to go to sleep.”
“And now,” I went on, “it seems especially important to get into this frame of mind just before we go to sleep. For during sleep it seems as if the bigger self were working for us. And as we go to sleep, so shall we be next day. I think that if, as you fall asleep, you ask—your vast self—for strength, for the power to do whatever you know you must do next day, and to solve whatever problems you have to solve, and then get the deep sense of prayer, you usually awaken with the strength you need, and your problems solved. Is it not so?”
Virginia said she always found that if she wanted to learn something, she had only to read it over to herself at night, without learning it, and in the morning, when she awoke, she knew it. Ruth said she found it so; that she always felt next day according to the way she had fallen asleep at night. They had various opinions. Marian said it did not matter how she fell asleep at night; if things went well in the morning, the whole day went well; if ill, then the day went ill. She loves the power of each new day. Alfred said he thought that our brains worked for us in sleep, because then the mind was free from all obstructing thoughts.
I repeated for them a little prayer I had written for a baby:
“Great Lord of life, who lives in me,
And lives in all I know,
With happy thoughts I go to sleep;
And while I sleep I grow.
“I hope to wake this coming morn
More strong, and brave and bright;
While you shall stay, both night and day,
With all I love to-night.”
They said it did not seem babyish to them. Henry, especially, liked it, and several of them wished to copy it.
I said one might have the “prayer-feeling,” the sense of the whole, so constantly that one would not need to pray, that one’s whole life might be a prayer.
The children objected to this, because they thought it would be impossible now, in our imperfect condition. Virginia said: “A person who lived that way would be a perfect saint.” Henry thought it would make one cold and unsympathetic.
“How is that possible,” I asked, “when it would be a state of constant sympathy and understanding of life?”
“No,” said Ruth; “such a person would be too much above us. I don’t think one could live so, at present. It would imply a perfection physical and mental that we have not yet reached.”
Florence said she not only thought such a state possible, but she believed there were people who lived in this way now, and that she knew such people.
Some one suggested that they must be unspeakably happy.
“No,” answered Florence; “not necessarily happy, at all.”
I said that I thought such a life would be a state of happiness.
They all agreed; Florence, too, after a moment.
Marian and Henry said they had never met people without limitations. Florence insisted she had; whereupon Marian called her a hero-worshiper. I said people’s limitations were where they failed to understand, and that we none of us understood everything. The sense of oneness would not imply, however, either perfection or apartness or superiority. One might feel everything in this way, whenever one thought of it.
Henry answered: “But how often is one not occupied? Little things distract us constantly.”
Marian said: “It means having always the sense of oneness, sympathy and understanding, and always acting, thinking and judging according to that.”
“Yes,” said I, “and there is another thing that seems to me a prayer. Every creative action; that is, everything we do which brings us into relation with the world, is a prayer because it is an expression of oneness.”
Marian said: “It seems as if there were two kinds of prayer, one strength-giving and one strength-getting.”
I don’t know how we came upon the subject of circles. I said that the smallest things, as well as the largest, were prone to express themselves in a universal way, that every drop of water naturally formed itself into a sphere.
“Yes,” said Marian; “and the circle seems to stand for all life.”
Now we spoke of immortality. I asked each to tell me what he or she thought.
Virginia did not want to express her opinion. Ruth and Henry vaguely implied that they believed in immortality. Alfred said:
“I think it is very good for people, if they can believe in it.”
“That is not the question,” said I. “I believe nothing but the truth is truly good for people. What do you believe?”
“I don’t believe I am immortal,” he answered, “because I see no reason to believe it.”
Florence said: “We must be immortal, because nothing dies, but is passed on. And there is something in us—I mean that which loves and knows sympathy—which we do not pass on. So I think it must be immortal.”
Marian said: “I am, so I don’t see how I could not be.”
I answered them: “Marian’s and Florence’s ideas seem to me very good. One cannot prove immortality. I have good reasons to believe it. But my best reason is not a reason at all; and if you don’t understand it, I cannot explain it to you. If I am, I must be forever. ‘I am’ means immortality. That is what Marian said, and what I believe. If I believe in the whole Self of the universe, and that Self is in me, and I am in it, then how can I die unless that Self dies? And if I believe in progress, which is toward complete understanding and wholeness of the Self, how can that progress be without me who am a part of it? Do you know who Robert Ingersoll was? Well, he, who passed for such a scoffer—though in reality he expressed only his own realization of his ignorance and his contempt for dogmatic faiths—once said: ‘I am a part of the world. Without me the world would be incomplete. In this there is hope.’ Hope, he meant, of eternal life with the world.”
The children were much impressed.
Marian said: “How can one face the horrible thought of extinction? It is unimaginable. What answer would you give,” she asked, “to those people who claim that we are immortal only in our children, in the race? I never know what to answer them, and yet I feel sure they are not right.”
“I think there are two good answers,” I said. “First, it is extremely unlikely that the race is immortal. Even if we thought our immortality unlikely, it is far more likely, and much less of an act of faith, to believe in it than to believe in race-immortality. We know that every planet dies and parches. We know that every race, every physical manifestation comes to an end, but we know that the spirit of life lives forever, and forever grows. I have heard people say that when this planet dries and freezes, men will have advanced so far in science that they will find their way in airships to another planet. But to me it seems far more unlikely than that the spirit of life, the self within us, should go on forever. The second answer seems to me to be Florence’s answer, that we are not immortal in the race, that although we give our children much, we give to no one our power of love, of understanding, of sympathy.”
Henry asked: “Don’t we give it through example and teaching?”
“We give much,” I said. “We can teach and train, but we give no one that understanding self, the power for love and sympathy, which is in us, and cannot be made.”
Henry did not see how one could find satisfaction in living for the race, since forever and ever each successive generation would be mortal and would disappear.
I said I did not believe that in a world which to us was all intellect, the intellect could die. Then I read aloud the following passage from “John Percyfield,” by C. Hanford Henderson:
“It is an old mistake, that of calling desires beliefs. But I think I have allowed for this. I have said, if death end all, if that be the truth of it, then that is what I want to believe. For no man in his right senses wishes to be either self-deceived, or other-deceived. I have doubted immortality, even disbelieved it, but now I believe it on as strong warrant as I have for any of my scientific beliefs. In one sense, immortality cannot be experienced; it is not a fact of experience in the same immediate way that certain minor scientific facts are. But neither can the paleozoic age be experienced, nor space, nor time, nor cause and effect. They are inductions from experience. And so to me is immortality. It is an induction from experience. In a world where every reality is essentially spiritual, or intellectual, whichever term you prefer, where even the study of nature, as soon as it passes from mere observation into orderly science, becomes a mental rather than a physical fact, I can only imagine the disappearance of spirit by picturing the annihilation of the universe itself. Without the mental part that we give to all of our so-called facts, they would cease to exist. It is possible that the universe does shrivel up in this way and disappear, but it is less probable, I think, than any one of the great possibilities which science rejects, and feels warranted in accepting their opposite as fact.”
I said that to me as to him it seemed as if, were there not immortality for the self, the world itself might shrivel up and disappear. A world without immortality would be a mad world, without reason; and, as everything else seems reasonable to me, I believe the world to be reasonable. I spoke, too, of the danger of believing things simply because we liked them. I told them how I had disbelieved in immortality at one time, because I suddenly found I had only believed what pleased me.
Virginia said: “I believe things because I like them. But may not that liking, that feeling, in itself be a sign of truth?”
“No,” I answered; “liking is no proof or sign.”
Marian said: “But it is only because we care, because we wish to believe, that we begin to think of these things.”
“Yes,” I replied, “we must care. But then we must bravely face the truth.”
Marian told us she had never been taught anything on this subject, but that gradually her belief had grown, and that her talks with Ruth had helped her from her ideas.
I said many people believed in “personal” immortality; that is, immortality with memory, and the meeting of those we love. I do not pretend to know, or to have a definite opinion. But I think the results of life are eternal, even if not in precise memories. I asked the children for opinions. None of them seemed to believe, or care to believe, in distinct personal immortality.
Ruth said: “We would surely meet those we had loved, in that complete whole self, even though it were not as persons.”
I was surprised and glad to hear her say it. I had said to the children that they probably believed, and might easily believe, much beyond what I told them, but this was all which I believed; I would tell them no theories or surmises of mine, of which I could not feel certain. They were urgent in asking me please to tell them some theories, but I refused.
Virginia said she believed in transmigration. I think it possible, as I told her; it is in every way consistent with progress and all things in life, but I have no reason for feeling sure of it. She said: “It must be true, for if there is just so much spirit in the world, forever and ever, and if it must express itself through matter, how can there be anything but transmigration? Some time we may all live again on some other planet, in some other shape.” I said it might be so.
The children asked me whether I believed animals were immortal. I answered that as much life and self as is in them must be immortal. I observed that this idea of animal-immortality was consistent with Virginia’s belief in transmigration, that so each least creature might rise through successive stages toward its complete self.
Then I said to the children that, of course, if we believed we had been nothing before we were born, we could easily believe in extinction. But I, for one, believed, yes, knew, that I had been forever, that I was not “made” in these few years.
“Yes,” said Marian, “I could not have grown to be what I am, just since I was born.”
Henry said: “We are not concerned with the past, but with the future.”
Virginia, and the others, brought up instances of seeming to remember things from a former life, of feeling as if they had done some particular thing before, in the dim past.
Alfred had not spoken at all during this time. He now said he very much wished he could believe in immortality, but could not see any reason for doing so. I said we should have to spend the next meeting in convincing Alfred. I went on: “If we believe in the vast Self of life, and if we are a part of that awakening Self, how can we die?”
Then I read aloud Emily Brontë’s “Last Lines.”
I was glad to leave the subject open in this fashion, to give them a week for thought, and I said little more.