Somewhat may be justly, or at least plausibly, said in reply to all this from the ordinary standpoint, but probably not to much effect. There were always insuperable difficulties, which, when they seemed to be few, might be regarded as exceptional; but, as they increase in number and variety, they seem to fall into a system. No doubt we may still insist that, "in the present state of our knowledge, the adaptations in Nature afford a large balance of probability in favor of creation by intelligence," as Mill concluded; and probability must needs be the guide of reason through these dark places. Still, the balancing of irreconcilable facts is not a satisfying occupation, nor a wholly hopeful one, while fresh weights are from time to time dropping into the lighter side of the balance. Strong as our convictions are, they may be overborne by evidence. We cannot rival the fabled woman of Ephesus, who, beginning by carrying her calf from the day of its birth, was still able to do so when it became an ox. The burden which our fathers carried comfortably, with some adventitious help, has become too heavy for our shoulders.
Seriously, there must be something wrong in the position, some baleful error mixed with the truth, to which this contradiction of our inmost convictions may be attributed. The error, as we suppose, lies in the combination of the principle of design with the hypothesis of the immutability and isolated creation of species. The latter hypothesis, in its nature un-provable, has, on scientific grounds, become so far improbable that few, even of the anti-Darwinian naturalists, now hold to it; and, whatever may once have been its religious claims, it is at present a hinderance rather than a help to any just and consistent teleology.
By the adoption of the Darwinian hypothesis, or something like it, which we incline to favor, many of the difficulties are obviated, and others diminished. In the comprehensive and far-reaching teleology which may take the place of the former narrow conceptions, organs and even faculties, useless to the individual, find their explanation and reason of being. Either they have done service in the past, or they may do service in the future. They may have been essentially useful in one way in a past species, and, though now functionless, they may be turned to useful account in some very different way hereafter. In botany several cases come to our mind which suggest such interpretation.
Under this view, moreover, waste of life and material in organic Nature ceases to be utterly inexplicable, because it ceases to be objectless. It is seen to be a part of the general "economy of Nature," a phrase which has a real meaning. One good illustration of it is furnished by the pollen of flowers. The seeming waste of this in a pine-forest is enormous. It gives rise to the so-called "showers of sulphur," which every one has heard of. Myriads upon myriads of pollen-grains (each an elaborate organic structure) are wastefully dispersed by the winds to one which reaches a female flower and fertilizes a seed. Contrast this with one of the close-fertilized flowers of a violet, in which there are not many times more grains of pollen produced than there are of seeds to be fertilized; or with an orchis-flower, in which the proportion is not widely different. These latter are certainly the more economical; but there is reason to believe that the former arrangement is not wasteful. The plan in the violet-flower assures the result with the greatest possible saving of material and action; but this result, being close-fertilization or breeding in and in, would, without much doubt, in the course of time, defeat the very object of having seeds at all.[XIII-3] So the same plant produces other flowers also, provided with a large surplus of pollen, and endowed (as the others are not) with color, fragrance, and nectar, attractive to certain insects, which are thereby induced to convey this pollen from blossom to blossom, that it may fulfill its office. In such blossoms, and in the great majority of flowers, the fertilization and consequent perpetuity of which are committed to insects, the likelihood that much pollen may be left behind or lost in the transit is sufficient reason for the apparent superfluity. So, too, the greater economy in orchis-flowers is accounted for by the fact that the pollen is packed in coherent masses, all attached to a common stalk, the end of which is expanded into a sort of button, with a glutinous adhesive face (like a bit of sticking-plaster), and this is placed exactly where the head of a moth or butterfly will be pressed against it when it sucks nectar from the flower, and so the pollen will be bodily conveyed from blossom to blossom, with small chance of waste or loss. The floral world is full of such contrivances; and while they exist the doctrine of purpose or final cause is not likely to die out. Now, in the contrasted case, that of pine-trees, the vast superabundance of pollen would be sheer waste if the intention was to fertilize the seeds of the same tree, or if there were any provision for insect-carriage; but with wide-breeding as the end, and the wind which "bloweth where it listeth" as the means, no one is entitled to declare that pine-pollen is in wasteful excess. The cheapness of wind-carriage may be set against the overproduction of pollen.
Similar considerations may apply to the mould-fungi and other very low organisms, with spores dispersed through the air in countless myriads, but of which only an infinitesimal portion find opportunity for development. The myriads perish. The exceptional one, falling into a fit medium, is imagined by the Westminster Reviewer to argue design from the beneficial provision it finds itself enjoying, in happy ignorance of the perishing or latent multitude. But, in view of the large and important part they play (as the producers of all fermentation and as the omnipresent scavenger-police of Nature), no good ground appears for arguing either wasteful excess or absence of design from the vast disparity between their potential and their actual numbers. The reserve and the active members of the force should both be counted in, ready as they always and everywhere are for service. Considering their ubiquity, persistent vitality, and promptitude of action upon fitting occasion, the suggestion would rather be that, while
". . . thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest, They also serve [which] only stand and wait."
Finally, Darwinian teleology has the special advantage of accounting for the imperfections and failures as well as for successes. It not only accounts for them, but turns them to practical account. It explains the seeming waste as being part and parcel of a great economical process. Without the competing multitude, no struggle for life; and without this, no natural selection and survival of the fittest, no continuous adaptation to changing surroundings, no diversification and improvement, leading from lower up to higher and nobler forms. So the most puzzling things of all to the old-school teleologists are the principia of the Darwinian. In this system the forms and species, in all their variety, are not mere ends in themselves, but the whole a series of means and ends, in the contemplation of which we may obtain higher and more comprehensive, and perhaps worthier, as well as more consistent, views of design in Nature than heretofore. At least, it would appear that in Darwinian evolution we may have a theory that accords with if it does not explain the principal facts, and a teleology that is free from the common objections.
But is it a teleology, or rather—to use the new-fangled term—a dysteleology? That depends upon how it is held. Darwinian evolution (whatever may be said of other kinds) is neither theistical nor nontheistical. Its relations to the question of design belong to the natural theologian, or, in the larger sense, to the philosopher. So long as the world lasts it will probably be open to any one to hold consistently, in the last resort, either of the two hypotheses, that of a divine mind, or that of no divine mind. There is no way that we know of C by which the alternative may be excluded. Viewed philosophically, the question only is, Which is the better supported hypothesis of the two?
We have only to say that the Darwinian system, as we understand it, coincides well with the theistic view of Nature. It not only acknowledges purpose (in the Contemporary Reviewer's sense), but builds upon it; and if purpose in this sense does not of itself imply design, it is certainly compatible with it, and suggestive of it. Difficult as it may be to conceive and impossible to demonstrate design in a whole of which the series of parts appear to be contingent, the alternative may be yet more difficult and less satisfactory. If all Nature is of a piece—as modern physical philosophy insists— then it seems clear that design must in some way, and in some sense, pervade the system, or be wholly absent from it. Of the alternatives, the predication of design—special, general, or universal, as the case may be—is most natural to the mind; while the exclusion of it throughout, because some utilities may happen, many adaptations may be contingent results, and no organic maladaptations could continue, runs counter to such analogies as we have to guide us, and leads to a conclusion which few men ever rested in. It need not much trouble us that we are incapable of drawing clear lines of demarkation between mere utilities, contingent adaptations, and designed contrivances in Nature; for we are in much the same condition as respects human affairs and those of lower animals. What results are comprehended in a plan, and what are incidental, is often more than we can readily determine in matters open to observation. And in plans executed mediately or indirectly, and for ends comprehensive and far-reaching, many purposed steps must appear to us incidental or meaningless. But the higher the intelligence, the more fully will the incidents enter into the plan, and the more universal and interconnected may the ends be. Trite as the remark is, it would seem still needful to insist that the failure of a finite being to compass the designs of an infinite mind should not invalidate its conclusions respecting proximate ends which he can understand. It is just as in physical science, where, as our knowledge and grasp increase, and happy discoveries are made, wider generalizations are formed, which commonly comprehend, rather than destroy, the earlier and partial ones. So, too, the "sterility" of the old doctrine of final causes in science, and the presumptuous uses made of them, when it was supposed that every adapted arrangement or structure existed for this or that direct and special end, and for no other, can hardly be pressed to the conclusion that there are no final causes, i.e., ultimate reasons of things.[XIII-4] Design in Nature is distinguished from that in human affairs—as it fittingly should be—by all comprehensiveness and system. Its theological synonym is Providence. Its application in particular is surrounded by similar insoluble difficulties; nevertheless, both are bound up with theism.
Probably few at the present day will maintain that Darwinian evolution is incompatible with the principle of design; but some insist that the theory can dispense with, and in fact supersedes, this principle.