the plum-tree, for instance, some varieties produce plums which are nearly alike, but include stones extremely dissimilar in shape; whilst conversely other varieties produce dissimilar fruit with barely distinguishable stones; and generally the stones, though they have never been subjected to selection, differ greatly in the several varieties of the plum. In other cases organs which are not manifestly related, through some unknown bond vary together, and are consequently liable, without any intention on man's part, to be simultaneously acted on by selection. Thus the varieties of the stock (Matthiola) have been selected solely for the beauty of their flowers, but the seeds differ greatly in colour and somewhat in size. Varieties of the lettuce have been selected solely on account of their leaves, yet produce seeds which likewise differ in colour. Generally, through the law of correlation, when a variety differs greatly from its fellow-varieties in any one character, it differs to a certain extent in several other characters. I observed this fact when I cultivated together many varieties of the same species, for I used first to make a list of the varieties which differed most from each other in their foliage and manner of growth, afterwards of those that differed most in their flowers, then in their seed-capsules, and lastly in their mature seed; and I found that the same names generally occurred in two, three, or four of the successive lists. Nevertheless the greatest amount of difference between the varieties was always exhibited, as far as I could judge, by that part or organ for which the plant was cultivated.
When we bear in mind that each plant was at first cultivated because useful to man, and that its variation was a subsequent, often a long subsequent, event, we cannot explain the greater amount of diversity in the valuable parts by supposing that species endowed with an especial tendency to vary in any particular manner, were originally chosen. We must attribute the result to the variations in these parts having been successively preserved, and thus continually augmented; whilst other variations, excepting such as inevitably appeared through correlation, were neglected and lost. Hence we may infer that most plants might be made, through long-continued selection, to yield races as different from each other in any character
as they now are in those parts for which they are valued and cultivated.
With animals we see something of the same kind; but they have not been domesticated in sufficient number or yielded sufficient varieties for a fair comparison. Sheep are valued for their wool, and the wool differs much more in the several races than the hair in cattle. Neither sheep, goats, European cattle, nor pigs are valued for their fleetness or strength; and we do not possess breeds differing in these respects like the race-horse and dray-horse. But fleetness and strength are valued in camels and dogs; and we have with the former the swift dromedary and heavy camel; with the latter the greyhound and mastiff. But dogs are valued even in a higher degree for their mental qualities and senses; and every one knows how greatly the races differ in these respects. On the other hand, where the dog is valued solely to serve for food, as in the Polynesian islands and China, it is described as an extremely stupid animal.[[530]] Blumenbach remarks that "many dogs, such as the badger-dog, have a build so marked and so appropriate for particular purposes, that I should find it very difficult to persuade myself that this astonishing figure was an accidental consequence of degeneration."[[531]] But had Blumenbach reflected on the great principle of selection, he would not have used the term degeneration, and he would not have been astonished that dogs and other animals should become excellently adapted for the service of man.
On the whole we may conclude that whatever part or character is most valued—whether the leaves, stems, tubers, bulbs, flowers, fruit, or seed of plants, or the size, strength, fleetness, hairy covering, or intellect of animals—that character will almost invariably be found to present the greatest amount of difference both in kind and degree. And this result may be safely attributed to man having preserved during a long course of generations the variations which were useful to him, and neglected the others.
I will conclude this chapter by some remarks on an important subject. With animals such as the giraffe, of which
the whole structure is admirably co-ordinated for certain purposes, it has been supposed that all the parts must have been simultaneously modified; and it has been argued that, on the principle of natural selection, this is scarcely possible. But in thus arguing, it has been tacitly assumed that the variations must have been abrupt and great. No doubt, if the neck of a ruminant were suddenly to become greatly elongated, the fore limbs and back would have to be simultaneously strengthened and modified; but it cannot be denied that an animal might have its neck, or head, or tongue, or fore-limbs elongated a very little without any corresponding modification in other parts of the body; and animals thus slightly modified would, during a dearth, have a slight advantage, and be enabled to browse on higher twigs, and thus survive. A few mouthfuls more or less every day would make all the difference between life and death. By the repetition of the same process, and by the occasional intercrossing of the survivors, there would be some progress, slow and fluctuating though it would be, towards the admirably co-ordinated structure of the giraffe. If the short-faced tumbler-pigeon, with its small conical beak, globular head, rounded body, short wings, and small feet—characters which appear all in harmony—had been a natural species, its whole structure would have been viewed as well fitted for its life; but in this case we know that inexperienced breeders are urged to attend to point after point, and not to attempt improving the whole structure at the same time. Look at the greyhound, that perfect image of grace, symmetry, and vigour; no natural species can boast of a more admirably co-ordinated structure, with its tapering head, slim body, deep chest, tucked-up abdomen, rat-like tail, and long muscular limbs, all adapted for extreme fleetness, and for running down weak prey. Now, from what we see of the variability of animals, and from what we know of the method which different men follow in improving their stock—some chiefly attending to one point, others to another point, others again correcting defects by crosses, and so forth—we may feel assured that if we could see the long line of ancestors of a first-rate greyhound, up to its wild wolf-like progenitor, we should behold an infinite number of the finest gradations, sometimes in one character and sometimes in another, but all leading towards our
present perfect type. By small and doubtful steps such as these, nature, as we may confidently believe, has progressed on her grand march of improvement and development.
A similar line of reasoning is as applicable to separate organs as to the whole organisation. A writer[[532]] has recently maintained that "it is probably no exaggeration to suppose that, in order to improve such an organ as the eye at all, it must be improved in ten different ways at once. And the improbability of any complex organ being produced and brought to perfection in any such way is an improbability of the same kind and degree as that of producing a poem or a mathematical demonstration by throwing letters at random on a table." If the eye were abruptly and greatly modified, no doubt many parts would have to be simultaneously altered, in order that the organ should remain serviceable.
But is this the case with smaller changes? There are persons who can see distinctly only in a dull light, and this condition depends, I believe, on the abnormal sensitiveness of the retina, and is known to be inherited. Now, if a bird, for instance, received some great advantage from seeing well in the twilight, all the individuals with the most sensitive retina would succeed best and be the most likely to survive; and why should not all those which happened to have the eye itself a little larger, or the pupil capable of greater dilatation, be likewise preserved, whether or not these modifications were strictly simultaneous? These individuals would subsequently intercross and blend their respective advantages. By such slight successive changes, the eye of a diurnal bird would be brought into the condition of that of an owl, which has often been advanced as an excellent instance of adaptation. Short-sight, which is often inherited, permits a person to see distinctly a minute object at so near a distance that it would be indistinct to ordinary eyes; and here we have a capacity which might be serviceable under certain conditions, abruptly gained. The Fuegians on board the