The heavens are wonderful, and the earth is wonderful, and man, who, by force of intellect, has sought to comprehend the immensity of one and unravel the formation of the other, is hardly less wonderful than either. Still the great mystery remains unriddled; our researches have brought us no nearer the beginning, and the first cause of all continues unapproachable and undefinable as ever. Instead of explaining physical creation, we begin with it; we take the existence of matter for granted, and its attributes for granted, and forthwith begin to fabricate a universe, without first ascertaining whence was matter, or whence the laws by which it is impressed, and has been governed in its evolutions.
Nature's greatest phenomena are the celestial spaces and the bodies that fill them; our own planet and its living occupants. Upon each of these, their commencement and subsequent vicissitudes, the Vestiges of Creation have propounded an hypothesis, but one mystery is only sought to be explained by another still more mysterious. For the fiat of a Creator chemical affinities and mechanical laws have been substituted, but aided by these the author has failed to produce a world such as we find it. Hence we are again driven upon the old tradition, the old sacred authority, that the world was created out of nothing; and this is as easy to comprehend as the solution of the Vestiges, that it sprang from that which is certainly next to nothing—a heated fog or universal fire-mist.
When the author deals with the facts of science he interests and instructs, but when he speculates he only amuses or perplexes, without advancing knowledge. His terse and luminous description of the astral firmament deeply impresses with the might and the magnitude of the vast design; but when he attempts to account for the elimination of suns and worlds, their formation and arrangement, we are struck by the puerile folly of his conjectural presumptions.
Descending from this august and glittering canopy to our own planet, we are not less astonished by the exhibition of the extraordinary revolutions it has undergone. Geology is the true historian of the earth. Conducted by the lights it affords, we see an eternity of ages has rolled before us; we discover a series of worlds rising through the depths of ocean from the central sphere of heat, amidst boiling floods and volcanic fires, each new platform of existence, that countless periods of time had been requisite to form, peopled with its own congenial forms of organic life, mostly commencing with the simpler, and ascending by almost imperceptible gradations to the higher and more complex structures of being. We are struck by the correspondence, by the pari passu development and formation of the earth's crust and organic existences, and we are apt hastily to conclude that a relation has subsisted between them, that contemporary changes have been cause and effect, and that the improvement of the earth produced the correlative improvement in animals and plants.
This forms the author's second questionable hypothesis; it is plausible, but false—repugnant to fact and correct observation. We have no credible evidence that species have changed, or are changeable by the utmost efforts of art or favouring conditions; all we can effect is to improve them within definite limits, but not alter their characteristic types; and we have certain proof that neither man nor the animal nearly next to him in organization, has changed either in habits, disposition, form, or osseus structure during the last 3,000 years. Resemblance is no proof of identity; and hence, though species run into each other by almost inappreciable shades of difference, it is no proof that they are derivative, or other than isolated and self-dependent creations. That they are such, and shall continue such, seems a fixed canon of Nature, who, apparently, has prescribed to each its circle of amendment and range, that like shall beget like—that nought organic shall exist without ancestral germ—and that the variety of species which constitutes the beauty and order of nature shall by no chance, contrivance, or mingling of races, be confounded.
Geological facts are in favour of this conclusion. They attest the appearance of new species, not their improvement. In each species a gradation of improvement, approximating from a lower to the next higher organism, is not perceptible; but each seems to have been made perfect at first, and most suited to the co-existent state of the earth. The earliest reptiles were not reptiles of inferior structure; nor the earliest fishes, birds, or beasts. They were adapted, as we now find them, to their precise sphere of existence, without progressive aptitude, preparatory to a higher and translated condition of being. Geology rather points to the extinction and degeneracy of species than their improvement; and the fossils of the old red sandstone, and of the carboniferous formation, attest a loftier and more magnificent creation of both marine and land products than any now subsisting.
For these and other reasons before adduced, we dismiss the hypothesis of animal transmutation as unproved and untenable. It pleases and satisfies superficial views, but confronted with the facts of nature, it vanishes like a baseless vision. Man is sui generis, sole and exclusive in organization, without pre-existing type or affinity to other species; and his alleged recent metamorphosis from a monkey, and his first and far more distant one from a snail or a tadpole, are paradoxes only worthy of idle debating clubs.
Having attempted to unfold the progression of species by his law of development, the author next essays to explain the commencement of the vital principle itself. But here, too, he must have a beginning, and his "organic globule" answers a similar purpose, in deducing the mystery of life, as his nuclei in the "nebular hypothesis." In both the perplexity and real difficulty is not solved or mastered, but evaded. But we have already remarked on the point, and shall only observe that when the author can elicit thought from inorganic matter, either by chemistry or galvanism, we shall think he has made a step in creation. Until then he does not advance, only deceives himself and readers by verbal subtleties and baseless suppositions.
Apart from its hypotheses, the Vestiges form a valuable and interesting work. It is the most complete, elaborate, and—with all its faults of detail, logic, and inference—the most scientific expositor of universal nature yet offered to the world. But its hypotheses are unwarranted, not inductively derived, and can have no hold on men of science, supported as they mostly are by fanciful analogies, facts misunderstood or misstated, and illustrations selected without discrimination or applicability. Theories do sometimes conduce to the discovery of truth, but are often obstructive; occupy the mind, like theological controversy, without advancing science; and are viewed with the same aversion by the philosopher that the political abstractions tendered to the multitude by the demagogue are viewed by the patriotic legislator.
The work, however, will live, and deserves to live. The temple of nature has been looked into, not profoundly, perhaps, nor always successfully; but in a fearless spirit, and with a highly-accomplished mind. Had the divine COSMOS been more fully dwelt upon and depicted—had the harmony, beauty, and beneficence of creation been more fully and exclusively displayed—we should have been more gratified; but we are thankful, in the main, for what we have received. An impulse has been given to popular inquiry, and a vast field for discussion opened, from which we can prospectively discern neither less love for man, nor reverence for God.