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Exploring the Variety of Random
Documents with Different Content
Faustus was first brought out at the theatre, Lincoln’s Inn Fields, in
’23. It had so prodigious a run, and came into such vogue, that after
much grumbling about the “legitimate” and invocations of “Ben
Jonson’s ghost” (Hogarth calls him Ben Johnson), the rival Covent
Garden managers were compelled to follow suit, and in ’25 came out
with their Doctor Faustus—a kind of saraband of infernal persons
contrived by Thurmond the dancing-master. He, too, was the deviser
of “Harleykin Sheppard” (or Shepherd), in which the dauntless thief
who escaped from the Middle Stone-room at Newgate in so
remarkable a manner received a pantomimic apotheosis. Quick-
witted Hogarth satirized this felony-mania in the caricature of Wilks,
Booth, and Cibber, conjuring up “Scaramouch Jack Hall.” To return to
Burlington Gate. In the centre, Shakspeare and Jonson’s works are
being carted away for waste paper. To the left you see a huge
projecting sign or show-cloth, containing portraits of his sacred
Majesty George the Second in the act of presenting the
management of the Italian Opera with one thousand pounds; also of
the famous Mordaunt Earl of Peterborough and sometime general of
the armies in Spain. He kneels, and in the handsomest manner, to
Signora Cuzzoni the singer, saying (in a long apothecary’s label),
“Please accept eight thousand pounds!” but the Cuzzoni spurns at
him. Beneath is the entrance to the Opera. Infernal persons with very
long tails are entering thereto with joyful countenances. The infernal
persons are unmistakeable reminiscences of Callot’s demons in the
Tentation de St. Antoine. There is likewise a placard relating to
“Faux’s Long-room,” and his “dexterity of hand.”
In 1724, Hogarth produced another allegory called the Inhabitants
of the Moon, in which there are some covert and not very
complimentary allusions to the “dummy” character of royalty, and a
whimsical fancy of inanimate objects, songs, hammers, pieces of
money, and the like, being built up into imitation of human beings, all
very ingeniously worked out. By this time, Hogarth, too, had begun to
work, not only for the ephemeral pictorial squib-vendors of
Westminster Hall—those squibs came in with him, culminated in
Gillray, and went out with H. B.; or were rather absorbed and
amalgamated into the admirable Punch cartoons of Mr. Leech—but
also for the regular booksellers. For Aubry de la Mottraye’s Travels
(a dull, pretentious book) he executed some engravings, among
which I note A woman of Smyrna in the habit of the country—the
woman’s face very graceful, and the Dance, the Pyrrhic dance of the
Greek islands, and the oddest fandango that ever was seen. One
commentator says that the term “as merry as a grig” came from the
fondness of the inhabitants of those isles of eternal summer for
dancing, and that it should be properly “as merry as a Greek.” Quien
sabe? I know that lately in the Sessions papers I stumbled over the
examination of one Levi Solomon, alias Cockleput, who stated that
he lived in Sweet Apple Court, and that he “went a-grigging for his
living.” I have no Lexicon Balatronicum at hand; but from early
researches into the vocabulary of the “High Mung” I have an
indistinct impression that “griggers” were agile vagabonds who
danced, and went through elementary feats of posture-mastery in
taverns.
In ’24, Hogarth illustrated a translation of the Golden Ass of
Apuleius. The plates are coarse and clumsy; show no humour; were
mere pot-boilers, gagne-pains, thrusts with the burin at the wolf
looking in at the Hogarthian door, I imagine. Then came five
frontispieces for a translation of Cassandra. These I have not seen.
Then fifteen head-pieces for Beaver’s Military Punishments of the
Ancients, narrow little slips full of figures in chiaroscuro, many drawn
from Callot’s curious martyrology, Les Saincts et Sainctes de
l’Année, about three hundred graphic illustrations of human torture!
There was also a frontispiece to the Happy Ascetic, and one to the
Oxford squib of Terræ Filius, in 1724, but of the joyous recluse in
question I have no cognizance.
In 1722 (you see I am wandering up and down the years as well
as the streets), London saw a show—and Hogarth doubtless was
there to see—which merits some lines of mention. The drivelling,
avaricious dotard, who, crossing a room and looking at himself in a
mirror, sighed and mumbled, “That was once a man:”—this poor
wreck of mortality died, and became in an instant, and once more,
John the great Duke of Marlborough. On the 9th of August, 1722, he
was buried with extraordinary pomp in Westminster Abbey. The
saloons of Marlborough House, where the corpse lay in state, were
hung with fine black cloth, and garnished with bays and cypress. In
the death-chamber was a chair of state surmounted by a “majesty
scutcheon.” The coffin was on a bed of state, covered with a “fine
holland sheet,” over that a complete suit of armour, gilt, but empty.
Twenty years before, there would have been a waxen image in the
dead man’s likeness within the armour, but this hideous fantasy of
Tussaud-tombstone effigies had in 1722 fallen into desuetude.[8] The
garter was buckled round the steel leg of this suit of war-harness;
one listless gauntlet held a general’s truncheon; above the vacuous
helmet with its unstirred plumes was the cap of a Prince of the
Empire. The procession, lengthy and splendid, passed from
Marlborough House through St. James’s Park to Hyde Park Corner,
then through Piccadilly, down St. James’s Street, along Pall Mall,
and by King Street, Westminster, to the Abbey. Fifteen pieces of
cannon rambled in this show. Chelsea pensioners, to the number of
the years of the age of the deceased, preceded the car. The colours
were wreathed in crape and cypress. Guidon was there, and the
great standard, and many bannerols and achievements of arms.
“The mourning horse with trophies and plumades” was gorgeous.
There was a horse of state and a mourning horse, sadly led by the
dead duke’s equerries. And pray note: the minutest details of the
procession were copied from the programme of the Duke of
Albemarle’s funeral (Monk); which, again, was a copy of Oliver
Cromwell’s—which, again, was a reproduction, on a more splendid
scale, of the obsequies of Sir Philip Sidney, killed at Zutphen. Who
among us saw not the great scarlet and black show of 1852, the
funeral of the Duke of Wellington? Don’t you remember the eighty-
four tottering old Pensioners, corresponding in number with the
years of our heroic brother departed? When gentle Philip Sidney was
borne to the tomb, thirty-one poor men followed the hearse. The
brave soldier, the gallant gentleman, the ripe scholar, the
accomplished writer was so young. Arthur and Philip! And so century
shakes hand with century, and the new is ever old, and the last
novelty is the earliest fashion, and old Egypt leers from a glass-case,
or a four thousand year old fresco, and whispers to Sir Plume, “I, too,
wore a curled periwig, and used tweezers to remove superfluous
hairs.”
 In 1726, Hogarth executed a series of plates for Blackwell’s
Military Figures, representing the drill and manœuvres of the
Honourable Artillery Company. The pike and half-pike exercise are
very carefully and curiously illustrated; the figures evidently drawn
from life; the attitudes very easy. The young man was improving in
his drawing; for in 1724, Thornhill had started an academy for
studying from the round and from life at his own house, in Covent
Garden Piazza; and Hogarth—who himself tells us that his head was
filled with the paintings at Greenwich and St. Paul’s, and to whose
utmost ambition of scratching copper, there was now probably added
the secret longing to be a historico-allegorico-scriptural painter I
have hinted at, and who hoped some day to make Angels sprawl on
coved ceilings, and Fames blast their trumpets on grand staircases
—was one of the earliest students at the academy of the king’s
sergeant painter, and member of parliament for Weymouth. Already
William had ventured an opinion, bien tranchée, on high art. In those
days there flourished—yes, flourished is the word—a now forgotten
celebrity, Kent the architect, gardener, painter, decorator,
upholsterer, friend of the great, and a hundred things besides. This
artistic jack-of-all-trades became so outrageously popular, and
gained such a reputation for taste—if a man have strong lungs, and
persists in crying out that he is a genius, the public are sure to
believe him at last—that he was consulted on almost every tasteful
topic, and was teased to furnish designs for the most incongruous
objects. He was consulted for picture-frames, drinking-glasses,
barges, dining-room tables, garden-chairs, cradles, and birth-day
gowns. One lady he dressed in a petticoat ornamented with columns
of the five orders; to another he prescribed a copper-coloured skirt,
with gold ornaments. The man was at best but a wretched sciolist;
but he for a long period directed the “taste of the town.” He had at
last the presumption to paint an altar-piece for the church of St.
Clement Danes. The worthy parishioners, men of no taste at all,
burst into a yell of derision and horror at this astounding croûte.
Forthwith, irreverent young Mr. Hogarth lunged full butt with his
graver at the daub. He produced an engraving of Kent’s
Masterpiece, which was generally considered to be an unmerciful
caricature; but which he himself declared to be an accurate
representation of the picture. ’Twas the first declaration of his guerra
al cuchillo against the connoisseurs. The caricature, or copy,
whichever it was, made a noise; the tasteless parishioners grew
more vehement, and, at last, Gibson, Bishop of London (whose
brother, by the way, had paid his first visit to London in the company
of Dominie Hogarth), interfered, and ordered the removal of the
obnoxious canvas. “Kent’s masterpiece” subsided into an ornament
for a tavern-room. For many years it was to be seen (together with
the landlord’s portrait, I presume) at the “Crown and Anchor,” in the
Strand. Then it disappeared, and faded away from the visible things
extant.
With another bookseller’s commission, I arrive at another halting-
place in the career of William Hogarth. In 1726-7 appeared his
eighteen illustrations to Butler’s Hudibras. They are of considerable
size, broadly and vigorously executed, and display a liberal
instalment of the vis comica, of which William was subsequently to
be so lavish. Ralpho is smug and sanctified to a nicety. Hudibras is a
marvellously droll-looking figure, but he is not human, is generally
execrably drawn, and has a head preternaturally small, and so
pressed down between the clavicles, that you might imagine him to
be of the family of the anthropophagi, whose heads do grow beneath
their shoulders. There is a rare constable, the perfection of
Dogberryism-cum-Bumbledom, in the tableau of Hudibras in the
stocks. The widow is graceful and beautiful to look at. Unlike Wilkie,
Hogarth could draw pretty women;[9] the rogue who chucks the
widow’s attendant under the chin is incomparable, and Trulla is a
most truculent brimstone. The “committee” is a character full study of
sour faces. The procession of the “Skimmington” is full of life and
animation; and the concluding tableau, “Burning rumps at Temple
Bar,” is a wondrous street-scene, worthy of the ripe Hogarthian
epoch of The Progresses, The Election, Beer Street and Gin Lane.
This edition of Butler’s immortal satire had a great run; and the artist
often regretted that he had parted absolutely, and at once, with his
property in the plates.
So now then, William Hogarth, we part once more, but soon to
meet again. Next shall the moderns know thee—student at
Thornhill’s Academy—as a painter as well as an engraver. A
philosopher—quoique tu n’en doutais guère—thou hast been all
along.

FOOTNOTES
[2] To me there is something candid, naïve, and often
something noble in this personal consciousness and confidence,
this moderate self-trumpeting. “Questi sono miri!” cried Napoleon,
when, at the sack of Milan, the MS. treatises of Leonardo da Vinci
were discovered; and he bore them in triumph to his hotel,
suffering no meaner hand to touch them. He knew—the
Conquering Thinker—that he alone was worthy to possess those
priceless papers. So too, Honoré de Balzac calmly remarking that
there were only three men in France who could speak French
correctly: himself, Victor Hugo, and “Théophile” (T. Gautier). So,
too, Elliston, when the little ballet-girl complained of having been
hissed: “They have hissed me,” said the awful manager, and the
dancing girl was dumb. Who can forget the words that Milton
wrote concerning things of his “that posteritie would not willingly
let die?” and that Bacon left, commending his fame to “foreign
nations and to the next age?” And Turner, simply directing in his
will that he should be buried in St. Paul’s Cathedral? That
sepulchre, the painter knew, was his of right. And innocent
Gainsborough, dying: “We are all going to heaven, and Vandyke
is of the company.” And Fontenelle, calmly expiring at a hundred
years of age: “Je n’ai jamais dit la moindre chose centre la plus
petite vertu.” ’Tis true, that my specious little argument falls
dolefully to the ground when I remember that which the wisest
man who ever lived said concerning a child gathering shells and
pebbles on the sea-shore, when the great ocean of truth lay all
undiscovered before him.
[3] The bezant (from Byzantium) was a round knob on the
scutcheon, blazoned yellow. “Golp” was purple, the colour of an
old black eye, so defined by the heralds. “Sanguine” or “guzes”
were to be congested red, like bloodshot eyes; “torteaux” were of
another kind of red, like “Simnel cakes.” “Pomeis” were to be
green like apples. “Tawny” was orange. There were also “hurts” to
be blazoned blue, as bruises are.—New View of London, 1712.
 [4] I believe Pope’s sneer against poor Elkanah Settle (who
died very comfortably in the Charterhouse, 1724, ætat. 76: he
was alive in 1720, and succeeded Rowe as laureate), that he was
reduced in his latter days to compass a motion of St. George and
the Dragon at Bartholomew fair, and himself enacted the dragon
in a peculiar suit of green leather, his own invention, to have been
a purely malicious and mendacious bit of spite. Moreover, Settle
died years after Pope assumed him to have expired.
[5] 1720. The horrible room in Newgate Prison where in
cauldrons of boiling pitch the hangman seethed the dissevered
limbs of those executed for high treason, and whose quarters
were to be exposed, was called “Jack Ketch’s kitchen.”
[6] Compare these voluntary torments with the description of
the Dosèh, or horse-trampling ceremonial of the Sheik El Bekree,
over the bodies of the faithful, in Lane’s Modern Egyptians.
[7] Daniel Button’s well-known coffee-house was on the south
side of Russell Street, Covent Garden, nearly opposite Tom’s.
Button had been a servant of the Countess of Warwick, and so
was patronized by her spouse, the Right Hon. Joseph Addison.
Sir Robert Walpole’s creature, Giles Earl, a trading justice of the
peace (compare Fielding and “300l. a year of the dirtiest money in
the world”) used to examine criminals, for the amusement of the
company, in the public room at Button’s. Here, too, was a lion’s
head letter-box, into which communications for the Guardian were
dropped. At Button’s, Pope is reported to have said of Patrick, the
lexicographer, who made pretensions to criticism, that “a
dictionary-maker might know the meaning of one word, but not of
two put together.”
[8] Not, however, to forget that another Duchess, Marlborough’s
daughter, who loved Congreve so, had after his death a waxen
image made in his effigy, and used to weep over it, and anoint the
gouty feet.
[9] “They said he could not colour,” said old Mrs. Hogarth one
day to John Thomas Smith, showing him a sketch of a girl’s head.
“It’s a lie; look there: there’s flesh and blood for you, my man.”
 Studies in Animal Life.
“Authentic tidings of invisible things;—
Of ebb and flow, and ever-during power,
And central peace subsisting at the heart
Of endless agitation.”—The Excursion.

CHAPTER IV.
An extinct animal recognized by its tooth: how came this to be possible?—The task of classification.—
Artificial and natural methods.—Linnæus, and his baptism of the animal kingdom: his scheme of
classification.—What is there underlying all true classification?—The chief groups.—What is a
species?—Re-statement of the question respecting the fixity or variability of species.—The two
hypotheses.—Illustration drawn from the Romance languages.—Caution to disputants.
I was one day talking with Professor Owen in the Hunterian Museum, when a
gentleman approached with a request to be informed respecting the nature of a
curious fossil, which had been dug up by one of his workmen. As he drew the fossil
from a small bag, and was about to hand it for examination, Owen quietly remarked:
—“That is the third molar of the under-jaw of an extinct species of rhinoceros.” The
astonishment of the gentleman at this precise and confident description of the fossil,
before even it had quitted his hands, was doubtless very great. I know that mine was;
until the reflection occurred that if some one, little acquainted with editions, had drawn
a volume from his pocket, declaring he had found it in an old chest, any bibliophile
would have been able to say at a glance: “That is an Elzevir;” or, “That is one of the
Tauchnitz classics, stereotyped at Leipzig.” Owen is as familiar with the aspect of the
teeth of animals, living and extinct, as a student is with the aspect of editions. Yet
before that knowledge could have been acquired, before he could say thus confidently
that the tooth belonged to an extinct species of rhinoceros, the united labours of
thousands of diligent inquirers must have been directed to the classification of
animals. How could he know that the rhinoceros was of that particular species rather
than another? and what is meant by species? To trace the history of this confidence
would be to tell the long story of zoological investigation: a story too long for narration
here, though we may pause awhile to consider its difficulties.
To make a classified catalogue of the books in the British Museum would be a
gigantic task; but imagine what that task would be if all the title-pages and other
external indications were destroyed! The first attempts would necessarily be of a rough
approximative kind, merely endeavouring to make a sort of provisional order amid the
chaos, after which succeeding labours might introduce better and better
arrangements. The books might first be grouped according to size; but having got
them together, it would soon be discovered that size was no indication of their
contents: quarto poems and duodecimo histories, octavo grammars and folio
dictionaries, would immediately give warning that some other arrangement was
needed. Nor would it be better to separate the books according to the languages in
which they were written. The presence or absence of “illustrations” would furnish no
better guide; while the bindings would soon be found to follow no rule. Indeed, one by
one all the external characters would prove unsatisfactory, and the labourers would
finally have to decide upon some internal characters. Having read enough of each
book to ascertain whether it was poetry or prose: and if poetry, whether dramatic, epic,
lyric, or satiric; and if prose, whether history, philosophy, theology, philology, science,
fiction, or essay: a rough classification could be made; but even then there would be
many difficulties, such as where to place a work on the philosophy of history—or the
history of science,—or theology under the guise of science—or essays on very
different subjects; while some works would defy classification.
Gigantic as this labour would be, it would be trifling compared with the labour of
classifying all the animals now living (not to mention extinct species), so that the place
of any one might be securely and rapidly determined; yet the persistent zeal and
sagacity of zoologists have done for the animal kingdom what has not yet been done
for the library of the Museum, although the titles of the books are not absent. It has
been done by patient reading of the contents—by anatomical investigation of the
internal structure of animals. Except on a basis of comparative anatomy, there could
have been no better a classification of animals than a classification of books according
to size, language, binding, &c. An unscientific Pliny might group animals according to
their habitat; but when it was known that whales, though living in the water and
swimming like fishes, were in reality constructed like air-breathing quadrupeds—when
it was known that animals differing so widely as bees, birds, bats, and flying squirrels,
or as otters, seals, and cuttle-fish, lived together in the same element, it became
obvious that such a principle of arrangement could lead to no practical result. Nor
would it suffice to class animals according to their modes of feeding; since in all
classes there are samples of each mode. Equally unsatisfactory would be external
form—the seal and the whale resembling fishes, the worm resembling the eel, and the
eel the serpent.
Two things were necessary: first, that the structure of various animals should be
minutely studied, and described—which is equivalent to reading the books to be
classified;—and secondly, that some artificial method should be devised of so
arranging the immense mass of details as to enable them to be remembered, and also
to enable fresh discoveries readily to find a place in the system. We may be perfectly
familiar with the contents of a book, yet wholly at a loss where to place it. If we have to
catalogue Hegel’s Philosophy of History, for example, it becomes a difficult question
whether to place it under the rubric of philosophy, or under that of history. To decide
this point, we must have some system of classification.
In the attempts to construct a system, naturalists are commonly said to have
followed two methods: the artificial and the natural. The artificial method seizes some
one prominent characteristic, and groups all the individuals together which agree in
this one respect. In Botany the artificial method classes plants according to the organs
of reproduction; but this has been found so very imperfect that it has been abandoned,
and the natural method has been substituted, according to which the whole structure
of the plant determines its place. If flying were taken as the artificial basis for the
grouping of some animals, we should find insects and birds, bats and flying squirrels,
grouped together; but the natural method, taking into consideration not one character,
but all the essential characters, finds that insects, birds, and bats differ profoundly in
their organization: the insect has wings, but its wings are not formed like those of the
bird, nor are those of the bird formed like those of the bat. The insect does not breathe
by lungs, like the bird and the bat; it has no internal skeleton, like the bird and the bat;
and the bird, although it has many points in common with the bat, does not, like it,
suckle its young; and thus we may run over the characters of each organization, and
find that the three animals belong to widely different groups.
It is to Linnæus that we are indebted for the most ingenious and comprehensive of
the many schemes invented for the cataloguing of animal forms; and modern attempts
at classification are only improvements on the plan he laid down. First we may notice
his admirable invention of the double names. It had been the custom to designate
plants and animals according to some name common to a large group, to which was
added a description more or less characteristic. An idea may be formed of the
necessity of a reform, by conceiving what a laborious and uncertain process it would
be if our friends spoke to us of having seen a dog in the garden, and on our asking
what kind of dog, instead of their saying “a terrier, a bull-terrier, or a skye-terrier,” they
were to attempt a description of the dog. Something of this kind was the labour of
understanding the nature of an animal from the vague description of it given by
naturalists. Linnæus rebaptized the whole animal kingdom upon one intelligible
principle. He continued to employ the name common to each group, such as that of
Felis for the cats, which became the generic name; and in lieu of the description which
was given of each different kind, to indicate that it was a lion, a tiger, a leopard, or a
domestic cat, he affixed a specific name: thus the animal bearing the description of a
lion became Felis leo; the tiger, Felis tigris; the leopard, Felis leopardus; and our
domestic friend, Felis catus. These double names, as Vogt remarks, are like the
Christian- and sur-names by which we distinguish the various members of one family;
and instead of speaking of Tomkinson with the flabby face, and Tomkinson with the
square forehead, we simply say John and William Tomkinson.
Linnæus did more than this. He not only fixed definite conceptions of Species and
Genera, but introduced those of Orders and Classes. Cuvier added Families to
Genera, and Sub-kingdoms (embranchements) to Classes. Thus a scheme was
elaborated by which the whole animal kingdom was arranged in subordinate groups:
the sub-kingdoms were divided into classes, the classes into orders, the orders into
families, the families into genera, the genera into species, and the species into
varieties. The guiding principle of anatomical resemblance determined each of these
divisions. Those largest groups, which resemble each other only in having what is
called the typical character in common, are brought together under the first head. Thus
all the groups which agree in possessing a backbone and internal skeleton, although
they differ widely in form, structure, and habitat, do nevertheless resemble each other
more than they resemble the groups which have no backbone. This great division
having been formed, it is seen to arrange itself in very obvious minor divisions, or
Classes—the mammalia, birds, reptiles, and fishes. All mammals resemble each other
more than they resemble birds; all reptiles resemble each other more than they
resemble fishes (in spite of the superficial resemblance between serpents and eels or
lampreys). Each Class again falls into the minor groups of Orders; and on the same
principles: the monkeys being obviously distinguished from rodents, and the carnivora
from the ruminating animals; and so of the rest. In each Order there are generally
Families, and the Families fall into Genera, which differ from each other only in fewer
and less important characters. The Genera include groups which have still fewer
differences, and are called Species; and these again include groups which have only
minute and unimportant differences of colour, size, and the like, and are called Sub-
species, or Varieties.
Whoever looks at the immensity of the animal kingdom, and observes how
intelligibly and systematically it is arranged in these various divisions, will admit that,
however imperfect, the scheme is a magnificent product of human ingenuity and
labour. It is not an arbitrary arrangement, like the grouping of the stars in
constellations; it expresses, though obscurely, the real order of Nature. All true
Classification should be to forms what laws are to phenomena: the one reducing
varieties to systematic order, as the other reduces phenomena to their relation of
sequence. Now if it be true that the classification expresses the real order of nature,
and not simply the order which we may find convenient, there will be something more
than mere resemblance indicated in the various groups; or, rather let me say, this
resemblance itself is the consequence of some community in the things compared,
and will therefore be the mark of some deeper cause. What is this cause? Mr. Darwin
holds that “propinquity of descent—the only known cause of the similarity of organic
beings—is the bond, hidden as it is by various degrees of modification, which is
partially revealed to us by our classifications”[10]—“that the characters which
naturalists consider as showing true affinity between any two or more species are
those which have been inherited from a common parent, and in so far all true
classification is genealogical; that community of descent is the hidden bond which
naturalists have been unconsciously seeking, and not some unknown plan of creation,
or the enunciation of general propositions, and the mere putting together and
separating objects more or less alike.”[11]
Before proceeding to open the philosophical discussion which inevitably arises on
the mention of Mr. Darwin’s book, I will here set down the chief groups, according to
Cuvier’s classification, for the benefit of the tyro in natural history, who will easily
remember them, and will find the knowledge constantly invoked.
There are four Sub-kingdoms, or Branches:—1. Vertebrata. 2. Mollusca. 3.
Articulata. 4. Radiata.
The Vertebrata consist of four classes:—Mammalia, Birds, Reptiles, and Fishes.
The Mollusca consist of six classes:—Cephalopoda (cuttlefish), Pteropoda,
Gasteropoda (snails, &c.), Acephala (oysters, &c.), Brachiopoda, and Cirrhopoda
(barnacles).—N.B. This last class is now removed from the Molluscs and placed
among the Crustaceans.
The Articulata are composed of four classes:—Annelids (worms), Crustacea
(lobsters, crabs, &c.), Arachnida (spiders), and Insecta.
 The Radiata embrace all the remaining forms; but this group has been so altered
since Cuvier’s time, that I will not burden your memory just now with an enumeration
of the details.
The reader is now in a condition to appreciate the general line of argument adopted
in the discussion of Mr. Darwin’s book, which is at present exciting very great attention,
and which will, at any rate, aid in general culture by opening to many minds new tracts
of thought. The benefit in this direction is, however, considerably lessened by the
extreme vagueness which is commonly attached to the word “species,” as well as by
the great want of philosophic culture which impoverishes the majority of our
naturalists. I have heard, or read, few arguments on this subject which have not
impressed me with the sense that the disputants really attached no distinct ideas to
many of the phrases they were uttering. Yet it is obvious that we must first settle what
are the facts grouped together and indicated by the word “species,” before we can
carry on any discussion as to the origin of species. To be battling about the fixity or
variability of species, without having rigorously settled what species is, can lead to no
edifying result.
It is notorious that if you ask even a zoologist, What is a species? you will almost
always find that he has only a very vague answer to give; and if his answer be precise,
it will be the precision of error, and will vanish into contradictions directly it is
examined. The consequence of this is, that even the ablest zoologists are constantly
at variance as to specific characters, and often cannot agree whether an animal shall
be considered of a new species, or only a variety. There could be no such
disagreements if specific characters were definite: if we knew what species meant,
once and for all. Ask a chemist, What is a salt? What an acid? and his reply will be
definite, and uniformly the same: what he says, all chemists will repeat. Not so the
zoologist. Sometimes he will class two animals as of different species, when they only
differ in colour, in size, or in the numbers of tentacles, &c.; at other times he will class
animals as belonging to the same species, although they differ in size, colour, shape,
instincts, habits, &c. The dog, for example, is said to be one species with many
varieties, or races. But contrast the pug-dog with the greyhound, the spaniel with the
mastiff, the bulldog with the Newfoundland, the setter with the terrier, the sheepdog
with the pointer: note the striking differences in their structure and their instincts: and
you will find that they differ as widely as some genera, and as most species. If these
varieties inhabited different countries—if the pug were peculiar to Australia, and the
mastiff to Spain—there is not a naturalist but would class them as of different species.
The same remark applies to pigeons and ducks, oxen and sheep.
The reason of this uncertainty is that the thing Species does not exist: the term
expresses an abstraction, like Virtue, or Whiteness; not a definite concrete reality,
which can be separated from other things, and always be found the same. Nature
produces individuals; these individuals resemble each other in varying degrees;
according to their resemblances we group them together as classes, orders, genera,
and species; but these terms only express the relations of resemblance, they do not
indicate the existence of such things as classes, orders, genera, or species.[12] There
is a reality indicated by each term—that is to say, a real relation; but there is no
objective existence of which we could say, This is variable, This is immutable.
Precisely as there is a real relation indicated by the term Goodness, but there is no
Goodness apart from the virtuous actions and feelings which we group together under
this term. It is true that metaphysicians in past ages angrily debated respecting the
Immutability of Virtue, and had no more suspicion of their absurdity, than moderns
have who debate respecting the Fixity of Species. Yet no sooner do we understand
that Species means a relation of resemblance between animals, than the question of
the Fixity, or Variability, of Species resolves itself into this: Can there be any variation
in the resemblances of closely allied animals? A question which would never be
asked.
No one has thought of raising the question of the fixity of varieties, yet it is as
legitimate as that of the fixity of species; and we might also argue for the fixity of
genera, orders, classes; the fixity of all these being implied in the very terms; since no
sooner does any departure from the type present itself, than by that it is excluded from
the category; no sooner does a white object become gray, or yellow, than it is
excluded from the class of white objects. Here, therefore, is a sense in which the
phrase “fixity of species” is indisputable; but in this sense the phrase has never been
disputed. When zoologists have maintained that species are variable, they have
meant that animal forms are variable; and these variations, gradually accumulating,
result at last in such differences as are called specific. Although some zoologists, and
speculators who were not zoologists, have believed that the possibility of variation is
so great that one species may actually be transmuted into another, i.e., that an ass
may be developed into a horse,—yet most thinkers are now agreed that such violent
changes are impossible; and that every new form becomes established only through
the long and gradual accumulation of minute differences in divergent directions.
It is clear, from what has just been said, that the many angry discussions respecting
the fixity of species, which, since the days of Lamarck, have disturbed the amity of
zoologists and speculative philosophers, would have been considerably abbreviated,
had men distinctly appreciated the equivoque which rendered their arguments hazy. I
am far from implying that the battle was purely a verbal one. I believe there was a real
and important distinction in the doctrines of the two camps; but it seems to me that
had a clear understanding of the fact that Species was an abstract term, been
uniformly present to their minds, they would have sooner come to an agreement.
Instead of the confusing disputes as to whether one Species could ever become
another Species, the question would have been, Are animal forms changeable? Can
the descendants of animals become so unlike their ancestors, in certain peculiarities
of structure or instinct, as to be classed by naturalists as a different species?
No sooner is the question thus disengaged from equivoque, than its discussion
becomes narrowed within well-marked limits. That animal forms are variable, is
disputed by no zoologist. The only question which remains is this: To what extent are
animal forms variable? The answers given have been two: one school declaring that
the extent of variability is limited to those trifling characteristics which mark the
different Varieties of each Species; the other school declaring that the variability is
indefinite, and that all animal forms may have arisen from successive modifications of
a very few types, or even of one type.
 Now, I would call your attention to one point in this discussion, which ought to be
remembered when antagonists are growing angry and bitter over the subject: it is, that
both these opinions are necessarily hypothetical—there can be nothing like positive
proof adduced on either side. The utmost that either hypothesis can claim is, that it is
more consistent with general analogies, and better serves to bring our knowledge of
various points into harmony. Neither of them can claim to be a truth which warrants
dogmatic decision.
Of these two hypotheses, the first has the weight and majority of authoritative
adherents. It declares that all the different kinds of Cats, for example, were distinct and
independent creations, each species being originally what we see it to be now, and
what it will continue to be as long as it exists: lions, panthers, pumas, leopards, tigers,
jaguars, ocelots, and domestic cats, being so many original stocks, and not so many
divergent forms of one original stock. The second hypothesis declares that all these
kinds of cats represent divergencies of the original stock, precisely as the Varieties of
each kind represent the divergencies of each Species. It is true that each species,
when once formed, only admits of limited variations; any cause which should push the
variation beyond certain limits would destroy the species,—because by species is
meant the group of animals contained within those limits. Let us suppose the original
stock from which all these kinds of cats have sprung, to have become modified into
lions, leopards, and tigers—in other words, that the gradual accumulation of
divergencies has resulted in the whole family of cats existing under these three forms.
The lions will form a distinct species; this species varies, and in the course of long
variation a new species, the puma, rises by the side of it. The leopards also vary, and
let us suppose their variation at length assumes so marked a form,—in the ocelot,—
that we class it as a new species. There is nothing in this hypothesis but what is
strictly consonant with analogies; it is only extending to Species what we know to be
the fact with respect to Varieties; and these Varieties which we know to have been
produced from one and the same Species are often more widely separated from each
other than the lion is from the puma, or the leopard from the ocelot. Mr. Darwin
remarks that “at least a score of pigeons might be chosen, which, if shown to an
ornithologist, and he were told that they were wild birds, would certainly, I think, be
ranked by him as well-defined species. Moreover, I do not believe that any
ornithologist would place the English carrier, the short-faced tumbler, the runt, the
barb, the pouter and fantail in the same genus! more especially as in each of these
breeds several truly-inherited sub-breeds or species, as he might have called them,
could be shown him.”
The development of numerous specific forms, widely distinguished from each other,
out of one common stock, is not a whit more improbable than the development of
numerous distinct languages out of a common parent language, which modern
philologists have proved to be indubitably the case. Indeed, there is a very remarkable
analogy between philology and zoology in this respect: just as the comparative
anatomist traces the existence of similar organs, and similar connections of these
organs, throughout the various animals classed under one type, so does the
comparative philologist detect the family likeness in the various languages scattered
from China to the Basque provinces, and from Cape Comorin across the Caucasus to
Lapland—a likeness which assures him that the Teutonic, Celtic, Windic, Italic,
Hellenic, Iranic, and Indic languages are of common origin, and separated from the
Arabian, Aramean, and Hebrew languages, which have another origin. Let us bring
together a Frenchman, a Spaniard, an Italian, a Portuguese, a Wallachian, and a
Rhætian, and we shall hear six very different languages spoken, the speakers
severally unintelligible to each other, their languages differing so widely that one
cannot be regarded as the modification of the other; yet we know most positively that
all these languages are offshoots from the Latin, which was once a living language,
but which is now, so to speak, a fossil. The various species of cats do not differ more
than these six languages differ: and yet the resemblances point in each case to a
common origin. Max Müller, in his brilliant essay on Comparative Mythology,[13] has
said:—
“If we knew nothing of the existence of Latin—if all historical documents previous to
the fifteenth century had been lost—if tradition, even, was silent as to the former
existence of a Roman empire, a mere comparison of the six Roman dialects would
enable us to say, that at some time there must have been a language from which all
these modern dialects derived their origin in common; for without this supposition it
would be impossible to account for the facts exhibited by these dialects. Let us look at
the auxiliary verb. We find:—

Italian. Wallachian. Rhætian. Spanish. Portuguese. French.

I am sono sum sunt sunt soy sou suis
Thou art sei es eis eres es es
He is e é (este) ei es he est
We are siamo súntemu essen somos somos sommes
You are siete súnteti esses sois sois êtes (estes)
They are sono súnt eân (sun) son são sont.

It is clear, even from a short consideration of these forms, first, that all are but
varieties of one common type; secondly, that it is impossible to consider any one of
these six paradigms as the original from which the others had been borrowed. To this
we may add, thirdly, that in none of the languages to which these verbal forms belong,
do we find the elements of which they could have been composed. If we find such
forms as j’ai aimé, we can explain them by a mere reference to the radical means
which French has still at its command, and the same may be said even of compounds
like j’aimerai, i.e. je-aimer-ai, I have to love, I shall love. But a change from je suis to tu
es is inexplicable by the light of French grammar. These forms could not have grown,
so to speak, on French soil, but must have been handed down as relics from a former
period—must have existed in some language antecedent to any of the Roman
dialects. Now, fortunately, in this case, we are not left to a mere inference, but as we
possess the Latin verb, we can prove how, by phonetic corruption, and by mistaken
analogies, every one of the six paradigms is but a national metamorphosis of the Latin
original.
“Let us now look at another set of paradigms:—

Sanskrit. Lithuanian. Zend. Doric. Old Latin. Gothic. Armen.

 Slavonic.
I am ásmi esmi ahmi ἐμμι yesmě sum im em
Thou art ási essi ahi ἐσσὶ yesi es is es
He is ásti esti asti ἐστί yestǒ est ist ê
We (two) are ’svás esva yesva siju
You (two) are ’sthás esta stho? ἕστόν yesta sijuts
They (two) are ’stás (esti) sto? ἐστόν yesta
We are ’smás esmi hmahi ἐσμές yesmǒ sumus sijum emq
You are ’sthá este stha ἐστέ yeste estis sijup êq
They are sánti (esti) hěnti ἐντί somtě sunt sind en

“From a careful consideration of these forms, we ought to draw exactly the same
conclusions; firstly, that all are but varieties of one common type; secondly, that it is
impossible to consider any of them as the original from which the others have been
borrowed; and thirdly, that here again, none of the languages in which these verbal
forms occur possess the elements of which they are composed.”
All these languages resemble each other so closely that they point to some more
ancient language which was to them what Latin was to the six Romance languages;
and in the same way we are justified in supposing that all the classes of the vertebrate
animals point to the existence of some elder type, now extinct, from which they were
all developed.
I have thus stated what are the two hypotheses on this question. There is only one
more preliminary which it is needful to notice here, and that is, to caution the reader
against the tendency, unhappily too common, of supposing that an adversary holds
opinions which are transparently absurd. When we hear an hypothesis which is either
novel, or unacceptable to us, we are apt to draw some very ridiculous conclusion from
it, and to assume that this conclusion is seriously held by its upholders. Thus the
zoologists who maintain the variability of species are sometimes asked if they believe
a goose was developed out of an oyster, or a rhinoceros from a mouse? the
questioner apparently having no misgiving as to the candour of his ridicule. There are
three modes of combating a doctrine. The first is to point out its strongest positions,
and then show them to be erroneous or incomplete; but this plan is generally difficult,
and sometimes impossible; it is not, therefore, much in vogue. The second is to render
the doctrine ridiculous, by pretending that it includes certain extravagant propositions,
of which it is entirely innocent. The third is to render the doctrine odious, by forcing on
it certain conclusions, which it would repudiate, but which are declared to be “the
inevitable consequences” of such a doctrine. Now it is undoubtedly true that men
frequently maintain very absurd opinions; but it is neither candid, nor wise, to assume
that men who otherwise are certainly not fools, hold opinions the absurdity of which is
transparent.
Let us not, therefore, tax the followers of Lamarck, Geoffroy St. Hilaire, or Mr.
Darwin with absurdities they have not advocated; but rather endeavour to see what
solid argument they have for the basis of their hypothesis.
 FOOTNOTES
[10] Darwin: Origin of Species, p. 414.
[11] Darwin: Origin of Species, p. 420.
[12] Cuvier says, in so many words, that classes, orders, and genera, are
abstractions, et rien de pareil n’existe dans la nature; but species is not an
abstraction!—See Lettres à Pfaff, p. 179.
[13] See Oxford Essays, 1856.
 Strangers Yet!
Strangers yet!
After years of life together,
After fair and stormy weather,
After travel in far lands,
After touch of wedded hands,—
Why thus joined? why ever met?
If they must be strangers yet.

Strangers yet!
After childhood’s winning ways,
After care, and blame, and praise,
Counsel asked, and wisdom given,
After mutual prayers to Heaven,
Child and parent scarce regret
When they part—are strangers yet

Strangers yet!
After strife for common ends,
After title of old friends,
After passion fierce and tender,
After cheerful self-surrender,
Hearts may beat and eyes be wet,
And the souls be strangers yet.

Strangers yet!
Strange and bitter thought to scan
All the loneliness of man!
Nature by magnetic laws
Circle unto circle draws;
Circles only touch when met,
Never mingle—strangers yet.
 Strangers yet!
Will it evermore be thus—
Spirits still impervious?
Shall we ever fairly stand
Soul to soul, as hand to hand?
Are the bounds eternal set
To retain us strangers yet?

Strangers yet!
Tell not love it must aspire
Unto something other—higher:
God himself were loved the best,
Were man’s sympathies at rest;
Rest above the strain and fret
Of the world of strangers yet!
Strangers yet!

R. Monckton Milnes.
Framley Parsonage.
CHAPTER X.
Lucy Robarts.
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